The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder (4 page)

“But I didn’t think that.”

“Well, you know how you’re always getting mixed up in murder. I thought you might figure this was just one more to stick your nose in.”

“Nope. Not sticking my nose in.”

“Are you still dating that detective? What’s his name? Oh, right, Tierney?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I am not. Not at all.”

“Are you still in touch with him?”

“In no way.” I hoped that Jack was not paying attention. For some reason, everything about Connor Tierney seemed to set him off.

“Are you sure? He’s still with the Woodbridge Police, isn’t he? I haven’t seen him for a while, but I hadn’t heard that he’d left.”

This was tricky. Connor Tierney was dealing with a difficult family situation but that was no one’s business. “Out of town, I believe, for a few months. I don’t have details, but you could try reaching him yourself, Mona.”

“Are you out of your mind? Do you think I’m going to call a detective and tell him I was thinking about killing someone who then turns up
dead
? I suppose he wouldn’t find that suspicious.”

“He probably would, but we don’t know who it is yet. There’s no reason to believe it’s Serena, no matter how much you might have liked that outcome.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I’m not going to talk to him anyway. But you could stay on top of the situation.”

“Actually, I couldn’t. We’re not on the best of terms right now.” And probably never would be. I’d let Tierney know that I wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with him once I woke up to the fact that Jack was the man for me. Just because Jack was unaware of this didn’t mean I was going out with other people.

“Someone needs to.”

“It won’t be me. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe you would murder anyone, Mona.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at that.

There was a long pause before Mona said, “Right. I didn’t.”

“Okay then. I’ll let you go back to work and I’ll return to my—” Actually, my pizza had lost its appeal. Something about the windshield image and the dead woman.

Mona said, “I just wanted to let you know that I hadn’t killed her.”

“Good.”

She added, “But, one other thing.”

I turned around so I wouldn’t see Jack staring at me. Reproachful would have been the official name for his expression.

“Yes, Mona?”

“The woman who was hit. Do you think she was Serena?”

“I am certain it isn’t. It will turn out to be a tragic accident. Random.”

“Oh well. Can’t have everything.” At that, Mona hung up.

“Don’t look at me like that, Jack. She called me.”

“You promised, Charlotte.”

“I know I did.”

“You swore. No more murders.”

“Damn straight. No more murders. None.” I felt a knot in my stomach. This wasn’t a murder. Nothing to worry about.

“Good. You going to eat your pizza?”

“It’s all yours, Jack.”

How could he eat after that news? I sure couldn’t. I was too busy thinking about Mona.

The small wood-paneled auditorium at the Woodbridge Public Library was bursting at its seams. The confined space already smelled of hot wool and simmering boots. Through the long windows, I could see the drifting white flakes as Woodbridge continued to be blanketed in the whitest spring on record. Even so, it wasn’t enough to keep folks away from my first time-management workshop. That was a relief.

My organizing business needed a bit of a boost. The Woodbridge economy had taken a slam and businesses like mine had been slammed with it. Having an organizer come in and bail you out seems like a luxury to many people, and people cut luxuries in tough times. Check the magazine covers; everyone wants to reorganize their lives. No one wants to pay for it. I know that having an organized home, business, and schedule saves people lots of time and money. But business was down. Way down. All to say, I figured my series of courses would pay off in more ways than one. I was expanding into the time-management aspect and I hoped the exposure would raise the profile of Organized for Success
.

Not surprisingly, every person was female except for one solitary man, who sat there doing his best not to seem out of place. I assumed that his wife had sent him, her own time being too valuable. I thought they all radiated apprehension. But I felt wonderful. This would be the first workshop I’d ever presented. All those people were here to listen to me. I would talk. They would pay attention. I could help them. I found myself beaming at no one in particular.

My friend Ramona’s earrings dangled and shimmered as she made her way to the front of the room. She was resplendent in an indigo suede jacket and matching pants, her go-to meeting outfit, she called it. As she tapped the mic at the podium, her short silver hair glowed like a crown in the fluorescent light. “Welcome, ladies and gentleman,” she said, “to the first in the Woodbridge Public Library’s spring community cooperative programs. Our topic is The Busy Person’s Guide to Managing Time and Life. I believe that you will learn how to get control of your days and weeks. Your time spent here will be a great investment. All five sessions are booked to capacity with waiting lists. I believe that’s because of our workshop leader. I’m sure Charlotte Adams needs no introduction here in Woodbridge, but she’ll get one anyway. After a few hectic years in the financial sector in the city, she returned home to Woodbridge determined to lead a simpler life, with time for friends and community. She now runs her own business, Organized for Success, and has helped hundreds of clients declutter and reclaim their homes. During this course, she’ll help you do the same with your time and your life. Please welcome Charlotte Adams.”

