Death Comes eCalling Read online

  Then again, this dear lady had to have died recently. Could Mrs. Kravett have died this weekend, after mailing me her letter? But if so, no one in their right mind could think I had anything to do with it. I hadn’t seen the woman in seventeen years.

  The key phrase might be in their right mind, though. There was no denying that the poem I’d written about her and published in the school paper had brought her a lot of grief.

  Many people were aware of the unintended ramifications my poem had caused her. Though it hadn’t made her life “pure hell,” she did lose out on a teacher-of-the-year award she’d been nominated for, and possibly a promotion to principal while they investigated the “charges” I’d made in the poem. The memories sickened me now. I sent up a silent prayer for Mrs. Kravett.

  Lauren’s gold Volvo neared and pulled into her garage.

  “Stay right here, you two. I want to talk to Lauren for a moment.”

  Karen raced ahead of me into the Wilkinses’ garage. Fifty percent of my children had heeded my instructions to stay put. That was at least better than Captain Bligh’s crew.

  “Hi, Moll.” Lauren opened the trunk and glanced at our daughters, who were noisily chattering by Rachel’s bike in the corner of the garage. She ignored the grocery bags in the trunk, touched my arm, and said quietly, “Mrs. Kravett died yesterday. Apparently she had a massive heart attack. I’m so sorry.”

  I felt as if I’d been smacked in the face with a two-by-four.

  Dear God. Mrs. Kravett is dead. Some mentally imbalanced person wants revenge!

  Lauren gave me a moment to collect myself, then said, “The funeral’s sometime midweek. Maybe we can get someone to watch all three kids. I can ask Carolee,” she suggested, referring to the sweet, single-but-still-looking nurse who lived across the street.

  “She must have been in her seventies or eighties, right?”

  “Sixty-six,” Lauren said, studying my face. “She’d just retired this past June. I know this is a terrible shock. You just got a letter from her…and everything.”

  I did some mental arithmetic. Mrs. Kravett had been only forty-nine when she was our teacher. She’d seemed ancient then. Now, sixty-six seemed way too young to die.

  Karen announced that she and Rachel were going to Karen’s room to play. They raced off before we could respond.

  “It’s not just that.” I removed the note from my pocket. Lauren’s husband would be the ideal person to show the threat to. He was a computer-security consultant. “Will Steve get home from work soon?”

  “Hard to say.” Lauren’s face tensed slightly. “He spends so much time working, he acts as though our house is a walk-in closet.”

  “Someone sent me this message on my computer. The writer must be really computer-savvy, because he managed to make it look like it came from my own personal email account.”

  I handed the note to Lauren, who began to read.

  “The sender must have known about my troubles with Mrs. Kravett. A former classmate of mine or a colleague of hers, maybe.” I sighed. “I haven’t even unpacked yet. The closets are so jammed I’m surprised anyone can find my skeletons, let alone rattle them.”

  Lauren met my eyes. She still looked grim, showing no reaction to my closet joke.

  “Do you suppose this could just be today’s version of an obscene phone call?” I asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know, Moll. I’ll check it out with Steve, though. Can I keep this and show it to him?”

  “Sure.” I peered outside to check on Nathan. He was still on our driveway. “I read somewhere children twelve or older are the least likely to be permanently traumatized by a parent’s death. That means I have to keep myself alive for seven more years.”

  Lauren smiled, though her eyes showed her concern. She told me not to worry and that she’d send her husband over as soon as he arrived. Then she rushed to put her groceries away before they slow-cooked in the muggy heat.

  “Mommy?” Nathan called to me as I neared, pausing from his chalk drawing. “Can you put your toys away? They’re in my way.”

  “Toys?” I spotted the hoe and the bag of dried-blood fertilizer. I gritted my teeth as I moved them onto the lawn. Isn’t it enough that he nags at me to clean the house? Now he’s worried about the outside?

