March 7 WWMD? What would Martha (Stewart) do?

I told Karen and Nikki about my conversation with Ed.  Karen said she was surprised that we had any energy to talk at night, let along think up hypothetical situations.

Nikki wanted to know if I asked Ed what he would do about his “needs”.

I said, “His mom would help out.”

“No, his needs.” 

“Oh.”  I hadn’t thought of that.

“Ed would never do anything like that,” Karen said loyally.  “Anyway, we’d keep our eyes on him.”

“And besides, he’d be too busy, with the kids and his book and all.”

 “You know,” Karen said, “Nik and I could really write a better book than Ed.  It would be more interesting from a woman’s point of view.”

“Knock yourself out,” I said.  “There’d be no sense in my doing it, since a person can’t make money from their own crimes.”

“You could write a novel or something.  You’d have time.”

It almost seemed as if I really was going to jail.  I shivered.

“This is getting weird,” I said.

So we opened another box of thin mints.  It’s Girl Scout Cookie season.

February 28 Contingency Plans

Ed and I have some of our most interesting conversations in bed.  Last night, I said, “Would you still love me if I murdered somebody?”

He said, “Yeah.”

Then I said, “If I got caught but had a chance for parole, would wait for me?”

He said, “Sure, why not?”

I said, “Do you think your mother would help out with the kids?  Maybe she could even move in.  You could put Cilla in with Betsey and give her Cilla’s room.  Or maybe you could move the girls into our room and take Betsey’s, since there’d be two of them and one of you.  Unless you wanted to leave everything just as I left it for when I got out.”

Every once in while Ed will say something surprising.  “Well, by the time you got out, you’d need new clothes, since your old things would be out of style.”

I had an idea. “If the trial was sensational enough, you could sell them.”  Suddenly I felt very generous, since Ed was willing to wait for me. “You can sell all my stuff, except my Barbara Pym books.  That could help pay the lawyers.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Charlie.  That might upset the kids.  Maybe I could just write a book.”
And they say accountants don’t have any imagination!

February 27 WWMMD? (What would Miss Marple do?)

Karen, Nikki, and I have decided to take a road trip past Margaret’s house and to her grave.  Of course we couldn’t do it last night, since we wouldn’t be able to see anything and by the time we thought of it we’d had two glasses of wine. 

But we had a good time anyway.

Karen thinks Margaret had something going on with somebody.  Nikki thinks she had been involved with something illegal and had had to be whacked.  I found it hard to believe either of Margaret.  Maybe she had accidentally found out something and had to be silenced.

“Like what?” Karen wanted to know.

“Somebody was embezzling church funds.”  (As anyone who has had anything to do with church business can tell you, this happens more often than you would imagine.  Just bring it up among a group of clergy and you’ll get enough material for at least ten mystery novels.)  “Or somebody stole something at the library.   We do have a rare book collection.”

“Or maybe she found out about somebody’s affair.”  Karen has always been a romantic. 

Then we discussed me as a suspect.  Naturally, I wouldn’t be doing anything illegal.  So that just left affairs of the heart. I could have killed her because Ed was having an affair with her.  We all laughed at that, since an affair would be too much trouble for Ed.  Actually, I’m a better candidate.  Even though I’m not gay, I might take the trouble for the right person.  In my imagination, that is.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being a Lesbian.  Maybe she had wanted me to leave Ed and had threatened to go public.  Or she was going to dump me and I didn’t want anyone else to have her.  Or Ed had found out and killed her.  I like to think he would have taken the trouble to do that at least.

February 23 Only one cop?

Today two detectives came to the library and questioned everybody.  They called us into the conference room one by one.  It was like waiting to be called into the principal’s office.  (Not that that ever happened to me.)  Afterwards we milled around comparing notes.  Not much work got done.

