Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Read online

  Sisters Totally Opposed to Pornography

  Chapter 5

  Raw Hamburger

  Less than thirty minutes after I’d notified the police about my threatening fax, Sergeant Tommy Newton rang my doorbell. I let him inside and said, “Thanks for responding so quickly.”

  He nodded and removed his cap. I couldn’t help but stare. Either his head was growing, his cap was shrinking, or he needed a haircut. The dent in his red hair was now so pronounced his head looked like a pinched orange balloon.

  There was a twinkle in his eye as he glanced at the coffee table and spotted the fax. I knew his sense of humor. I snatched up the piece of paper and warned, “If you say, ‘Just the fax, ma’am’ to me even once, I’ll scream.”

  “Uh-huh.” That was his catch-all response, but this time it sounded a little disheartened. I’d ruined his fun. I handed him the fax and took a seat on the couch. He sat on the stuffed high-back chair and took so long to read it he must have been committing it to memory.

  “What all do you make of this?” he said at last, peering at me.

  “That was my question for you.”

  One corner of his mouth raised a little, but he remained silent, studying my face.

  “I can’t figure out much about the fax, except that I don’t feel particularly threatened by it. They’re certainly not going to kill me now, knowing the police are hot on their trail. Right?”

  Tommy merely shrugged.

  Though less than encouraged by this response, I continued, “The tag line shows it was sent from one of those self-serve copy shops in Albany. I called the store right away, but none of the clerks had any clue about who might have sent it. Since my first name is used this time, the sender could have looked that up in the phone book or maybe knows me personally.”

  Tommy sighed, rubbed his forehead and muttered, “Uh-huh.”

  “Also, the sender wants the police to think he or she is from STOP and that they had nothing to do with the murder, yet they’re threatening to murder me for supposedly framing them, which is ironic.”

  “So we should be on the lookout for a belligerent, ironic person or persons who detests pornography.”

  “With access to a large dog’s poop.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “True. But I do have some theories about Preston’s murder. Want to hear them?”

  “No, but odds are you’re going to tell me anyway, so go ahead.”

  “The way I see it, there are three possibilities. One: STOP actually did murder Preston Saunders thinking he was Mike Masters, in which case there’s at least one certifiably insane feminist in Carlton who scours the men’s magazines. Two: The STOP messages were a bizarre coincidence and someone killed Preston for entirely different reasons. Three: Someone in town spotted my cartoon in the magazine or heard about Preston’s plot to win the contest using my cartoon, then concocted this whole STOP thing to cover up his or her personal motives.”

  I paused. He blinked.

  “Uh-huh,” he said at length. “And which theory do you think is correct?”

  “Having such a crazy feminist is really unlikely. People do and say things every day that are way more offensive to women than that cartoon of mine. But Preston coincidentally getting killed on the same morning that we both got threats from STOP is a little hard to swallow. Yet, would anyone really go through such an elaborate hoax to hide a murder? Wouldn’t it be easier to make it look like a shooting during a burglary or something?”

  “Yep. Good job of poking holes in your own theories.” He rose and fitted his cap back onto its head slot. “Keep up the good work.”

  “A logical place to start would be to find the messenger kid with the motorcycle and get him to identify his client.”

  “If we had even the slightest clue who he was. Can you draw a portrait of him?”

  “I can, but he’ll probably come out looking like a character in the Zits cartoon strip. Do you have an artist?”

  He snorted. “Didn’t need a police artist ‘til lately. I’ll have someone call you from the Albany Police Department.”

  “I’ll do my best with a drawing in the meantime. What about the box at the Saunderses’ house? Was it stained?”

  “Yeah. Used to have the same general contents as your box.” He headed toward the door, taking the fax with him. “That’s probably what motivated Preston to tell you about the cartoon yesterday morning.”

  “So tell me, what do you think about the fax?”

  “That’s the trouble. Right now, we don’t have a whole lot of facts, just theories that don’t hold much water.”

  “I mean the faxed message that STOP sent me. What do you think it means?”

  “Think it just goes to show you attract trouble quicker than raw hamburger attracts flies.”

