The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder (17 page)

Not being a parent, I was naturally surprised by some of the situations people live with. Parents late for work, kids late for school, mismatched shoes, unbrushed teeth, temper tantrums, and missed meals. I know you have to pick your battles, but I also know lives can be better.

At the end, I handed everyone my top-five tips on small cards I’d had laminated. “If you adopt even one of these a month, you’ll find life improves,” I said at the end. “Any last questions?”

“Do you think these hit-and-runs are murder?” This came from the most frazzled woman in the room, the one whose child refused to get dressed in the morning and would only eat white food on white plates while standing up.

“The police are calling them hit-and-runs,” I said. “And I know that they are investigating.”

“People are saying you knew the victims,” a small intense woman said.

“We went to the same school,” I admitted, “but I didn’t know Bethann then and I haven’t seen her since. I do remember Tiffanee Dupont.”

The very pregnant redhead in the last row said, “She was two years ahead of me at St. Jude’s and she was very scary.”

A beautiful gaunt woman wearing a periwinkle-blue sweater began to cry. “How can you say that? She was my yoga teacher. She was so wonderful. So kind and helpful. She helped me so much after my chemo.”

“I don’t know about that Bethann, but Tiffanee was a bitch. And I know that personally,” the redhead said, resting her hand on her “bump” and sticking to her guns.

“People change.” Tears rolled down the cheeks of Tiffanee’s defender.

“If you say so, but I doubt it in this case.” That redhead liked to have the last word.

I didn’t want to get into this. “Please e-mail me or contact me on Facebook if you want to follow up on any of the tips and techniques from tonight. I’d love to hear from you. We’ll keep the group going to share successes and help each other overcome setbacks.”

As they filed out of the room, the woman in the periwinkle sweater stayed behind. “I’m sorry for getting emotional. I just hated the idea of someone refusing to accept that Tiffanee was a wonderful person.” She shot a poisonous glance at the retreating redhead.

This was a tricky situation. I’d had the same reaction as the redhead when I saw the tearful interviews on WINY. They didn’t match up with the Tiffanee I’d known.

“It’s hard to judge,” I said. “People have their own experiences.”

“And you don’t think it was possible for her to change?”

I touched her arm and said, “I am glad you had a lovely experience with Tiffanee and that she helped you. That’s good to hear.”

I didn’t see how the Tiffanee I remembered could have gone from the bully to the nurturing yoga teacher. But I saw no reason to ruin the memory for this kind person.

She sniffed. “Thank you. She mentioned once that she wasn’t at all proud of her past. She’d had a lot of therapy, and it had helped her develop her spiritual side. She said she had some bad Karma to deal with.”

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept dreaming about Tiffanee, the beautiful, cruel girl I remembered and this new version, the kind, gentle yoga teacher. Bad Karma indeed. They were separate people in my dreams, one with the waist-length black hair and the other with the close-cropped do and the serene expression. Both Tiffanees were terrified of Mona. The dream started out with Mona weeping hysterically in a school locker, but for some reason when Jack opened it, she emerged dressed as a firefighter, only with stainless steel retractable claws; all very Wolfman. She was also about seven feet tall and very vengeful and very superhero-like. I woke up gasping as the stainless steel claws clicked out and slashed at the Tiffanees. And Mona shrieked, “You won’t be the last two!”

I found myself wide-awake in a tangle of sheets. I knew I had to get up and shake those bad feelings out of my mind. I headed for the kitchen, warmed some milk in the microwave, and put a bit of vanilla in it. As Truffle and Sweet Marie joined me on the sofa for a reassuring cuddle, I sipped my warm milk slowly and thought about the situation. Could there have been enough therapy in the world to change Tiffanee? On the other hand, Haley had certainly changed; perhaps the hard time her family was going through helped her to be more empathetic. But what did I know about therapy and bullies? Nothing. Maybe it was time to learn. I made a note on my pristine To Do list: Check out therapists!

Morning produced no more calls from Mona. I bundled Truffle and Sweet Marie into their warm sweaters, and after the quickest of outside visits—their hurry, not mine—I actually clicked on the WINY news to see if anything bad had happened to anyone else. The news was good in a way: no new fatalities. On the bad side, the police were still coming up empty on the two hit-and-runs. Todd Tyrell flashed a shot of Pepper whenever he brought the viewers’ attention to the fact that the Woodbridge Police had no leads. He chose the clip where she looks like she’s just left the hair salon. But never mind, no one else had died, even though an elderly couple had hit the guardrail on the top of Hemlock Hill and narrowly missed going over the thirty-foot embankment. They were lucky to have escaped with bruises and shock. The guardrail had been pretty much flattened. The day was off to a good start, even if I was groggy and yawning. Jack bounded up the stairs and greeted me with a grin. He wolfed down his breakfast and finished mine. I wasn’t that hungry. I had a jam-packed day, starting with an eight o’clock appointment with Lilith at Hannah’s.

