Blessed Is the Busybody (7 page)

Tom didn’t grovel as she probably expected. He stepped away from the formation. “Respect and consideration can’t be bought. You have both, no strings attached. But so do the other members of the congregation who are represented by this board. And it’s the board’s decision not to call a congregational meeting at this time. Your concerns have been logged and noted.”

Gelsey ignored him and started forward again, and that’s when she saw me. She stared as if I were part of a conspiracy that intended to rob Tri-C of its soul. Emerald Springs’ own little Village Church of the Damned.

She drew herself up again, and I waited, breath halting in my chest.

“Ask your husband what he was doing with that woman on Wednesday night,” she said, stabbing the air with a finger. “Even if your husband refuses to discuss it, they were seen, you know, at Don’t Go There. You ask him, then maybe you can convince me he’s completely innocent of that murder. It’s the quiet ones we have to fear, isn’t it?”

Not one word that crossed my mind could be uttered by a minister’s wife. I stepped aside to let the gaggle pass. Then I waited until the air they had churned up was calm again.

Silently and alone, I found my way home.

5

Of course Ed refused to tell me what he’d been doing with Jennifer Marina in the city’s most notorious bar, although he did admit to seeing the son of one of our Women’s Society members, an Emerald College senior, there that night, hence Gelsey’s information.

I explained that the seal of confession was a concept dating from the twelfth century or earlier—a historical period not known for enlightened thinking—that we were Unitarians in case he’d forgotten, and that even our good friend Father Greg wouldn’t make a case for a bar stool at Don’t Go There as a substitute for the confessional booth.

Of course, I should know better than to argue theology with Ed. My brain didn’t function normally again until the next morning.

The odds were against the old neurons firing then, as well, considering what came next. After breakfast Deena conducted a ghost tour of the grounds for her best friends, eight of them, at least.

I’m not sure how my daughter became the center of a group of girls who can only be described by that dreaded word
popular
. I hope she’s conducting a private sociological study complete with statistical analysis and charts, but I’m beginning to fear the worst.

The girls call themselves the Green Meanies, a name that came with them, fortunately, and was not a product of Deena’s vivid imagination. The title is more or less appropriate. Most of them are good kids, but a couple are borderline psychopaths—or possibly just a few months ahead of Deena in the hormone game.

At this point Deena doesn’t seem to care that these are the girls who in middle school will ask her to do things my best friends only read about in purloined copies of Jacqueline Susann’s novels. These are the high school cheerleaders who will choose the alpha males of their graduating class to father their children, then divorce them when better providers appear. These are the future society matrons who will star in our biannual “Broadway” show to benefit Emerald Springs General, who will chair the Christmas dance at Meadowlands Country Club, who will follow Deena’s career as a world-famous anthropologist or a specialist in rare tropical diseases, and wonder why she didn’t marry Quentin Quarterback and settle into life in Emerald Estates.

And, of course, I am not projecting. I am not terrified.

I served orange juice and doughnuts after the tour, watching helplessly as the girls streamed through my kitchen door chattering about dead bodies. I counted the uses of
gross
and
creepy
and noted who was showing off newly developing breasts and who was wishing.

Carlene O’Grady was the first to address me. She looked at the platter of doughnuts and pitcher of orange juice as if these were the weapons that had killed poor Jennifer Marina.

“Carbs. Wow, that’s more carbs than I’ve seen in one place before.” Carlene giggled. I’ll try to omit the giggling from this point on. It’s standard punctuation for eleven-year-old girls.

Carlene is rail thin. Her mother, Crystal, is thinner. I’ve gotten evil looks from Crystal for serving carrot and celery sticks and herbal tea when she and the other Green Meanie mothers visit. Crystal will only be happy when I serve air and spring water with a flourish.

I put two doughnuts on a plate and handed them to Carlene with a brimming glass of juice. “I’ve read this particular combination promotes a healthy complexion.”

Carlene shook her blond head—her mother is blonder—as she grabbed the plate. “My mother says you’re a free spirit.”

This was possibly the kindest thing Crystal had ever said about me. To forestall less pleasant revelations, I mingled and chatted with the other girls as I passed out the carbs.