Ramona stepped back during the surprisingly wild clapping. I believe she’s my biggest fan. She gradually edged toward the back of the room and gave me a surreptitious little wave. She was on reference duty that day, as she was most Saturdays, and she wouldn’t be able to stay. Luckily, Ramona didn’t need any advice on managing time.

I smiled out at the sea of eager faces. Almost everyone in the crowd smiled back at me, with the exception of the pale, blond, rabbity woman in the far corner of the back row, who averted her eyes and stared at the floor. I thought she was trying to disappear into the man’s parka she was wearing. Make eye contact with every single person, I reminded myself.

“Thank you, Ramona, and thanks to the Woodbridge Library for its support of this program and our workshop. I’m very happy to be—”

Several hands shot up.

I blinked. Usually the questions follow information. In such a large crowd, it can be tricky maintaining control. That was something I’d have to get used to.

“I’ll take one question,” I said. “We need to stay on schedule to get everything done. That’s something I’ll talk about in more detail today. Yes?” I pointed to the most enthusiastic hand waver; a plump, permed grandmotherly type sitting two feet away from me in the front row.

Her happy face lit up as she gushed, “Charlotte! What did it feel like having a gun fired at you?”

“Horrible,” I said. “And I—”

I should have said that I was there to talk about time management and not murder. Maybe made a little joke that murder was not my business. However, whatever I might have said would have been drowned out by the barrage of questions from almost all areas in the packed room.

“Charlotte! How many times have you actually been arrested?”

“I’ve never actually been—”

“Some of your friends have been injured. Do they avoid you now?”

“No. We’re lifelong friends and—”

“Have the police started calling you when they need help?”

“The police like to solve their own cases. I like to concentrate on—”

“My neighbor is being stalked. Can you help her?”

“No, she should—”

“I think she needs protection.”

“I am an organizer. I can’t—”

“Do you own a gun?”

“No!”

“Do you plan to buy one?”

“Never.”

“When did Woodbridge become such a dangerous place?”

Ramona stormed back to the front of the auditorium, ready to rescue. But I did not want to be rescued. And as a rule, I don’t need to be.

I winked at Ramona so she’d get that point and said, “We are all in much more danger from overcommitment in our lives than we are from mysterious villains. Trust me on that. If you want to find out how to get rid of the time bandits that rob you of your days, the worries that steal your sleep, or the stress that can kill you, let’s get started. For everything else, we have the police or
Law & Order
if you want entertainment value.”

Ramona nodded approval. She likes to sock it to them too. I needed to stay on top of this crowd. I knew they’d love what I had to share with them. Or at least, I thought I knew that.

“So, here’s the road map for today. We’ll find out what the real obstacles are to you enjoying your life and why you are failing to meet your goals. We’ll see how you can have a better balance in your life and in your family relationships.”

Now why did I feel that wasn’t quite as entertaining as the idea of me acquiring a weapon and firing at a felon?

I guess I’d overestimated my fun value. To say nothing of the time-management problems of the Woodbridge populace. After the coffee break, I lost about 10 percent of the crowd, including my plump, permed questioner from the front row. I was surprised to note that the pale, rabbity blonde in the back corner returned to her seat. I smiled reassuringly in her direction, but there was apparently something quite fascinating on her shoes. Oh well.

Ramona had rejoined the group for coffee. She said, “Most people love it, Charlotte. A few have decided this kind of workshop wasn’t quite what they wanted. They’re probably already home watching
The First 48
.”

“That’s fine with me. They can have a partial refund. I’m here for the ones who are serious about fixing their lives. We’ll have better discussions with a smaller group.”

The second half of the morning went well as we focused on finding out what is actually important in each of their lives. Before the break, everyone in the room had identified three goals that they wanted to achieve but had been unable to. Now we were identifying barriers and figuring out strategies to fulfill those goals. I love this stuff.

There were five sessions in total, but the Saturday session was a two-parter, and with luck, this serious group would be back the next week to talk about how they’d put their strategies into practice. I’d help with suggestions for developing good habits, finding support, positive self-talk, and tricks that had worked for others.

At the end of the session, when the would-be time managers filed out of the room, most of them stopped to say thank you. As I straightened out my notes to leave the front of the room ready for the second half of the day, I became aware of a woman sidling up the aisle. It was the blonde from the back row. As she got closer, I could see that her hair was seriously overbleached and underconditioned. Her skin was a flat fish-belly white, with a few angry blemishes, and she didn’t meet my eyes. Under other circumstances, she could have been very pretty. I couldn’t avoid noticing that her hands were rough and red, the nails bitten to the quick. This woman was a walking advertisement for stress.