To save time, I guess, and probably because we looked like a pretty tame bunch, everyone was interviewed by one officer.  Mine looked like Stephen Colbert and called me Mrs. McDonald.  He seemed interested that I had lunch with Margaret.  What did we talk about? (Books, movies, my children, her niece and nephews.)  Had I ever been to her house?   (I hadn’t.  They didn’t take my fingerprints just to make sure.)  He thanked me and said I’d been helpful, though I wondered if knowing Margaret’s tastes in literature (classic English novels and “cozy” mysteries) and tea (lemon and Sweet and Low) would help.

Not only did he not tell me not to leave town, he didn’t even call me back about “one more thing I forgot to ask,” like Columbo used to. 

The kids were disappointed.  So were Nikki and Karen.  We’re going to get together again on Friday.  Maybe I’ll have something more to offer.

February 21 Where's Johnny Cochran when we need him?

Betsey and Josh took it upon themselves to prepare me for my interrogation – if there is one.  I haven’t heard anything yet.  Betsey was the brilliant defense attorney and Josh the loyal associate, or maybe her private detective.  Priscilla hung around so as not to miss anything.

“Now remember,” Betsey cautioned, “the cops will try to get you to confess.  Don’t believe anything they say.  Don’t you say anything without a lawyer.”

“I don’t have anything to confess. I didn’t do it.”

“They don’t care.”

“What if they won’t let her go to the bathroom unless she confesses?” Cilla chimed in.  That did make me a little nervous.  I guess it’s all the worrying I do about children’s and animals’ bladders.  (Ed can look out for himself.)

“Ask to see a lawyer right away,” Josh advised.  “He’ll make them let you go.” 

“Or she,” Betsey corrected.

Ed was passing by on his way to somewhere.  “Just make sure you get a public defender.  Otherwise, we won’t be able to afford Disney World next year.”

“I don’t want to go the Disney World if Mommy’s in jail,” Cilla wailed.

“That’s all right; we can all send her postcards.”

“Stop it, Ed.  Just go do whatever it is you’re doing.  Or take the dog out.”

“Anyway,” Betsey continued, “Don’t get taken in by the good cop/bad cop routine.  You know what that is, don’t you?”

“I think so.”  There was no sense telling the kids that Ed and I had used it for years.  (Not having someone to be the other cop must be one of the hardest things about being a single parent.)

Fortunately, they didn’t want to role play for practice.

“They’ll ask you if you want a cup of coffee to give you a false sense of security.”

“I just drink tea,” I interrupted.  I couldn’t help myself.

“If you ask for tea that might make them mad.  You’d better just say, ’No thank you.’”

I almost suggested that I could wait for the lawyer and then ask for tea, but since I don’t have the legal knowledge the children have picked up from television, I decided to keep quiet.  Besides, tea might make me have to go to the bathroom.  Diet soda would be best, since it makes you retain water.  There’s sodium in it, I think.

By then, it was time to start dinner.  I thanked Betsey and Josh for their help and Priscilla for her support.

Of course, I don’t have anything to worry about, since I’m innocent.  But isn’t that what they all say in the mystery movies?

 

February 20 The conversation dangles, but at least there are no superficial sighs.

We always have a special family dinner for Valentine’s Day:  spaghetti, cherry 7 Up, red velvet cake, and cherry Jello in a heart-shaped mold.  (One year I made a heart-shaped meatloaf, but it clashed with the rest of the food.)

So Ed and I go out for our Romantic Dinner the Saturday after Valentine’s Day.  I root in my closet for a dress and heels, run out to buy panty hose, and find someone to stay with the kids.  Ed makes the reservation after I decide where we’re going to eat.  (Not because I’m bossy, but because he doesn’t care as long as it’s not Thai, which he says tastes like Lemon Pledge.)

Betsey and Cilla helped me accessorize while Josh hung around and argued about how late they could stay up.   Ed’s mother Janet arrived with three pizzas (plain, pepperoni, and pineapple) and enough cookies to put the children in a sugar stupor.

And we were off.

“So,” I said in the car, “what are you going to get?”

Ed didn’t want to make a commitment until he’d seen the menu.

The problem with Saturday night dates is that you’ve been together all day and have used up most of the available topics of conversation.

Of course, on the drive, there is always the traffic.

At the restaurant you can talk about the parking, the crowd, and what you are going to eat, since now you have to make a commitment.

