The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder (2 page)

“Exterminate?” I blurted.

“That’s right.”

“Exterminate who?”

“Start with that hag, Serena Redding. I told you she’s back, living the good life in a mansion on the edge of Woodbridge.”

Serena. Oh. Thoughts tumbled in my head, jagged flashes from St. Jude’s. I could still picture Serena with her honey-blond hair, velvety golden tan, that turned-up nose, and round brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. She’d definitely been pack leader, and she and her three followers always seemed to have been sashaying through the halls of St. Jude’s as if playing to a swarm of paparazzi. They were gorgeous, smart, and popular, and left a trail of expensive scent in the air as they passed by. Some people admired them. Some people had the hots for them. And some people were scared to death of them. My memory dredged up the image of a scrawny girl with angry red zits stranded in the locker room after her shower. Mona. Not a piece of her clothing in sight. Not even her underwear. I’d come across Mona crouched in a corner, weeping, teeth chattering. Her skin was ice-cold when I tried to pat her shoulder. My own gym clothes were much too short for her thin, awkward body, but they were better than leaving her naked any old day. I’d gone searching for my friend Sally, who was tall enough and generous enough to give Mona something to wear to class. I’d been shaken by the vindictiveness of that trick. The first face I’d seen outside the locker room had been Serena Redding’s. She’d been laughing. No sign of her cruel deeds on that lovely face. She was a beauty queen of mean, without a shred of empathy.

I could see how Mona might bear a grudge.

“What do you mean by ‘she’s back’?” I asked.

“What could I mean? She’s here. In Woodbridge. Again. Probably stirring things up as we speak. Oh crap. There goes the line.”

“The 911 line?” I squeaked.

“Some idiot probably gave himself a heart attack shoveling snow. When will people learn? Eat fries in front of the TV all your life and then, when you finally stir yourself, make sure you grab a heavy shovel to lift wet snow in the morning, when your blood is thick. Sure, go ahead. Live like an unhealthy slob. Nine-one-one will be there to bail you out. Not like we have anything else to do.”

Was this happening?

“You’d better pick it up, Mona.”

“Yeah, yeah. I will, but there’s more. I have to talk to you.”

“Let’s talk later. I’ll call you back.” I was speaking to the dial tone. However, in this case, I was glad. Mona needed to concentrate on her job and not on the return of Serena Redding. I thought back. Every queen bee has her courtiers, and Serena had been no different from any other flourishing monarch. In all public appearances, she’d been supported by Jasmin Lorenz, Tiffanee Dupont, and Haley McKee. They weren’t quite as gorgeous as Serena. She had to be number one. But Tiffanee had been particularly striking: waist-length dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and milky skin. She’d been taller than Serena. Tiffanee must have been six feet. She always walked at the back of the pack, that fabulous hair swaying. They’d called her Princess T. Serena had usually been flanked by Haley and Jasmin. The boys had liked Haley; the flawless ivory skin, the bouncy ponytail, the sexy grin, and perhaps most of all, those curves. Next to Haley, everyone felt too tall or too short or too flat-chested. Everyone except Serena. And Haley had played on that. Jasmin’s name had seemed exotic, and she’d been a fairly attractive brunette, but not as dramatic as the other three. Not as nasty either, perhaps the weak link in the chain. At the time, each one seemed to have whiter teeth, lovelier skin, and a more fabulous wardrobe than anyone outside the charmed circle. None of the three measured up to Serena. Her hair could have fueled an ad campaign; her skin glowed. And those clothes—fresh from LA whenever her mother went on a shopping trip. Mind you, we wore uniforms to St. Jude’s, but Serena somehow managed to appear half-dressed and provocative, even when wearing our prim little plaid skirts, navy jackets, and knee socks. I remembered football players with their tongues dragging on the vinyl floor as Serena and her entourage swanned by.

Looking back, I asked myself, Why would a beautiful, well-dressed, intelligent girl—the object of major male-adolescent lust in our high school—ritually humiliate a self-effacing, harmless classmate? Everyone must have known. Why had no one done anything to stop it? More to the point, why had
I
let it go on?

I suppose it was a good thing that Mona had called with her bombshell. It distracted me from the three items clogging my mind.

First was the looming therapy-dog evaluation for my rescued miniature dachshunds, Truffle and Sweet Marie. Make that reevaluation. Or, to be precise, re-reevaluation. The pooches were now napping on the sofa, snoring softly, their silky fur smelling vaguely like warm toast. They weren’t worried. I was.

Second, the next morning I would be launching a fivepart course in cooperation with the Woodbridge Public Library: The Busy Person’s Guide to Managing Time and Life. The first session kicked off on Saturday morning. It was a new venture for me in my organizing business and I wanted it to go well.

Third, Jack Reilly.

Who was I kidding? Jack was first on the list. It had taken me nearly twenty years to realize Jack was the man for me. He was responsible for me having pets for the first time in my life. He was involved in animal rescue, and I was a sitting duck. He’d been my friend since we were kids, and now he was my hero, my landlord, and also the guy who had saved my life more than once. Of course, I’ve saved his life too, but only because he’d been in danger saving mine. It’s complicated. Jack isn’t. Now, if I could just find a way to tell him how I felt. But what if he didn’t share my feelings? What if I attempted to nudge the relationship forward and the whole friendship collapsed? That would be a disaster and I wasn’t yet prepared to risk it.