When I arrived at Hannah’s place at five to eight, Lilith was already waiting for me in Rose Skipowski’s ancient car, bins stashed in the backseat, and a good supply of plastic utensil drawers as well.

“I can’t wait to see this place,” she said, as we knocked on the glossy door right on the hour. It’s best not to be even a minute early at that time of morning.

Lilith’s hair was bubblegum pink this week. I wondered if it would glow in the dark. Hannah blinked, maybe at the hair, maybe at Lilith’s nose ring and that parade of earrings. Alarm flitted across her face. It evaporated when I introduced Lilith in glowing terms. “Lilith is the best,” I added to reinforce her confidence, once we’d shed our clumpy boots and headed for the kitchen.

“Amazing,” Lilith said, glancing around. “This is the kitchen? Where is everything?”

“Hidden,” I said. “Drawers below, no cabinets.”

“No clutter.” Lilith nodded. “It is gorgeous. Very elegant. Goes with the house.” I could see her mentally calculating storage space. She turned to Hannah and said with a grin, “You’ll always have to be vigilant if you want it to stay like this.”

Hannah said, “We’ve already had a problem. That’s why I called Charlotte.” She smiled and added, “And you.”

I glanced around at the gleaming empty counters. “How did the utensil reduction go?”

She shook her head. “I did find a bit of time to give it a try. I got rid of a lot of stuff. So now we seem to be down to four of everything. Not good, but I am sure we had
eight
potato mashers when we started.”

“Uh-oh. You only have room for one potato masher. Only keep doubles when it’s essential.”

“We just couldn’t do it. We’re too worried about needing things. What if we throw them away and then have to buy them?”

I said, “Give them to charity. You’ll get a tax receipt and if you have to buy one or two items, it won’t be the end of the world. That happens. You’ll still be way ahead.”

Lilith piped up. “I volunteer at youth services and Charlotte’s plugged into a women’s shelter. You have no idea how welcome those donations would be.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I don’t think my husband will agree. He gets very . . . attached to things. And anxious.” Hannah was an elegant woman who ran her own business, but she was a bit unhinged by the kitchen. She fluttered around like a moth.

“Does that happen a lot?” I said. “Is he around? He should be part of this discussion.”

“He’s hiding. Took off at seven thirty, looking over his shoulder nervously. You’ll never take him alive.” At least she was starting to see the humor in it.

“Is he the person who wants the uncluttered minimal vibe?”

“We both do. But he’s more, um, passionate about it.”

“He can’t have it both ways,” I said. “Especially since he’s not here. But we’ll try to make it painless. Where are the remaining utensils?”

Hannah opened the first drawer. “Still there.” That was true. The drawer was still jammed, as was the next one.

“No problem,” I said. “Let’s select the tools you have actually used in the past week or so and separate them.”

Lilith positioned herself. I lifted a badly bent spatula from the first drawer and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Hannah. “Spatula. Sure.”

I said, “Spatula, yes. But was it this spatula?”

She frowned. Lilith said with a grin, “We’ll take that as a no and we’ll just put this one over here.”

Hannah winced.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re not throwing it out or giving it away. We’ll deal with it later.”

Next I lifted out a wooden spoon with a seriously burned handle. Hannah admitted defeat.

I was surprised to see that Hannah and her hidden hubby couldn’t live without three melon ballers. “We do use them!” she protested. “Often. In the summer.”

“I believe you. Which one do you use?”

She wavered before selecting the newest and flashiest of the batch.

I held up a zester. “Yes! We can’t live without that. It was horribly expensive too.”

“Horribly expensive doesn’t cut it, but if you can’t live without it, it stays.”

It took the three of us a bit of time to go through all the utensils in the crammed drawers. We had a third pile for “once a year” items: In the end, the eighty-twenty rule prevailed. We had four times as many tools on the “didn’t use” side than on the “did use.” I wasn’t surprised.

Hannah slumped against the glamorous black quartz counter. “I feel beat-up!”

“Here’s my suggestion. Do you have a shelf in your garage with room for a bin?” I knew she did.

“Yes.”

“We’ll pack up these surplus-to-requirements items, label the container, and tuck it in the garage. Lilith will sort them, and separate them nicely in plastic utensil drawers, so you won’t go crazy if you do need something. At the end of six months, whatever you haven’t used, you don’t need. You can give it to someone who does need it. How would that work?”

Hannah nodded slowly.

I added, “I’d be happy to explain it to your husband. I think he’ll realize there’s no downside.”

Lilith said, “I’ll check in after six months and I’ll come and collect what you haven’t taken back.”

I knew from experience that would be everything in the box.

“You’re on,” Hannah said.

It was time to move on. As Lilith busied herself sorting out the 80 percent that was outward bound, I said, “So for homework for Thursday morning, I’d like you to think about what you do every day. There’s lots of baking gear. Do you bake?”