Murder Goes to a Reunion

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Annie Mae Robertson

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc. 5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-21606-4

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6734-3(e)

Printed in the United States of America

For my children, Geri, Jackie, Metta, Sandy and Bill Fletcher, Steven and Andria Kapp, and all their children and children‘s children. And for my sisters Diane and Linda; my brothers, Sidney, Wayne, Dale and Gary; my friends Bob, Pat S. and Gail B. and, of course, my mother—because i love them.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 1

It was the end of summer and we were finally experiencing the dog days that had to happen at least once during the season. The sky was darkening on the far side of the hills and I saw strings of heat lightning stretching along the horizon. The humidity was already off the charts. It affected everything from my temper to the paper that persisted in jamming in the printer every time I tried to create a bit of hard copy.

I was well ready for a snack break when the familiar post office truck swung in against the curb at the end of the drive. From where I was positioned I could see the mailman lean out to pull open the door of the white mailbox that was decorated with a rapidly deteriorating painting of a hummingbird in flight (a disaster I had promised myself I would redo months ago). He glanced at a white envelope then deposited it inside the box with a flourish, as if it was an invitation to a ball. And, in fact, that was what it was, more or less, if one considered a reunion banquet and weekend in hell in that category.

Of course I didn’t find that out until I retrieved and opened the letter. It was addressed to Ms. Georgette Anderson, me, but the name above the return address didn’t give me a clue to the contents since I had disconnected myself from my old school world far too long ago for it to mean a thing. For that matter even if it hadn’t been that long it might not have meant anything to me. My mind discarded names faster than I could write them in my little memo book.

When I turned the envelope over in my hand and pealed the flap up slowly the invitation inside startled me. Had I been out of high school for forty years? That bit of information was enough to propel me to my desk where I could reread the dates while I stabilized my unsettled psyche by munching on crackers and peanut butter, my main comfort food. I really needed it at that point.

I never practiced hiding my age the way some members of my family did as a result of their degeneration-phobia that anyone over forty would be ground up into Soylent Green. But if I had been out of high school four decades, I was at least twenty years older than my brain was ready to acknowledge. I had envisioned spending my waning years floating around in a pale hooded robe dispensing wisdom to the less sage members of my blundering species. According to that invitation I had already bypassed pretty much of my waning time without dispensing so much as a glimmer of sage.

The other even more distressing thing about that invitation was that, after opening the envelope and scanning the contents, it only took a few seconds to decide I was going to attend. It wasn’t that my high school years had been all that terrific in the end, but they hadn’t been all that bad either, come to think of it, though, frankly, it took some reaching to come to that conclusion.

one of the great mysteries of life is that we usually remember the bad things much more readily than the pleasant ones. Trauma happens, and that was one place it had happened to me.

There were so many things left unsettled in that town where I grew up, connections I had chosen to ignore by never going back. I had torn up all prior reunion invitations and letters, and ignored phone calls that had persisted for years. And even when I felt invasive twinges of curiosity about some of them, how they had turned out and all, I had reminded myself that there would be no pleasure in seeing my age mirrored in a hundred faces. Besides, who’d be there that I was even interested in seeing?

I admit, the factor that changed all of that was Michelangelo, the man not the artist. We were living together, both having retired from Halmeth Corporation after years of ignoring each other in the company halls. Well, not quite ‘ignoring,’ avoiding would be a more appropriate word. No, that was wrong. We had not been avoiding each other, just not acknowledging any attraction. It took a messy murder to get us together.

I was a graphic artist and growing weary of the corporate politics when I walked in one morning and found my boss dead in his office chair. Michelangelo Deegan, who is Irish, by the way, was head of security. Instead of siding with the general opinion that I was the obvious perpetrator, he became my protector and confidant. He helped me prove my innocence, thank god, and almost died doing it.

Even considering the marvelous attractiveness of him, which had me in a total funk, it had taken a while for him to override my conviction that I couldn’t trust any man enough to let one into my life permanently. But a murder or two later, there we were, living together and loving it, well most of the time. The rest of the time was spent in awe of the fact we were together, and trying to ignore the protests of our offspring who brought up the subject of legitimizing our relationship on every holiday. I think my daughters just wanted to be bride’s maids, and my son had been trying to give me away for years.

I was concerned that Michelangelo wasn’t ready for the onslaught of my reunion though he seemed to thrive on the other traumatic revelations of my life before Halmeth. Fortunately, most of them hadn’t entailed driving a hundred and fifty or so miles to the Sea Witch Motel on the Massachusetts North Shore, a location the high school Reunion Committee had selected as perfect for our little gathering. It was scheduled to take place just off-season so we would have most of the place to ourselves. And in September the water temperature would still be somewhat warm compared to the usual icy nature of the water off that section of coastline.

Even if the weather became inclement, there was an indoor pool with a hot tub and a full bar attached. The committee must have figured given that luxury of place, no matter what hostilities had been held in check over the years, we would survive.

Before I could change my mind I called the numbers supplied and reserved a double room at the Sea Witch. I loved that name and couldn’t resist asking if it had a history.

Absolutely, Ma’am, the front desk woman responded, apparently delighted to be asked. It was named after the young wife of an aging minister who lived in this area a long time ago. She had seizures of some sort, so the story goes. The old man kept her locked away in the parish house, not to punish her but because he thought she was possessed and was afraid the people in the village would burn her as a witch if they knew. She managed to escape one night and before she was recaptured she walked right into the sea, poor thing. And now when the moon is full she walks from the location of the house, where the motel is now, down the beach and out into the ocean.

Has anyone seen this apparition in our time? I asked, intrigued.

Every now and then someone claims they’ve seen her. Who really knows?

True, I agreed. A motel with a ghost—hmm. I savored that possibility, the reunion immediately much more interesting.