And you can always discuss the occasionally heart-warming or more often annoying antics of the children and pets.

This year we were lucky because we could talk about the murder. I analyzed Margaret’s character and offered several scenarios of who could have done it.

Ed said he couldn’t believe that they’d gotten his steak just right and asked me if I was going to eat my share of the garlic bread or what.

Finally you can debate whether to have dessert, get one and share it, or just have coffee (or tea in my case.)  Since this was our Special Romantic Dinner, I had strawberry cheesecake.  Ed doesn’t like strawberries.  He had apple pie a la mode. He got wild and crazy and had cinnamon ice cream instead of vanilla.

There weren’t any movies we wanted to see.  I wanted to go parking, but Ed said it was too cold.

So we went home.  The kids were watching an old monster movie and dropping cookie crumbs all over the couch.  Ed grabbed a slice of pizza (only plain was left) and sat down with them.

Janet and I tidied up in the kitchen and talked about the murder for an hour and a half.

February 19 Reflective Discussion with the Girls, Mrs. Fields, Ben and Jerry

As everybody probably said at the obsequies, it was a beautiful day for the funeral.  I didn’t go, but I said a prayer for Margaret.  Of course, by now she is well established in heaven; she’s probably had tea with Barbara Pym and Agatha Christie.  I guess she said hi to Jesus, too.

Karen, Nikki and I got together at Nikki’s house for girls’ night in (after we’d gotten dinner for the troops at home; you know how it is).  They wanted to hear all the details.  After the second glass of wine, we started talking about heaven.  We decided that:

1.        You got to know anything you wanted. We all decided we wanted to know the truth about the Kennedy assassination.  I said I wanted to know if Elizabeth the First was really a virgin and they said I was naïve.

2.       You can eat anything you want and not get fat.  If you are fat when you die, you will become your perfect weight.

3.       You can meet famous people and they will be gracious. You may even become friends with them.  Nikki, who is not religious, said that some people, like Elvis, wouldn’t have time.  I explained that should we be there ten thousand years there would be no less days to schmooze than when we’d first begun.  I’m the only church goer (or, as Nikki says, church lady) among us.  Karen is spiritual, but not religious.

4.       You can drink and abuse drugs, but it won’t hurt you.

5.       We didn’t get to discussing sex in heaven until the third glass.  And since I’m a church lady, I’m too embarrassed to tell you what was said.

Dear Reader:  What are your ideas about heaven? And what do you think of ours?
To comment, click on "No Comments."  (It confused me too.)

February 18 No Cocktails, but the Elephant's Here

The viewing was actually “calling hours,” since the casket was closed.  I think Margaret would have wanted a closed casket no matter what; she would go into a toilet stall if she had to lift her skirt to pull her blouse down.

People were standing in clusters, presumably with their own groups – church friends, relatives with their particular family branches, old grade school and high school friends.  People would start to smile and then remember where they were.  It looked like a cocktail party gone bad, without the cocktails, of course. 

I joined some of my friends from the library.  We didn’t have much to say that was suitable for a viewing; it would be tacky to discuss suspects and motives.

So we commented on the flowers.  They were very nice, lovely, and beautiful.  “Did you go up yet?” someone asked me.  I hadn’t, so I did.  When I introduced myself to Margaret’s sister, she knew me.  “Peggy talked about you a lot, both of you being into books and all.”  Peggy!  The fact that Margaret had a nickname seemed even more surprising than that she’d been murdered. 

Margaret’s brother-in-law and nephews stood bravely receiving condolences and her pre-teen niece hung by her mother, clutching a cloth handkerchief printed with hearts.  I wondered if they’d had to run out and get suitable clothes for the children, the way we did when my mother died.  (The girls didn’t have dresses that fit and Josh didn’t own a tie.  He’s probably lost that one by now.) 

My group was going out for coffee, but I had promised the kids to tell them all about the viewing.  Before I left, I looked around to see if anyone looked suspicious.  No luck.  I wonder if anyone was looking at me and if I passed.