  Determined to solve at least one problem, I set to work on the garden with a vengeance. I mixed the fertilizer and carefully patted some around the remains of the flowers. I forced my thoughts away from the threatening email and Mrs. Kravett as best I could, but couldn’t force away a sense of imminent danger that chilled me despite the late afternoon heat. In the meantime, Nathan announced that he was going inside to wash the chalk dust from his hands and change his clothes.

  Minutes later, a human-shaped shadow appeared across my garden bed. I gasped and turned. A woman holding a bowl stood behind me. Alms for the spousely deserted, no doubt. Apparently, just as the gardens had become fodder for half the rodent population in Carlton, so my life, and especially my absent husband, had become fodder for the Carlton gossips.

  “Um, Molly?” she cautiously queried.

  I brushed the dirt from my knees and stood, gradually recognizing the small, silhouetted form. Denise Meekers, once nicknamed Meeky Mouse—by me, I was sorry to admit.

  “Denise? Hi! How are you?”

  She was still tiny. Even at five-six, I towered over her. Her face hadn’t changed. the same dimpled cheeks, button nose, clear blue eyes. Because of the large bowl in her arms, I resisted an impulse to hug her.

  She shrugged, maintaining her impish grin. “Same as always. Still here. And how are…” She let her voice fade away as she lowered her gaze to the green ceramic bowl. She thrust it into my arms. “I’m so sorry about your husband. I’ve been there, believe me.” She added apologetically, “It’s just Jell-O salad. I was in a bit of a rush when I heard.”

  Judging from her demeanor, she must have “heard” that my husband had left me and the kids penniless and that I was being supported by my parents. I peered through the pink plastic wrap. There was enough Jell-O in there to feed an elementary school. And there was some sort of flowered centerpiece bobbing on top. Nice touch.

  My instincts warned that Denise was here needing to receive at least as much sympathy as she purportedly wanted to lend. I must have missed a page; last I’d heard she was still married, for sixteen years or so.

  “My husband, Jim, is just in the Philippines for a year. His first vacation is in November. Why don’t we go inside and—”

  “I can’t. My daughter’s got a piano lesson. You can bring the bowl back to me at the PTA meeting tomorrow night. You are going, aren’t you?”

  “PTA meeting? So soon? School doesn’t even start until tomorrow.”

  “Well, you know how Stephanie is.”

  “You don’t mean Stephanie Geist, do you?”

  “She goes by Saunders now. She’s the PTA president. Surely you heard.”

  I nodded and felt myself pale a little, remembering now that Lauren had indeed forewarned me. “Good ol’ Stephanie. Ever the cheerleader.”

  “So you’re coming? Stephanie will be thrilled to see you.”

  “I’m sure she will,” I responded, trying to keep the sarcasm in my voice to a minimum. “I’ll try to make—”

  “Seven o’clock. At the elementary school cafeteria.”

  The screen door slammed and the three children emerged. Nathan and Karen ran toward us, calling goodbye over their shoulders to Rachel, who went home. Karen was holding a clipboard and a pencil.

  “Oh, you have such cute twins!” Denise said.

  “I’m two years older than he is,” Karen cried.

  My children were both thin and fair-skinned, with fine, sandy-colored hair, a stubborn recessive gene. My husband and I both had thick, dark brown hair. Nathan had the curls Karen coveted and he detested. He also had a band of tiny brown freckles across his nose and chubby cheeks. Otherwise, they did look like twins.

  I intr
oduced them to Denise, who greeted them with so much forced enthusiasm she reminded me of Binky the Clown. Then Denise said under her breath, “I ran into Lauren at the store. She said she’d tell you about Mrs. Kravett.”

  “She did.”

  Denise’s lower lip trembled. Her sorrowful expression reminded me that Denise had been Mrs. Kravett’s star pupil.

  “Had you stayed in touch with Mrs. Kravett since graduation?”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast. “She used to have several of her former students over for a barbecue each summer. I’m sure you’d have been invited, despite your differences, but you took off for Colorado the first chance you got.”

  There was a hint of resentment in her voice, which surprised me. I didn’t know quite how to respond.

  “Well,” Denise said, turning, “I’d better run.”