  “Thanks a lot. That’s a charming image.”

  He shrugged. “Better than comparing you to poop.”

  Lauren, with her daughter Rachel in tow, dropped by later that afternoon. Karen and Nathan raced me to the door, but they’d been engrossed in their daily one-hour allotment of cartoons, which occasionally lasts two hours when I’m pushing a deadline—and so were a step behind me.

  Though she wore a particularly flattering outfit—a royal blue cardigan over a beige turtleneck, with perfectly matched, loose-fitting dress slacks—Lauren seemed out of sorts. She absentmindedly combed her fingers through her brown hair and chewed on her lower lip.

  “Have you gone to see Stephanie today?” she asked me over the noise of our children’s chattering.

  “No, though I’d planned to earlier. I never got the chance.” The fax from STOP had disrupted my day, but I wanted to find out why Lauren seemed upset before I mentioned my own problems.

  As soon as the children were out of earshot, she slumped onto the stuffed chair in the living room and said, “Well, I took your advice.”

  “Uh-oh, I gave you advice? I hate it when I do that.”

  “I called Stephanie at the hospital. She called me a husband-stealing bitch.”

  For some neurotic reason, I felt compelled to defend Stephanie. “Maybe she—”

  Lauren held up a hand and said, “No, wait. That wasn’t an exact quote. What she said to me was, ‘You bitch. Wasn’t stealing my husband enough for you? You had to murder him, too?’ Apparently Stephanie had leaped to the conclusion that Lauren, not Tiffany, had murdered Preston. I managed a meek: “Oh, dear.”

  “I, of course, told her that I didn’t kill him. I also pointed out that I didn’t exactly ‘steal’ her husband. We just had a brief affair that ended a long time ago.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She hung up on me.” With a glance in the direction of the family room where our children and TV cartoons blared, Lauren leaned toward me. She met my eyes and said quietly, “I can’t go through this again, Molly.”

  She was referring to the time Tommy erroneously arrested her last fall. I winced at the thought of her being thrown in jail a second time for a murder she didn’t commit.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve paid for my sin of infidelity many times over. I’ve tried so hard to build a good life for Rachel and myself after my husband’s death. I haven’t even seen Preston in months. Tell Stephanie that. Convince her. And tell Tommy, too. I know he’s going to suspect me.”

  “But you told me you were at-work yesterday morning. You’ve got an ironclad alibi, so you don’t have to…”

  She was shaking her head and had shielded her face with her hands, struggling to collect herself. She dropped her hands and chuckled sadly. “I’d forgotten about a half-hour errand I’d run. The auditorium was being used, so the band held their practice in the cafeteria, right across from the office. It was so noisy I wanted to get away for a while, so I offered to run some forms out to the district office. I drove out there and took my time to make sure I’d miss all of the rehearsal.”

  Preston had been at my house a few minutes after nine, and St
ephanie had called me just before ten. As long as the band practice didn’t happen to fall between nine and ten, Lauren was in the clear. “What time was this?”

  “Around nine thirty.”

  I punched my thigh in frustration. Lauren stared at me, then said, “I’ll keep an eye on the kids, if you want to go visit Stephanie now.”

  Lauren was one of the few people, other than my family members, whom I would do anything for, including paying Stephanie an otherwise unnecessary visit. I sighed and stood.

  A half hour or so later, I entered Stephanie’s hospital room. She was propped up in bed, watching an afternoon talk show while filing her nails. Perhaps digging them into my flesh yesterday had damaged them.

  The air smelled sweet. Every available flat space was taken with flower arrangements. I felt a little guilty about coming empty-handed, but Stephanie had already spotted me so it was too late to double-back to the hospital gift shop.

  We exchanged a few niceties as I sat down on an orange vinyl chair. Where would one go to purchase such a chair, I wondered. There must be a furniture store someplace that specializes in especially ugly chairs for hospital rooms.

  Stephanie told me that Tiffany would be here shortly and Michael was napping in the nursery. She asked where my children were, but showed no reaction when I then mentioned Lauren’s name in reference to watching them. So I took the initiative and said, “Lauren told me she spoke to you on the phone.”