The three of them were waiting for me.  I could barely get my coat off.  I made us all cocoa and it was really quite cozy, almost like talking over a party or wedding.  I told them about the closed casket (a disappointment) and the lack of suspects (another bummer).  Josh wanted to know if there’d been any police there.  I hadn’t thought to look.   

Ed wandered in and grabbed some marshmallows.  “Don’t worry, guys.  Mommy will have much more to tell after they question her.  That is, if they let her come home.”

I gave him a Look and Betsey and Josh said, “Oh, Daddy.”  Cilla threw her arms around my neck.  It took fifteen minutes to convince her that Ed was kidding. 

A Choice of Obsequies

February 18  A Choice of Obsequies

Funerals always make me think of the King and the Duke in Huckleberry Finn and the Duke’s talk about “funeral orgies.”  (He meant “obsequies.”)  I’ve found that it’s better to think of that before the obsequies than in the middle of them.

I don’t know whether to go to the viewing or the funeral.  To go to both seems ghoulish.  And it might make people wonder why I was so interested.

I’m not sure what to wear. I don’t think anyone would expect a dress in February.  Only a member of the family - or perhaps the murderer - would make that much effort.  Maybe my nice pants and a turtleneck.  I’ll have to notice what everyone wears. 

I think I’ll just do the viewing.  That way it won’t look like I was trying to get out of work.  And since it’s at night, it will save vacation time.

 

February 17 Evidently

The police came and took all of Margaret’s stuff for evidence.   She had some library books and they took them too.  They’ll probably run up a big fine.  I mentioned it at dinner, and Ed said, “You think of the damnedest things.”

Josh and Cilla both squealed, “Daddy said ‘Damn!’”  I’m glad they got a charge out of it.

Betsey put on her mildly-amused-but-exasperated look. 

I said, “Maybe you can write a book, My Wife Says the Darnedest Things.”

Josh and Cilla looked disappointed.

Betsey rolled her eyes.  “Maybe you could write a blog, Dad.”

“Or you could,” I said.  She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, the library could bill the estate.”  Ed said.  “Anyway, they can’t charge more than the price of the book, so it won’t hurt the inheritance.”   He was only half joking; he is an accountant.

I thought of the future crime buffs taking books out of the library and wondering if Margaret had ever read or even touched them. 

Maybe I do think of the damnedest things, but how can I tell?

February 16 Imagine there's a motive . .

There has been, as they say in the classic detective movies, a break in the case.

The police have released the information that Margaret had let the killer into her house.  So she had to have known him or her.  I can’t imagine her opening the door for someone she didn’t know.  I can’t imagine anyone going to Margaret’s house without being invited or at least calling first.

I can imagine what her house was like.  Victorian and very neat.  She could put something down somewhere and have it be there when she wanted it.  I can’t imagine what that’s like.

The news came as a relief to everyone.  Margaret had done something.  But no one at the library could imagine what.  Margaret didn’t seem to have any personal life.  She was like a character in one of those depressing “realistic” spy movies.  But then, like a spy, she had a hidden life.  Could she have been a spy?  Was she having an affair?  Was she blackmailing someone? 

Karen thinks she was having an affair.

My friend Nicole thinks there’s money behind it. 

I don’t know.  I guess everyone who knew her is a suspect, so that includes me.

Since I didn’t do it, that’s kind of exciting.

Ed thinks that’s crazy, but as I told him, craziness is part of my charm.

He grunted.

February 15 Later that Day . . .

By lunch we had loosened up, like people standing outside a funeral home during a viewing “for some fresh air.”   We talked about our last conversation with Margaret or marveled that we couldn’t remember when we had it.  “You just never know, do you?”  I have to admit I almost felt proud that I’d actually known Margaret.

Other things discussed:

The viewing:  Would there be one?  What would there be to view?

What we wanted done with us when we die:  The usual “just stick me in a garbage bag and put me on the curb” won.  Runner up was “shove me in the freezer” (with a nervous laugh).  No one wanted an open casket.  I want a nice Episcopal service with my favorite hymns and scriptures.

