Newlywed Dead (13 page)

“Okay,” I said with a nod, and closed the box and put it back into the Tiffany box. “This works.” I looked him in the eye. “You're okay with being surprised, too?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and waved his hand to dismiss the notion. “I'm easy to surprise. It's Jen you have to worry about. Here, I'll make a deal. Since Jen will tell me the moment she figures out what's up, let's have a signal. If I tug on my ear, then the jig is up and you have to try again. Sound fair?”

“Sounds fair,” I said. “I'm still working out how I'm going to get your friends and family there to witness and have an engagement party if every one of you can't keep a secret.”

He laughed and tilted his head. “You can do it. I have faith.”

“I'm glad someone does,” I muttered, and put the ring carefully into my purse. “You said Jen comes by her control freak nature naturally. Why?”

“Her parents are worse than she is, if you can believe it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think they had some serious family tragedy and they're afraid Jennifer will get hurt.”

“What happened?” I asked, and drew my eyebrows together.

“No idea,” he said. “She won't talk about it. But it had to be something that really scared her because her parents didn't want her staying in Chicago. It took a lot of convincing before they understood that Jennifer and I were serious and that I'd watch out for her.”

“I'm surprised there was any discussion at all once Jen made her mind up. She is such a force of nature.”

“You haven't met them yet. They insist we relocate to California to live near them after we get married.”

“Will you?”

He shrugs. “I'm okay with it.”

“But you'll lose all of this,” I said, and gestured to encompass his corner office and the full-wall view.

“If it means having Jen for the rest of my life, I'll do it.”

“You are a good guy,” I told Brad. “It's clear you really love Jen. She's lucky to have you.”

“We'll be there Saturday. I can't wait to see firsthand what one of these parties is like.”

“You should be pleasantly surprised.” I smiled and stood. “Remember to act natural. We don't want to give away the surprise.”

Brad chuckled and led me out. “I'm not the best actor, but I think I can shop in a toy store and pretend to be disinterested.”

“I don't know,” I said with a grin. “I've got the Rockettes booked to do a number.”

“Really?”

“Don't worry, you can watch. The proposal will still be a surprise. Unlike Jen, this prospective fiancé isn't part of the plan.”

Brad chuckled. “Just be careful with how many of these you have us attend,” he warned. “Jen's cunning. She'll start to see a pattern and then she'll figure you out.”

“I promise, no patterns in my work,” I said.

“Let's hope not,” he said. “I really want to marry my girl. A girl that pretty and smart doesn't come along every day, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” I said. “Too bad she's so controlling.”

“It's a safety mechanism,” he said as he walked me out. “She grew up in an unstable household. Controlling as many outcomes as possible was a coping mechanism. Once you realize she's just trying to be safe, it's a lot easier to handle. Trust me, showing her your proposals might be a good thing. It will get her to see that surprises can be fun and not scary. That's my hope, anyway.”

“I'll make it fun,” I said. “You can count on me.”

*   *   *

Driving home from the Metra station was a bit of a nightmare as the snow had come down just enough to be slushy. The first few snows of the season always had people driving crazy. I passed two cars in ditches. It was a relief to pull into my driveway and park in front of my garage. When I got out I realized for the first time that I was living
in a house now, not an apartment. That meant when it snowed there wasn't anyone coming to shovel but me. I sighed and stepped into four inches of slush.

There was nothing to do but trudge inside and change my clothes. I quickly put on jeans, proper socks, and warm boots. Back outside, I opened the garage and turned on the light. There were all kinds of tools in the garage. It was pretty clear that Detective Murphy's family had everything it took to be a homeowner in the Chicago area. Even two snow shovels. I grabbed one and looked at its straight handle.

“Too bad they don't have a snow blower,” I muttered. I turned on the outside lights and kept the garage door open. It was dark out. That meant that shoveling had to be done in the dark. Not such a fun thing to do. “I'm going to the store and to get some Christmas lights. They'll look great against the dark sky and the white snow.”