  I thanked her again for the vat of Jell-O and watched her walk toward a black Chevy Suburban parked a few houses down. What appeared to be teenage-sized bare feet were sticking out the rear window. I felt guilty for not having kept in touch with Denise, or with any of my childhood friends except Lauren. That hadn’t been deliberate. Maybe Denise needed me to tell her so.

  “Mom,” Karen said, pencil poised on her clipboard, “have you lost anybody?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, slightly alarmed.

  “Nathan and I are making a list of lost people. Then when we find them, we write where they were and cross their names off the list. Rachel lost her cat, Missy, yesterday and found her in Carolee’s tree.”

  I peered at the sheet of paper on the clipboard. The first column read: Who are you missing? The second column read: Did you find them? Below the headings were: Misy. Fond in tree. Daddy. In Filupeens.

  Suddenly I had a painful lump in my throat. I missed my husband. I missed my friends in Colorado. Someone was emailing me hateful accusations. I’d lost a chance to see my former teacher and clear the air. Now she was dead.

  Karen was watching me expectantly, her dark eyes focused right on mine. I forced a smile. “I lost my appetite recently.”

  “That’s not a whole person.” Karen took a seat on the stone edging of the garden. “I know. You lost somebody named Mrs. Kravett.”

  I sighed. I wished my children were even half as attentive when I spoke to them as they were to my private conversations. “That’s right. She was a teacher of mine.”

  Nathan pointed at Karen. “Write down, ‘Mommy lost her teacher Mrs. Cavity.’”

  Karen wrote, Mrs. Kravit. Then she said, “And she was found dead, right?”

  “That’s right.” I didn’t want to discuss Mrs. Kravett or think about her death until I had a chance to be alone. “Maybe there are some cartoons on television.”

  Karen wrote: Fond ded, then followed Nathan into the house.

  The children told me they were too full for Jell-O. So much for that advertising slogan. The flowered centerpiece bobbed as I struggled to cram the bowl into my refrigerator, giving me an idea for a card. Work had long been my catharsis, something I was especially in need of now.

  While my children watched a DVD of Bugs Bunny, I grabbed my sketch pad from under the couch and made a drawing of a plump woman working out at the gym. The woman was saying, “My aerobics instructor claims this exercise gives you ‘Buns of Steel.’ Personally. I’d settle for buns of day-old Jell-O.”

  Afterward, I appraised my newest creation. It could get me sued by Kraft Foods, by the producer of the Buns of Steel workout tape, and NOW. Three special-interest groups possibly offended by one cartoon. A personal record. I went into my office, having decided to scan it into my computer now and consider its marketing potential later.

  My business address had received another email from my personal address. I braced myself and opened it. The note read:

  This is your last warning, Molly. It’s YOUR fault she’s dead! You’ll pay for it! LEAVE NOW OR YOU’RE GOING TO DROWN IN YOUR OWN BLOOD!

  Chapter 3

  As Talented as the Former First Dog

  My computer beeped with yet another email. My hands were shaking as I clicked on it and read:

  I’m afraid we still haven’t agreed whether we want you to set our Christmas letter to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” or “Away in a Manger.” Mr. Styler still wants “Wesley had gallbladder surgery” in the place of “Five golden rings,” but I think that’s overkill, don’t you? We’ll keep you posted!

  Best,

  Mrs. Wesley Styler of Manhattan

  This being early September, they found the matter considerably more pressing than I did, though I agreed with Mrs. Wesley Styler of Manhattan about her husband’s gallbladder.

  I calculated the time in Manila. It was a few minutes after 6:00 a.m. there. Jim was probably already en route to his office. I decided against calling. There was no point in worrying him when there was nothing he could do anyway. I looked again at the death threat. With two of these, I could no longer dismiss it as some random prank, and the second one identified me by name.

  How could anyone possibly blame me for her death? Maybe because I didn’t look up Mrs. Kravett as soon as I arrived in town. No, that made no sense. But someone who knew about my poem and was overwrought with grief at her death might feel justified in venting at me.