Whether there would be more break-ins that would go bad and whether we should get security systems or would signs that said we had security systems be just as good?  The consensus was that Margaret had left her door unlocked, which we never do.  So we’re all safe.

February 15 Sorry, Charlie

 It feels strange to be sitting at my desk, next to Margaret’s.   I can’t really concentrate.  Maybe if I write about it will help.

I wondered what the library would be like today.  Would everyone be as excited as my fellow worshippers had been or would we be quiet, huddling together like a bereaved family?

Everyone came in quite soberly and sat down at their desks without the usual good morning banter.  Every once in a while someone would walk past Margaret’s desk, look at her chair, and then hurry on.  I wondered if they were thinking that they ought to say something to me, as if I had special claim on Margaret since I sat next to her.  “Sorry, Charlie.”  When I thought of that, I started giggling.  Ever since those tuna commercials people have been saying “Sorry, Charlie” to me.  Unfortunately, Bill Cleveland, the head librarian, was walking by my desk at the time.  I must have looked guilty, because he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Everyone grieves differently, Charlie.”

I just nodded.

February 14 Holy Homicide!

Church was buzzing with the murder.  They had Margaret in the prayer for the dead.  And a sermon about how horrible violence is.  God forgive me (for the cliché and the insensitivity) but yada yada yada.  Yes, violence is a horrible thing, but can we do anything about it?   I do feel terrible about Margaret and her family.   But it still doesn’t seem real. 

The general feeling was that it was a break-in gone bad.  Which makes us all nervous.   I was the Queen of Coffee Hour once word got around that I’d known Margaret.  But I didn’t have much to offer except that even after all those years I didn’t have much to offer.

The cupcakes were a big hit.

February 13 A Terrible Thing Has Happened!

A terrible thing has happened.  Margaret was stabbed to death in her own house.  I was making the cupcakes for church when I heard it on the radio.  Fortunately Ed had taken the kids out shopping.

If a casting director had wanted a perfect librarian, he would have found her in Margaret.  She was in her fifties, had never married and was a Republican and a Methodist. She dyed her hair but wore it short.  Her clothes were nice enough, suits and dresses that looked expensive.  Not that I would know for sure.  We’d worked together for years, but had never progressed to the point of talking about how much things cost. 

Mostly we talked about books.  I had never had anyone I could talk about Dickens with or who understood when I said I had a “love-hate relationship with Jane Austen.”

I feel like I’m in one of those mystery novels in which everyone keeps saying, “How could this happen here?” 

I called Karen, and she said, “Almost in the family.”  I guess it is.

January's Over!

February 11:  I’m so glad January’s over.  Not that February is anything to write home about.  But at least there’s Valentine’s Day.  Today my co-worker Margaret and I ran out to the mall at lunch.  I got the girls shirts with hearts and a Spiderman t-shirt for Josh.  At least it’s red.  Maybe I can find some silly things in the dollar store. 

Margaret just sends cards to her niece and nephew.  (Isn’t it funny how English doesn’t have a gender neutral word for one’s sibling’s children?  Or one’s siblings for that matter.  Of course that’s never been a problem for me, having only a half-sister.)  But Margaret gives them each ten dollars!  We got back just in time and had to eat our lunch on our break. 

Anyway, I have to take the kids out tonight to get something for Ed.  Maybe a red tie or red socks or boxers with hearts.  That way, they can remind him to take them out to get something for me.  It’s not that I want anything, but it would be embarrassing if I had something for him and he didn’t have anything for me.

Valentine’s Day is Sunday.  I promised to bring something for Coffee Hour and I think I’ll make cupcakes and put Valentine sprinkles on them.  Maybe they even have little candy hearts.  I can get some conversation hearts, too, and put them on some.  (My friend Karen told me that she saw some dirty conversation hearts in the fancy candy store.  Maybe I should get a bag for Ed.  But what if I got them mixed up and put them on the church cupcakes?  Karen says I have the mind of a situation comedy writer.  Maybe she’s right.)

Dear Reader, I don’t know what you think of this, but I’m having fun.  Let me know.