Death Comes eCalling (24 page)

“Two-oh-two.”

I tried combinations of the number plus a letter: 202A. 202B. A202. B202. 202KRAV. Nothing. I could go on like this for hours and not get any place.

“Did Steve ever ask you what room number she had?”

He shook his head.

“Did he ask you any personal questions about her, as if he were trying to figure out her password?”

“No, and now that you mention it, that seems odd.”

“He didn’t ask, so maybe he looked it up. Have you got our old yearbook around? Steve would’ve had access to that through Lauren.”

“It’s at home.”

There was a knock on the wall.

“Mine is at home, too,” I said to Jack. “Just a minute,” I hollered to the wall.

A thought hit me like one of those light-bulbs-over-the-head in cartoons. Lauren had probably told Steve about my poem about Mrs. Kravett. She may have even saved a copy of the school paper. She'd been planning on putting me in charge of her charity, so she could have been thinking about that poem when she first set up this password. There was a number-letter sequence within it that he may have thought to try. I held my breath and typed: 20YEARS.

The screen changed, signing me on as KRAVETT and giving me full access to her private files. A directory appeared. There was only one file in it. The file was named PTA.DOC.

“You did it!” Jack cried.

“Yeah.” I swiveled in my chair, glad to see that Jack looked sincerely pleased and wielded no murder weapons. “But surely this wasn’t the file someone was willing to commit murder to hide.
That
file was probably erased.”

Jack shook his head. “I disagree. Steve was an experienced security consultant. He wasn’t so stupid as to pull up some file right in front of a potential hacker, or stabber, or whatever.” He spread his hands and donned his patient-teacher voice. “Let’s suppose Lauren’s innocent, right?”

“That’s easy. She
is
innocent.”

“So the killer had to be someone Steve let into his house. And, if Steve knew he had a guest after he’d signed on to Mrs. Kravett’s private disk, you can bet he’d sign
off
of her disk before letting them into his office.”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “Steve would have simply exited the system and run a screen saver. He would never have pulled up some personal letter he wouldn’t want anyone but Lauren to read.”

Jack tapped the sheet of paper that listed how long KRAVETT had used the computer on Saturday. “But, Molly, Steve was only logged onto the computer for two minutes. That’s no time at all.”

“It’s an eternity for a computer. Besides, how long do you suppose it takes to type a delete-file command?

A pounding on the wall.

“Not now, Nathan. Just a minute.” I returned my attention to Jack. I was still unconvinced, but was willing to concede that his theory was within the realm of possibility. “Well, maybe you’re right. Jack. Let’s take a look at it.” With trembling hands, I executed the commands that let me display the file. It was a short letter that read:

To Whom It May Concern:

Denise Bakerton has been taking funds from the PTA to pay for her gambling debts. I’m covering those debts and intend to continue to do so. My personal funds are more than sufficient, and I can easily afford this. I’m doing everything in my power to help Denise, to convince her to seek professional counseling.

Sincerely,

Phoebe Kravett

“Oh, my God,” Jack muttered. “Denise?”

“That’s too weird. Even I knew about her gambling problem. Why would she kill to protect it?”

“Exactly. We all knew about her gambling.”

“It’s time we showed this to Tommy Newton. Excuse me while I see what Nathan wants.”

“Don’t mean diddly,” Tommy said as he read our printout of Mrs. Kravett’s file. Jack had called Tommy only a few minutes earlier, while I was in the teachers’ lounge wrestling up some lunch for Nathan. If you considered a bag of popcorn and a can of soda lunch. “Might help us pin down the time of death, is all. At that time Saturday morning, Steve was home. If he was signed on using Mrs. Kravett’s ID, he had to have used his modem. We’ll compare phone message units. Even so, the call could’ve been placed by the killer afterwards.”

He glared at me. “Actually, it does mean one thing significant.” Tommy leveled a finger at me. “You’re still buttin’ into police business.”

“That’s my fault. I asked her to,” Jack said gallantly.

“Uh-huh.”

“It also means that someone other than Lauren had a strong motive to kill Steve Wilkins and Mrs. Kravett,” I said.