“Oh, honey, everyone smart put their lights up at the end of October before the snow,” my nosy new neighbor, Mrs. Crivitz, said.

Startled, I glanced over to find her standing on the corner of her porch watching my every move. “Hello, Mrs. Crivitz, I didn't see you there.” Although I should have suspected she was watching. Ever since I moved in I'd noticed that if anything moved at my house, she knew about it. In fact, she was one of the original neighborhood watch people.

“I thought you were talking to me,” she said, and frowned. “If you didn't see me, who were you talking to?”

“I talk to myself sometimes,” I said, and shrugged. “It's
a habit I got from living alone.” I put the shovel down and pushed it toward her house. The neighborhood was old and the driveway spanned the difference between her house and mine. I had to shovel toward the neighbor's house across the drive and then push that lengthwise toward the garage or there wouldn't be enough room to get Old Blue down the driveway. The last thing I wanted was to have to park my Buick on the street. The snowplows would plow it in and I'd never get it dug out.

“I saw Detective Murphy here the other day,” she said. “Is everything alright?”

I glanced at her. She wore her gray hair up in curlers. A thick scarf wound around her head so that the curlers and her face were the only parts sticking out. She wore a big overcoat and what looked like thick stockings and bunny slippers. “Aren't you going to get cold out here?” I asked.

“Oh, no, I have a nice hot cup of cocoa,” she said, and lifted her hands to show me the steaming white mug. “What did Detective Murphy say about you bringing a man over to his mother's house?”

I paused in my shoveling. “It's really none of his business,” I said. “He was here to ask me about a woman I tried to save with CPR.”

“Oh, that girl at the country club?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“It's all over the news, dear,” she said, and sipped. “When I heard it was at the country club the night of your sister's wedding reception, I put two and two together. It wasn't hard, dear. I'm a smart cookie.”

“I'm sure you are,” I said, and pushed the snow toward the garage.

“Let's get back to Detective Murphy, shall we?” she asked. “Do you know if he's dating anyone? My Mary Ellen just broke up with her boyfriend. I always thought they would be the perfect couple.”

“Who? Mary Ellen and her old boyfriend?” I asked. I knew who she meant but I wanted to be perverse.

“No, Detective Murphy, silly. He and Mary Ellen grew up together. I always thought they would marry. You know? The romantic boy falls for the girl next door story.”

I'd seen Mary Ellen. She was a plain woman with thinning hair and a couple of missing teeth. “I think he's still in love with his ex,” I said.

“Well, if he ever says anything about dating, put a bug in his ear. Okay? He and Mary Ellen have so much in common. I would hate for him to miss a chance to love the girl next door.”

“I'll let him know you were asking about him the next time I see him,” I said, and continued to push the snow away.

“You do that, dear,” Mrs. Crivitz said, but didn't leave. I tried to ignore her as much as was polite. But it was difficult when she leaned against the porch rail and watched me like a hawk.

After I managed to push enough snow out of the driveway, I got into my car and pulled it into the tiny garage that was situated between the house and the alley. The yard was fenced in the back so that whoever traveled the
alley couldn't get into the yard without scaling a six-foot fence. Detective Murphy had installed motion-sensor lights on the back of the garage so that they flickered on whenever anything taller than two feet walked by. It was unnerving at first, but after a while I didn't even see them turn on and off.

I squeezed out of Old Blue and went back to shoveling. It was some relief to see that Mrs. Crivitz had gone inside. The dining room curtains moved so I knew that she still watched me, but at least I didn't have that odd feeling that I should be making conversation. Another twenty minutes and I was finally down to the mailbox.

I spotted the neighbor across the street from me as he shuffled out his door to the mailbox. “Hey, Mr. Mead, how's everything with you?”

“Terrible,” he said, and pulled his mailbox open and took out a handful of mail.

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why should you be sorry?” he asked. “You didn't do anything.”

“Right,” I muttered. Mr. Mead was dressed in a thick overcoat that covered a pair of blue and white striped boxers and a dingy T-shirt. His legs were bare and he wore snow boots that came up to his mid-calf and were untied. I'd spoken to him perhaps six times since I had moved into the house, and each time he was doing “terrible.” At least he was consistent.