Next to Maddie Frankel, who was out of town today, Tara Norton is my favorite Meanie. She and Deena are in gifted classes together, and Tara keeps Deena on her intellectual toes. Like Deena, I’m not quite sure how Tara got into the group. Her dark hair is a mass of dense, frizzy curls. She wears glasses with black cat’s-eye frames, which sit on a nose she may yet grow into. Her body is short-waisted and compact, and that will probably only intensify with age. It’s a testament to the better qualities of Meaniehood that the girls see Tara’s intelligence, keen sense of humor, and remarkable smile. Apparently there’s hope for them after all.

“You must have been scared to death when you found that body,” Tara said.

“It wasn’t what I was expecting.” I held out the doughnut platter and hoped she got the last one with chocolate icing before Betsy Slavonik, always ravenous, made a grab for it.

She took a plain glazed and broke it into tiny bits, popping the first into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I bet you’re trying to figure out why the body ended up at your house, aren’t you? And who killed her.”

I wanted to deny it, but honesty is the least I can do to speed the Meanies on the road to maturity. “I’m certainly curious.”

“You’d be good at solving crimes. I bet you’ll figure it out.”

“Why do you think I’d be good at it?”

“You pay attention to everything. What is Shannon wearing? Don’t turn around.”

Shannon Forester was somewhere behind me, but that was no problem. I’d taken note already. “A purple sweatshirt that says ‘Go for the Grape,’ faded blue jeans, tennis shoes that need to be replaced, and gold clips in her hair.”

“The shoes are her brother’s. He wore them when he scored the winning basket against Wellington last year. She thinks they’re cool.”

I made a note that Shannon’s feet must be ultralarge and growing, in case I ever noticed giant footprints outside our windows.

“The
police
need to find the killer,” I said, trying for virtue. “I bet you were brought up on old Nancy Drew mysteries.”

“Agatha Christie. I like Miss Marple best. Hercule Poirot is an egotist, and there are too many of those in the world.” She leaned forward. “Half of them in this room.”

I
wanted to giggle.

The Meanies vanished after a time. You can always tell when the Meanies are gone. Not only by the silence, but by the torrent of oxygen rushing back into the room. I took a few deep breaths and considered whether I should do what I’d contemplated through long, sleepless hours of the night.

The struggle didn’t last. I dialed my own best friend.

“Ed has a meeting tonight,” I told Lucy without preamble. “And Jennifer Marina was waiting tables at Don’t Go There before she took up residence on my front porch.”

Lucy didn’t need an explanation. “What time do you want to go?”

I did the math. “If I can get Stephanie to babysit . . . let’s say eight. We might even beat Ed back home.”

“You’re not going to tell him?”

“I think I’ll forget to mention it.”

I hung up, and while I gathered sticky juice glasses and brushed away doughnut crumbs, I asked myself why I was snooping where I didn’t belong.

The answer came down to this. I
felt
like I belonged. The body was deposited on my front porch. My husband knew the victim and was still protecting her secrets. Gelsey’s honking over Ed’s involvement in Jennifer’s death was getting louder and louder. I no longer felt safe in my own house and worried about my children. Tara, one of the smartest eleven-year-olds I know, thinks I have something to bring to this investigation.

And, last but certainly not least, I am terminally curious. Make that exceptionally curious.
Terminally
has a ring I’m not crazy about just now.

By seven fifteen Ed was on his way to the parish house for what promised to be the kind of finance committee meeting where a change of clothes and a toothbrush are required. Over vegetable lasagna with soy cheese he’d told me not to wait up for him.

Not a problem.

By seven forty-five, fifteen-year-old Stephanie Blakely was nodding off as I gave last-minute instructions. I knew she would perk up the moment she had access to the television and telephone, plus half a dozen leftover doughnuts.

Stephanie is a good babysitter. Once when the pilot light on our old gas stove went off, she noticed the smell and opened all the kitchen windows. Then she took the girls to stay at her house until her father could come back and re-light it. She knows first aid and CPR, and she lets Teddy pick any book in the house for her bedtime story. Of course, that was before Teddy chose our ancient set of World Book Encyclopedias and insisted Stephanie begin with Volume A.