Nathan knocked on the wall. He must have finished his popcorn.

“How you figure?” Tommy asked as I stood up.

“He’d signed on to Mrs. Kravett’s system minutes before he was killed. He’d just called up the letter to Lauren to cover his actions.”

“Or maybe Lauren stabbed him in the back, just as we figured all along.”

I met Tommy’s glare with one of my own, then turned toward the door.
Fine. Be that way.
Now I knew why Mrs. Kravett had predicted that Tommy might become an accountant. He was stodgy and ploddingly methodical. “I’ve got to take Nathan home.”

“Thanks for your help, Molly,” Jack called after me.

I drove home, utterly frustrated. There was a reason I was a greeting card writer and not a criminal investigator. I had just exhausted the very best lead I’d had so far, and it took me exactly nowhere.

Nathan played in my office while I sketched out a design that was, well, tasteless. My rationale had been this: The vast majority of cards are purchased by women. A well-known fact. Though computer usage between males and females was probably about equal, the majority of computer equipment was purchased by men. Therefore, to catch the eye of fax machine buyers at the office-supply store that I wanted to reel in to sign an annual contract with me, I should try some male humor. My husband and son always laughed at scatological references, but I didn’t want to sink that low. On the other hand, sexual jokes… It was just a design. That didn’t mean I had to market it.

I drew a man clutching a sheet around himself as he opens the door for a priest. Behind the man is his bed, where two voluptuous women are sitting, wearing only bats with woolly sheep ears. The priest is saying to the man, “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I stared at the drawing for a while. How demoralizing. I filed the thing, thinking if I decided to give up greetings, this one might sell to
Penthouse
magazine. Wouldn’t that look nice on my resume. Right above the line about being a mother of two. I ran back upstairs to my son.

“Nathan, let’s go over to Lauren’s house. If she’s home, maybe we can wait there till Karen and Rachel’s bus comes.”

Nathan jabbered to me about something as we walked. I answered him mindlessly, hoping not to be caught agreeing to something dreadful, but unable to concentrate on his words. Lauren answered her door quickly. She winced and said apologetically, “Molly, I’m sorry. This just isn’t a good time.”

Not a good time? Talk about life imitating art. Was Preston’s Mercedes hidden on some back street again? “That’s okay. I was—”

“It’s all right, Lauren,” came Carolee’s voice from within. “She may as well hear about this now.”

“Come on in,” Lauren said. “Hi, Nathan. Want to go play in Rachel’s room while I talk to your mom?” Nathan looked at me, and I put on my oh-so-happy mother’s face, which roughly translated to: Let’s all pretend you don’t know we want you out of the room. He went along with it and climbed the stairs. My, but I was falling in debt to that little guy. He’d spent a good half hour in the nurse’s office. Now he was in someone else’s room, alone with her toys. Not that that was exactly Chinese water torture.

I followed Lauren into the kitchen. At the table sat Carolee, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. On the table was a pile of small items. I recognized my sugar spoon right away.
So, the klepto comes clean
was my first thought.

I was glad I hadn’t blurted out such a nasty thing.

“Hi, Molly,” Carolee said. “I’ve asked for Lauren’s help to try and figure out who owns this stuff I’ve nabbed over the last couple of years. Guess this is no big surprise to you, is it?”

“Um…” There was no good answer to that question. I looked at Lauren. She was red-faced. She had introduced me to Carolee. In a letter Lauren had written some time ago, she’d first mentioned Carolee as the wonderful person who’d bought the house across from her parents. Lauren’s expression told me she had never suspected this in all that time. “Could I get myself a glass of water?”

“Let me get it,” Lauren said, seemingly grateful for the chance to turn her back on the situation that had developed in her kitchen.

I took a seat. Carolee and I studied one another. She said, “I was fired from the hospital today.”

“Why?”

“I have these impulses. She gestured at the tableful of hot items. At work too, occasionally. But this is a big first step for me. Admitting my problem to my friends, I mean. I’m pretty sure the hospital will rehire me, once they can see I’ve reformed.”

“Have you told Tommy?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s going to be interesting.” Talk about a couple with conflicting careers.