At that moment Jack arrived home from CYCotics, his bicycle shop. He thundered up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, bringing a gust of wintry air with him. Jack lived downstairs, but he spent a lot more time upstairs in my home. Perhaps because I had furniture and sometimes food. Or maybe it was the lure of the dogs.

“Ready for tonight? We’ll knock them dead.” He shook a few random snowflakes from his spiky dark-blond hair, and eased his lanky form onto the sofa, letting the dogs snuggle up. “Still snowing. Brr. I wonder if it will end before June?”

I refrained from commenting that if he didn’t like the snow, perhaps he shouldn’t wear cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts twelve months a year. Why not? It wasn’t like being nice was getting me anywhere.

Jack, obviously unaware of my grumpy thoughts, said, “Not the best weather for the spring bike sales.”

I turned my mind back to the other worries. For instance, the rumor that Woodbridge Therapy Dogs had a “three strikes and you’re out” rule. I didn’t like to ask, in case the answer made me even more nervous. Speaking of nervous, I wondered what was happening with Mona. I tried calling 911, but was told quite firmly that operators didn’t take or
make
personal calls. That made sense, although Mona had called me from work. I took the hint. I found a Woodbridge number for M Pringle on the 411 website (although no home address was listed) and called. I left a soothing message and hoped for the best.

Next, judgment day in a dog-training center. Actually, judgment night. Would Truffle and Sweet Marie make it through the test this time? We’d been training diligently, and after more than a year of trying and two spectacular failures, we were up again. I had a lot riding on it. My beloved pooches were adorable and cuddly—in my opinion anyway—the exact characteristics a therapy dog needs. Unfortunately, they were also inclined to bark. That got them turfed out of the last two evaluations in disgrace. We’d been working on that. All other thoughts flew out of my head as we, the about to be evaluated, faced down the evaluator. I held a trembling Sweet Marie. Jack stood next to me with Truffle firmly grasped in his long arms. That was only fair, as without Jack’s interference, I wouldn’t have dogs in the first place. This was a far cry from my glamorous evenings back in New York City—stilettos, fashion, and freedom. Oh, and one lying, cheating hound of an ex-fiancé, but let’s not dwell on that.

We were surrounded by oversize dogs, the trigger for much of the barking. I tried to minimize the impact of the two whopping golden retrievers, one lazy and serene, the other a bundle of bouncy energy; a Bernese mountain dog; a puffy Keeshond; a Saint Bernard; and a miscellaneous and adorable fuzzy creature of unfathomable breed. Tonight, a combination of whispering in their ears, treats, and one-on-one attention seemed to be working to keep Truffle and Sweet Marie in the game.

“Third time’s a charm,” Jack said with his usual crooked grin.

The evaluators touched each dog’s paws, checked out their nails, and lifted their velvety ears to peek inside. Grooming counts.

Not a growl or a protest.

“Good girl,” I whispered, as the evaluators checked Sweet Marie’s teeth. I knew Jack was murmuring the same combination of bribes and threats.

Truffle was a bit more of a challenge than Sweet Marie, but Jack kept him under control. Dogs are putty in his hands. So far they’d done every command flawlessly, even the elusive “lie down.” I never thought I’d see that day. They’d survived the simulated hospital environment, complete with volunteers in whirling wheelchairs, thumping IV poles, and clomping crutches, to say nothing of the ones who wandered randomly, wailing like zombies. They did well with the fake swarming incidents. The evaluators had explained that these tests were to make sure that a dog didn’t flip out in a hospital corridor or dementia unit. I thought I detected a low growl from Truffle as sixteen hands reached out for him, but Jack coughed loudly just in time. Have I mentioned he’s the best?

Nearly three hours after we began, we were fidgeting, awaiting the results. I was surprised to find my heart racing. We had to succeed. I wanted to be part of this program.

I was holding my breath as the evaluator stepped toward me to say that Sweet Marie had passed. Truffle too. I exhaled. I shook the evaluator’s hand so hard that she gasped. Jack gave his evaluator a huge hug. She blushed. Women do when Jack pays attention to them, even though he seems unaware of it. I stood and got my picture taken with Truffle and then with Sweet Marie for our photo IDs.

Truffle and Sweet Marie received attractive red scarves with the Woodbridge Therapy Dog emblem. They seemed proud of themselves and also far less surprised than I was. The diminutive red-haired coordinator, Candy Brinkerhoff, was all smiles too. I think she was as excited as we were. We’d been discussing where Truffle and Sweet Marie could do the most good. In some of the local schools, specially trained dogs were part of a program to help children become more confident and fluent readers. I didn’t have all the details, but I loved the idea of that. Of course, we would have to wait for our assignments.

Candy said, “I already have a placement for you. They’ve been waiting since forever and they’re very excited.”

“Where is it?”

“Truffle and Sweet Marie can do a lot of good at the Alzheimer’s unit of Riverview Manor. It’s a nursing home downtown. Of course, you know that it’s one pooch at a time. Bella Constantine, the program director of the unit, can’t wait. She’d be thrilled if you could come by Monday morning at eleven thirty for a visit with either Truffle or Sweet Marie, and she asked me to confirm. I’ll be there too, making sure that everything goes well.”

After so much time trying, we were off to a flying start. I felt a small swell of pride that we had actually achieved this goal.

“We’ll be there.” I am pretty sure Sweet Marie wagged her tail.

When we emerged from the evaluation area, Jack and I clutching the diplomas, we each let out a whoop and danced around the parking lot in the swirling snow. Truffle and Sweet Marie barked their pointed little heads off. Why the hell not? They’d been holding it in all night.