It was two hours later that Michelangelo drove in. He had been out on the golf course, getting in a round before the weather changed as it was expected to do. I would have been out there with him if he hadn’t been playing with Reno, his old police lieutenant buddy. They were too damned competitive for me.

I still remembered a Scotch ball tournament with Reno and his wife Viola. By the time we had reached the back nine I was hefting a club and considering using it as a defensive weapon. That was after Reno became apoplectic because Viola hit a ball that careened off a tree onto a road that ran parallel to the fairway and rolled all the way down the curving hill, practically to the country club front gate.

Go get it! he scowled. They had been winning.

"The tournament rule is ‘play it where it lies,’" Viola insisted with her hands planted on her hips, the golf club leaning against her rigid thigh.

Go get it!

Play it where it lies!

That was one heavy moment. Michelangelo had the sense to stand back and be totally silent which kept me cool at least. Reno and Viola faced off long enough for the foursome behind us to play through, after which Reno clenched his bearded jaw, and dropped a new ball on the fairway. Though I liked Viola and Reno, I never played another tournament with them, and frankly I never missed it.

Michelangelo was like that, always under control, always considerate, which was one of the reasons why I loved him. And why I was glad to see him home. I waved the invitation in his direction as he came through the door. Guess what this is, I challenged practically pouncing on him.

Is it going to cost me money? he asked plucking the envelope out of my fingers.

Of course.

And what will I get for my investment?

A romantic weekend on the coast, I offered giving him my most seductive come-hither look, pure Marlene Dietrich.

Might do, he grinned. What are you offering as a down payment?

I tugged his golf shirt out of the waistband of his slacks and slid my hands up along his hairy torso, pulling him close. Whatever you want, Mister, I purred to the underside of his chin and proceeded to nuzzle my way to his mouth, kissing him in my deepest—follow me into the bedroom—way.

It better be something fast because Reno is locking up his car and on his way in.

Umm, maybe he’d like to take me to the coast.

Umm, over my dead body, sweetheart.

That could be arranged, Reno said from the doorway.

Michelangelo, I chastised him. You forgot to lock the door again.

I tucked the envelope into the IN pile on my desk, resigned to be a good hostess, at least for a while. In spite of my momentary annoyance I enjoyed Reno and certainly owed him a lot. He had been with the police force as a young rookie when Michelangelo was just going up the ranks. They had a few years as partners before Michelangelo became chief and Reno his lieutenant. Reno was still lieutenant with the same department. He seemed to enjoy that hands-on position enough to not aspire to the more administrative position of chief even though, according to the two of them, he was the only one in the department with brains enough to handle the task.

There had been a number of times when we had been glad of that, those times when his lanky slow, gruff persona provided backup to our inquisitive blundering, not that we blundered as a matter of course. Well, I admit I stumbled into things, but Michelangelo found himself in difficulties more often than not because he was trying to haul me out. And if he had a lasting friendship with the lieutenant it was because the man knew when to help and when to stop riding Michelangelo about getting involved with me in the first place.

So I dragged out a couple of beers and settled on the arm of the couch to listen to a rehash of their morning match.

Reno spent more time in the rough than on the fairway, Michelangelo laughed.

And I still won.

I did all the wifely things, as if that term implied a mode of subservience. But I fixed lunch and smiled and fetched beer because I enjoyed elevating Michelangelo in Reno’s eyes, especially after what had apparently been a devastating morning on the greens. I also wanted him to be in the best mood when I conned him into going to the reunion. It had become an important issue for me. I not only really wanted to go, I had to go.

So what’s it all about, this North Shore bit? Michelangelo asked when we were finally alone.

My high school fortieth reunion, I told him and waited for his reaction. I didn’t know why I was so tense. If I wanted to go, I could just go. Michelangelo wasn’t one to establish rules any more than I was. Neither of us could have tolerated that. But I really needed him to go along with me. I mean really needed him. And I was sure it showed on my face and in the way I was clenching and unclenching my fingers, a habit that was intensifying the older I got, probably a trace of arthritis as much as concern.

Fortieth? Good god, he teased, am I in love with someone old enough to be invited to a fortieth reunion?

And what reunion would you be going to this year, if you were going?

Sweetheart, I wouldn’t go to mine if it was my hundred and fortieth, he informed me avoiding the question all together.

I didn’t think I would either, until this came, I said holding out the envelope.

What changed your mind?

First, will you go with me?

Of course. Now tell me what’s going on.

I’m not sure, Michelangelo. I’ve been angry for so long at people whose names stopped meaning anything years ago, or at least until I saw a couple of them listed on that invitation as members of the Reunion Committee. The movers and shakers never change I guess. They just keep moving and shaking. I’m not sure why but it’s important that they know I survived.

I really was sure why, and I must have had a ‘poor-baby’ expression on my face because he gathered me against him for a hug. It sounds like things got serious for you in high school. What happened?

See, I smiled up at him, there are some things you don’t know about me.

Apparently, and that’s scary.

Oh, it was just a lot of kid stuff that you don’t need to hear about. Boring—boring. Just promise you’ll come with me.

I’ll go with you.

Michelangelo was always so damned accommodating I knew I would tell him the whole story before the night was over. He did that to me—made me trust him, and that was the one thing that seemed the most risky. It wasn’t that I had such a tragic background—but everyone had tolerance limits and I’d have hated to find out too late that my perpetual disasters had pushed Michelangelo beyond his.

Thinking about that reunion just made my silence less tolerable as I suspected it would. I was definitely one of those creepy egotistical persons certain every creature on earth was here solely to witness all my piddling indiscretions. But I tried to hold back, I swear. I felt like I was inflating like a diver surfacing too fast. I was suffering from blabbermouth bends.

"It was just