Lauren set the glass down in front of me and pulled up the nearest chair. She stared at the pile and removed from it a corkscrew with a chipped handle. “Always wondered where this went. I figured Steve had lost it.”

There was an awkward silence.

“So, Lauren, Molly, I wonder if you two would write letters of recommendation to my bosses. Tell them that you’ll vouch for me, that I’ve learned my lesson, that sort of thing?”

What nerve! How could I vouch for Carolee even if I wanted to? What would I say? She only stole a cup and a spoon from me, never a full place setting, so by all means, give her her job back?

Lauren and I exchanged glances. She grimaced, slapped the table, and said, “Why sure. That’ll get you rehired in no time. Just tell your boss I murdered my husband, and I can tell a reformed criminal when I see one.”

Carolee blushed, and my cheeks grew warm. Without another word, Lauren rose and left the room.

Chapter 20

I Missed a Step

I left with Nathan promptly after Lauren’s remark, with the excuse that I’d decided to wait for the bus outside, in case it came early. Minutes later, we met Karen, told her that, no, it wasn’t a good time to have Rachel over, and went home.

Because tomorrow was Friday, my weekly call from Jim, I decided I might as well email him and get him at least partially caught up on our goings-on. When we’d last spoken, I hadn’t told him about finding my missing knife in Steve Wilkins’s back. I’d also not mentioned the threats.

After some twelve years of marriage, I had a pretty good idea he was going to be miffed at me for not having kept him apprised of the situation. Justifiably so. Oh, I had plenty of excuses: not having his number at the temporary hotel, not wanting to burden him while he was vomiting, time flying by while scared for one’s life, not wanting to alarm him when there was nothing he could do.

None of these excuses withstood scrutiny. I could have and should have sent daily emails to Jim at his office in Manila. That no such messages were sent was a clear indication that I was punishing him for being overseas when I needed him, even though that wasn’t by his choice. I’d become the stereotypical, PMS-afflicted female, prone to whining, “If you don’t know what’s wrong I’m certainly not going to tell you.”

Yet every time I told myself to get on the phone and let Jim know what was happening to his beloved family, part of me rebelled, argued that Jim might well fly home, lead the cavalry to rescue poor helpless me. That would’ve made Jim feel great about himself, but what about my ego? By God. I didn’t need or want to be rescued. Yes, Jim, you had a right to know your family was in jeopardy, but bottom line, it was your decision to accept your boss’s request to take a year-long assignment in the Philippines at the drop of someone else’s hat. You knew full well how hard that would be on me and the kids. You went along with the overseas assignment, so unwilling to make waves at work you wouldn’t even dare test the water. And by the way, you leave toothpaste splatters all over the mirror. Do you have to stand that close to your reflection? Don’t you know where your teeth are by now?

With the tune for
Full House
screaming from the TV set, I wrote a letter:

Dear Jim,

I know this is going to come as a big shock to you and I’m sorry to tell you this way, but I’ll just give you a quick breakdown of the events of the past couple of weeks.

Two weeks ago on Monday, I got two threatening emails accusing me of being at fault for the death of some unidentified woman. The woman was apparently Mrs. Kravett, whom you might recall was the subject of that poem in my school paper that I told you about. She had a heart attack, but the police found someone had tampered with her medication.

After the dinner party here, my knife was stolen. I got a HELP ME message that I thought was from Rachel, but went over there and found Steve Wilkins stabbed to death with my knife. A couple of days later, Lauren was arrested for the murder. She got out on bail and is awaiting trial. I used to be certain she was innocent, but lately I’m starting to have doubts.

Then Monday night, someone broke into our house and stole the DVR and the brass candleholders. That was just a ruse, though, because they also jerry-rigged the furnace to pump carbon monoxide at us. The furnace has since been fixed, and we’re all healthy.

I’m sure you’re upset with me for keeping you uninformed till now. My doing so has made me realize that deep down, I’m bitter that you chose to accept the assignment in Manila without putting up a fight. On the positive side, the time we’ve spent apart has also helped me realize that you and I are married because we choose to be together, not out of fear that we couldn’t function separately.