By eight, Stephanie, Deena, and Teddy were watching our well-worn DVD of
Aladdin,
and Stephanie was promising to style Teddy’s hair like Princess Jasmine’s. I was good to go. Lucy arrived with a gift, something appropriately addictive and noisy called “Bop It,” guaranteeing that the girls would not sleep again until the next millennium.

We took Luce’s Concorde since she refused to show up at a place like Don’t Go There in my Nissan Quest. Lucy seemed to think a minivan was a sign we were not serious barflies. As if my patchwork jacket—my mother’s latest work—and neatly pressed khakis weren’t proof enough.

Don’t Go There sits on the outskirts of Emerald Springs like a pimple on the cheek of a Norman Rockwell bride. The town itself is admittedly picturesque, dressed up in its best finery and waiting for something important to happen. Unfortunately, Emerald Springs has been waiting at the altar for a very long time.

Don’t Go There makes no pretense of waiting for anything, nor does it yearn to be picturesque, at least not judging by the overflowing dumpster within spitting distance of the front door.

This section of our fair city is called Weezeltown, for reasons nobody questions. The button factory, which anchored it and subsidized blocks of homes crowded on to narrow lots, closed years ago. The houses, covered in asphalt siding or painted dreary earth tones, are slowly being condemned and torn down. There’s talk of turning the factory into an upscale shopping mall, the surrounding landscape into a ritzy subdivision. Now if they can just find enough rich folks in this dreary economy willing to live or shop here.

We pulled slowly into the parking lot. Missing letters in the bar’s neon sign had turned the name into Don Go here, and from the pickups and motorcycles in the lot, any number of Dons had taken the invitation to heart.

With the Dons in mind, Lucy parked at the edge of the lot, hoping to avoid becoming the target of any form of bodily elimination. Tonight she was dressed modestly. Brown skirt close enough to her knees to nod in recognition. Camel-colored sweater loose enough to slide a nail file between the sweater and her midriff. Shoes with sensible three-inch heels.

All right, the shoes were not sensible, unless we needed a weapon.

Considering where we were, the shoes were sensible.

Lucy pulled her keys from the ignition and zipped them securely in her purse before she turned to me. “Just how did Gelsey Falowell know Ed was out here talking to Jennifer before she was killed? You don’t suppose Gelsey’s a regular, do you?”

“Apparently one of our college students is a regular,” I said. “And he wasn’t afraid to admit it.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at her reflection in the rearview mirror, clearly some sort of facial aerobics I needed to investigate. “And Ed didn’t tell you ahead of time that someone might have seen them together?”

“Torture the man and he’d die mute. All the world’s a secret.”

Lucy, apparently pleased with her forehead’s admirable flexibility, bounced a couple of cherry red curls into place and started to get out of the car. I held on to her sleeve for all I was worth.

“Luce, we stay in the shadows and we don’t step on toes, literally or figuratively. No scenes, okay? If Ed has to post bail for me, that will be the last straw at Tri-C.”

“It’s got to be hard to be Aggie Sloan-Wilcox. Always torn between dancing on the table and singing hymns.” She pulled loose and got out.

Since it was now too late to reconsider, I joined her.

Halfway to the door Lucy stepped carefully between a condom wrapper and a puddle that made me glad we had parked farther away. A trio of motorcycles at the other edge of the lot had drawn a small crowd arguing about ape hangers and buckhorns, but nobody paid any attention to us.

“I always wondered what this place looked like inside,” Lucy said.

“I can tell you. Smoke so thick you can cure a slab of pork while you wait for your brewski. Peanut shells on the floor. Vinyl-covered bar stools patched with duct tape. A jukebox that’s too loud, a pool table where balls follow the tracks of a thousand missed shots, men in interchangeable flannel shirts or black leather. Tattoos, missing teeth, chains.”

“You haven’t been here, have you?”

“On those rare occasions when Ray leaves Camp Vigilance, this is the kind of place he favors.” Ray is my father. Camp Vigilance is his very own compound. Some fathers own farms or condos. Ray’s compound has ten-foot concrete block walls to keep out whatever bad guys define the moment.

“Ray took you places like this?”

“Part of my training. He thinks the folks who frequent these places are real men, the kind he wanted me to know, which simply means that if so moved, these guys can and will shoot anything that breathes.”