  Stephanie sneered. “I take it that’s my cue to say how bad I feel about the things I said to her.”

  “Do you?”

  “Feel bad? Ha! If she killed Preston, I’ll make her feel a hell of a lot worse than she does now.”

  “But you just said ‘if.’ Lauren said you accused her. Do you really think she’s guilty?” Stephanie merely pursed her lips, so I continued. “Do you think that after some six or seven months of no contact whatsoever, Lauren would suddenly burst into your house and shoot your husband?”

  She flicked a hand in my direction. “Since you put it that way, no, probably not. But the woman was one of my dearest friends, before she slept with my husband. I’m not socially required to welcome her with open arms.”

  “Of course not. But accusing her of murder is at the extreme other end of socially acceptable responses.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Tit for tat, as they say.” She glanced at the clock by her bed. “Oh, dear.” She started straightening her covers with rapid, jerking motions that were doing more harm than good. “Tiffany’s going to be here any minute.”

  Stephanie was nervous at the idea of seeing her own daughter. “How is Tiffany?”

  “Distraught.”

  “Have you talked to her about what Preston said before he died?”

  “No, but maybe I will after the funeral tomorrow.”

  “The funeral’s tomorrow? Shouldn’t you delay that? You’re still in the—”

  “I’m checking out of the hospital tomorrow morning. I need to have the funeral immediately so I can move ahead with my life.” As if the soundness of her decision to bury her husband hurriedly were readily apparent, she went on, “Since you brought up the subject of Tiffany…” Stephanie paused and searched my face. “Could you stay and talk to her? She seems to really like you.” Her tone of voice implied she found the concept of liking me unfathomable, but I let it slide.

  “Wouldn’t I be intruding? Don’t you want some private time?”

  “This past weekend, when Preston caught Cherokee and Tiffany in the throes of passion, she’s been living at her aunt and uncle’s house. To say the least, things have been tense between us.”

  “You saw her yesterday, though, right?” Stephanie looked away without answering. In horror, I continued, “She’s seen her baby brother, and you talked with her about how she feels about her father’s death. You have done that, right?”

  “Molly,” she said evenly. “Until you are a parent of a teenager yourself, and until you come to realize your fifteen-year-old daughter is promiscuous with someone your husband detests, you have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you, Stephanie. I’m just trying to understand. Your daughter needs you. If you shut her out now, you’ll never get her back. Yesterday you begged me to help her. The best way I can do that is to tell you to be her mother now, above all else.”

  To my surprise, Stephanie burst into tears. “You’re right. I love Tiffany so much. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” She grabbed a handful of tissues and swiped at her face. “But, Molly,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “she may have killed Preston.”

  “She may not have. Why do you suspect her?” I dropped my voice and asked, “Did Preston abuse her?”

  “Absolutely not! How could you even think of such a thing?”

  “Because that strikes me as the most logical reason why any mother might suspect a daughter of killing her own father.”

  She frowned. “Yes, I suppose it would have been a very good motive, but it happens to be untrue. He never hurt her in any way, except through general neglect and disinterest. Preston was a womanizer, a philanderer, a cheat, an all-around morally bankrupt individual, but he was not, repeat not, a pedophile.” She grimaced. “Some commentary on my husband, isn’t it? The best thing I can say about the man is he wasn’t incestuous.”

  Appalled and astounded at this blatant contempt for her late husband, I replied, “I had no idea the two of you were—”

  Stephanie suddenly grabbed my hand and dug her nails into my skin as she looked at the door. I managed to avoid crying out in pain and turned. Tiffany entered and said, “Hi, Mom,” in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Though it had been less than three weeks since the last time I’d seen Tiffany, she looked radically different. She had gone from being a fifteen-year-old to an elegant-looking young woman. Either she was stuffing her bra or she’d grown from an A cup to a C since I’d last noticed. But more strikingly, gone was the makeup, the baggy pants, the bare-midriff T-shirt and bulky vest, the popular punk hairstyle of both short and long hair lengths. Now she wore tan slacks and a beige knit sweater, and her short hairstyle accentuated her high cheekbones and doe-like eyes.