He muttered something dark under his breath as he bent to dig his newspaper out from under the bushes. “That
paper boy ought to be shot,” he said. “I pay all that money for daily service and I get an incompetent idiot who can't hit the broad side of a barn. I mean seriously, how difficult is it to hit my porch?” He waved toward his bungalow. The brick building had a thick sturdy front porch with a double-wide opening and four steps up. “Do you have this problem?”

“I don't get the paper,” I said.

“Of course you don't,” he grumbled. “Young people today are so darn illiterate.”

“I read it online,” I said, as if that would convince him that I was smart.

“Nothing better than real words on good old-fashioned paper,” he said with a shake of his head. “Online . . . sheesh.” He looked up and gave me the stink eye. “Don't you be pulling any noisy parties,” he warned. “I'll call the police.”

“I don't have parties, Mr. Mead.”

“Don't think you can play your music at all hours of the night, either,” he said, and shook his fist at me. “I have a hotline straight to the precinct.”

“I don't have a stereo,” I said. “So you have nothing to fear.”

“Yeah, well, keep it that way.” He walked back through his unshoveled drive up to the porch.

I shook my head and smiled. Crazy old neighbors came along with cheap rent and a lovely neighborhood bungalow. I accepted it as part of the charm of the place. Pulling my mail out, I noted I had two catalogs and a water bill. Well
worth the twenty minutes it took to shovel my way to the mailbox . . . not.

I turned and made it halfway to the house when a snow plow came through and blew three feet of snow across the bottom third of the drive. I resisted the urge to flip him off. Mr. Mead didn't have my self-restraint as I noted the inelegant gesture he made with his arms.

Finally inside and away from the neighbors, I turned on the lights, deposited my keys in the dish on the edge of the kitchen counter, took off my boots and left them on the mat by the door to dry. My coat went on a hanger in the small coat closet just inside the summer porch at the back of the house. I closed and locked my doors.

The bungalow went back to front, summer porch, closet, stairs to the basement, kitchen, short hall to the right that ended in the only bathroom. There was a bedroom to the left and the right of the bathroom. I used the left back bedroom and the right bedroom was set up as my office. Straight in front of the kitchen was the dining room that had side windows which mirrored Mrs. C's and in fact looked right into her house. Mrs. Murphy had hung lace curtains to let in the light. I hung a second set of light-blocking curtains to keep the nosy neighbors guessing.

The dining room flowed into a living room complete with a gas fireplace. There were windows on the front and side walls. Again during the day the lace curtains let in the light, but at night I closed off the light-blocking curtains. This kept the cold out and helped muffle any road
noises. To the left of the living room was a third bedroom. That was a complete luxury for a single girl. I used it as a guest bedroom and had had a good time at Ikea buying simple furniture to decorate it. I went for cute and cozy. I thought the peach and cream colors and soft curtains were welcoming.

Mrs. Murphy had decorated the place so nicely that I pretty much moved in without a thought. The front bedroom was the only place I'd taken the time to make my own.

I hadn't had any guests over yet, but I was working on getting my college friend Alice to come to Chicago for a visit. She lived in St. Louis and complained of the Chicago winters. I suppose she had a point, but when you lived in Chicago your whole life, the winters didn't feel any less than normal.

I stepped into the kitchen to start heating a kettle of water on the stove for a nice cup of tea. Then I turned on my computer, which sat on a built-in desk, brought up my Internet browser, and sorted e-mails as I waited.

The teakettle started to squeal. I got up, turned off the burner, and poured the hot water into my favorite mug and dipped in a peppermint tea bag. I sat back down and did some digging on the Internet to see what I could learn about Ashley and the others that were working at the country club the night she died. After only an hour, I had come to the end of everything I could learn about Ashley online. I sighed. Maybe Detective Murphy was right. Maybe there wasn't anything here. Maybe I'd simply gotten used to thinking murder when someone died.