  Any relatives of hers shouldn’t have known I was back in town, let alone know my email address. That wasn’t true of former classmates. Stephanie Geist and Denise Meekers were still here. Plus Jack Vance, the class hunk, now school principal, of all things. Could one of them have sent the emails?

  Jack had never noticed me in school. I doubted he cared one way or another about my return. Though Stephanie and I had never been friends, she had no reason to hate me, nor was I aware of her having bonded with Mrs. Kravett.

  Denise, on the other hand, was certainly mourning Mrs. Kravett. Hopefully Denise had forgotten who tagged her Meeky Mouse. I had an excuse for that, though admittedly lame. My full maiden name is Molly Octavia Peterson, Molly being my mother’s choice and Octavia my mathematician father’s. Neither of them stopped to consider what it would do to a kid to have MOP monogrammed on her clothing. It introduces you to the name game early, and I always was the sort who figured the best defense was a good offense.

  Now that my last name is Masters, I do my best to smile when someone learns my middle initial and points out that it spells MOM, as if I’d never realized that.

  It occurred to me that I could check the handwriting on the letter to make sure Mrs. Kravett had really written it. I grabbed the letter and dashed upstairs to my daughter’s room, which used to be my room. On tiptoe, I rifled through stacks of memorabilia and mothballed blankets. This closet wasn’t as jam-packed as the one in my sister’s old room, which now housed all the unwanted presents my parents had received over the years. During Christmas gatherings, we’d watch Mother open gifts and joke about who made the closet this year. Aunt Louise has the record. Fourteen consecutive Christmas closets.

  My dusty old yearbook was still on the shelf. I sat on the bed, the squeak of the box springs striking a familiar chord, and looked up Denise Meekers’s picture. Her inscription read: “To my dear friend Molly, I’ll never forget all the fun we’ve had. I know we’ll be friends for life. Love always, Denise.”

  Again I felt a pang of guilt at my aloofness. The glossy paper still bore that lingering smell unique to photo albums. I glanced at the pictures with a sense of detachment I once wouldn’t have believed possible. With the exception of Stephanie Geist and Jack Vance, we were all somewhat less than gorgeous. At the time it felt as if I were the only truly ugly kid there.

  Between back pages, I located the note I’d saved from Mrs. Kravett.

  On that dreadful day, she’d stood in front of her English class and said, “I know who wrote that poem about me in the student newspaper. Though you chose to humiliate me in public. I will allow you to apologize to me in private. The poet can report to me after class. Otherwise, you risk receivi
ng an F as a final grade.”

  There had been no furtive eye contact between us, nor was any necessary. Even as I’d tried to kid myself that she didn’t really know it was my poem, I was well aware that my burning cheeks had betrayed me. I didn’t stay after class. I was too ashamed. I merely left a sheet of paper on her desk, with the words: I’m sorry. Molly

  Now I compared Mrs. Kravett’s letter with the handwriting below my apology to her. It was the same.

  In English class the day after I’d anonymously left her the note, I’d found it inside my desk. Below my words she had written with a fountain pen, “Not good enough. If I ask more from you than I do from most of my students, it is because you have more to offer. You need to discover that about yourself someday.”

  During class, I’d sat at my desk with tears streaming down my face. She called on me and asked me to interpret a passage from the book we were studying. I no longer remember which passage, which book, or my answer. But I do recall her response. “Good, Molly.” Then she called on another student, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. I also recall my final grade. A plus.

  I replaced the note in my yearbook. In the master bedroom across the hall, I stashed the book in the nightstand and called the police. To my surprise, the sergeant said he’d come out and take a look at the messages.

  Nathan had built a duck family with Legos and now lined them up, mid-waddle, across the family room. Karen was hypnotized by the TV. I stood in front of it and said, “I’m going next door to get something. I’ll be right back.”

  “To Rachel’s house?” Karen asked. “Can I come?” Nathan objected to being “left all lonely,” so the three of us made the short but humid trek past the consumed garden and the lawn in need of another mow. If only rabbits would graze on grass. The Wilkinses’ property, in contrast, was meticulous. They used a lawn service. The same one I’d told my parents they wouldn’t need now that I was in their house.