  Tiffany turned her gaze toward me and murmured, “Hello, Mrs. Masters.”

  She knew I preferred to be called Molly; I only associated “Mrs. Masters” with my mother-in-law, but it was entirely appropriate under these sad circumstances. I rose and said, “Hi, Tiffany. I am so sorry about your father.”

  She nodded.

  “If you ever feel the need to talk to someone, I’ll always be available.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Stephanie finally spoke. “Did you see your baby brother yet?” she asked gently.

  Tiffany smiled, her eyes tearing up. “I saw him through the nursery window. They had the name tags in view, but I’d know him anywhere. He’s just beautiful, Mommy.”

  I had a lump in my throat that was rapidly growing, but I managed to mutter, “I should be going now.”

  Just then, Stephanie held out her arms and Tiffany rushed into a hug.

  As I pushed out the door, I heard Stephanie tell her, “Come home, baby. I need you.”

  The next afternoon, the large funeral home was more than half full, though there wasn’t a wet eye in the place. Not even Stephanie’s or Tiffany’s. Lauren had found a babysitter, but we’d decided to bring Nathan and Karen because of their ties to Tiffany. Karen wore her navy blue crushed-velvet dress, which I’d bought for her eighth birthday and wished came in my size, too. Her hair was neatly combed and she looked every inch the angel she is. When she’s not egging her brother into a fight. Nathan’s hair had grown too long for his liking—he detests his curls—but he’d carefully parted it and slicked it down. He’d paid close attention to what his daddy was wearing and matched outfits perfectly: the white long-sleeve dress shirt, the black pants, and the tie, although Nathan’s was pink and a clip-on.

  For the first half hour of the s
ervice, he even managed to match Jim’s somber expression. To kick off the second half hour, however, he repeatedly tried to stretch our definition of “sitting quietly” to include lying on his back, head dangling and feet straight up in the air.

  Afterward, Stephanie thanked and hugged each person as they came through the line, but she seemed merely to be playing the role. She even hugged Lauren, which either qualified her for an Academy Award or meant she was on Prozac. Tiffany, frankly, seemed bored.

  Outside the funeral home, on a sidewalk still damp with melting snow, we waited for Stephanie to lead us to her neighbor’s house for a memorial service. Karen slipped her warm, delicate hand into mine and stood beside me quietly. The snippets of conversation I caught from surrounding mourners were all of a superficial “How-’bout-them-Mets?” or “Love-your-outfit!” nature. Not a word about Preston. I scanned the faces, most of whom I’d never seen before, and wondered: Had one of these ordinary-looking people fired two bullets into Preston Saunders’s chest?

  In a loud voice, Nathan announced. “This is taking too long. If anyone dies in our family, we should bury them close to our house so we can get home quick.”

  Just then Stephanie and Tiffany emerged, arm in arm, and strolled stoically toward the parking lot. We shushed Nathan and followed. He soon realized we weren’t driving home and complained vehemently, but changed his mind when we arrived at the reception and he discovered that pretzels and potato chips were being served.

  The reception was held at the house next door to the Saunderses’ home. The home was upscale, and, like the couple who owned it, old. Hardwood floors were adorned with Oriental carpets; the walls and ceilings were plaster. As I sat between my husband and Lauren on an antique couch, I examined my own duplicity. I hadn’t liked Preston, never could stand Stephanie, had only slowly warmed to Tiffany in the past few months. Yet with all of my heart, I wanted to find Preston’s killer. Why?

  Stephanie had said I was someone who would “always do the right thing.” Certainly I aspired to that, as, I liked to think, do most people. But if I hadn’t become involved due to Preston’s submitting that damned cartoon, I would never have promised to help find the killer. And there was an undeniable doggedness in the way I was drawn to any kind of mystery. As a journalism major, I never dropped the dream of myself as the heroic ace reporter who single-handedly exposed some unconscionable crime against humanity. Killing Preston Saunders hardly qualified as an unconscionable crime against humanity. But then, I wrote humorous greeting cards, not startling newspaper exposes.