Zoned for Murder

Chapter 1

I was really pissed off at Pete. The sun was beating down on my neck relentlessly. I gripped the knife in my sweaty palm.

Damn, if I want it done, I'm going to have to do it myself. He's never around when I need him.

Hell, he was never around, period. He was dead.

I stood on my front walk surrounded by worthless stuff, a dozen garbage bags of junk to be precise. I'd spent the weekend working my way through the basement and garage, ruthlessly tossing anything that hadn't been used in the last 18 months.

Use it or lose it had been my mantra. Use it or lose it!

That was why I, Maggie Brooks, was standing on the front sidewalk amidst a dozen bags of garbage, plus one large, brown tweed area rug.

I'd single-handedly wrestled the damn rug from the garage to the curb the night before. It had since rained, so now, in addition to being the ugliest rug I had ever seen, it was also soaking wet.

At dawn I'd heard the garbage truck lumbering down the street. I'd peeked through the blinds to make sure that they actually took it all.

They didn't. They grabbed three plastic garbage bags–just three, like that was all the trash I was entitled to discard–and kept going. I threw a raincoat over my nightgown and went charging out the front door.

Why didn't you take the carpet? I demanded, once the yellow truck ground to a halt at the next stop.

It's got to be in four-foot lengths and tied with string, a fat guy in a Mets t-shirt, his belly hanging over his belt, bellowed.

How am I supposed to cut up the damn thing?

The fat guy just stared at me.

Do I tip them to bypass whatever dumb-ass rule I've violated? I clutched my raincoat around my waist as I also wondered how many neighbors got a look at my ratty nightgown.

Before I could offer the bribe, not that I had any cash on me, the fat-bellied sanitation guy yelled, Move it, to the driver.

As the truck started up again and was turning the corner, he offered one last piece of advice. Get your husband to cut it up with an Exacto knife.

Great idea. I'll just go dig him up and then he can get right to work! The sweat was pouring down my face, the muggy dampness of the early morning starting to frizz my red hair. Time to retreat–and get dressed.

Two hours later, with Caleb and Zoe off to school, and having walked our dog Jake, I went downstairs to the workshop. Workshop, that's what Pete liked to call the corner of the basement where he'd kept his gear. I riffled through the metal tool chest.

Bingo! There was the knife–and even a package of new blades.

Why on God's earth did he have this? The man could barely hang a picture. He certainly hadn't cut up any rugs in the fourteen years we had been married. I inserted a new blade and marched up the steps and out the door to do battle.

Standing there, trying to figure out exactly how to begin the dissection, my mind wandered.

Goal! Did you see that, Mags? Messier scored again."

Hmmmm. I nuzzled Pete's neck, kissing that sweet spot right behind his ear.

Don't you...want to watch? He missed Messier's follow-up slapshot.

Was it the sight of all those sweaty hockey players that had excited me? The macho display of muscle, sweat, and brawn? Or was it the sweet, after-shave smell that lingered on Pete, even 12 hours after his morning shower? We'd started upstairs for our bed, but ended up giggling, collapsed on the floor, television blaring in our ears, a tangle of arms and legs on a ratty brown tweed rug. Did the Rangers win? Sometimes I open Pete's bottle of Old Spice just to remember the scent of him.

So why the urgency to get rid of the stupid rug now? Today?

It's old, it's smelly, and it's time to get on with life. See Selma, I listened. I struggled to make the first cut.

I'd finally made an appointment with a therapist about four months after Pete's death.

When I'd been ushered into the small office, I hadn't known what to expect. What I found was Selma Goldstein, sixty-something, plump, with grey curly hair, wearing a purple paisley skirt topped with a purple sweater. Munching on peanut M&Ms, Selma looked like a Hallmark Card grandmother, but when she opened her mouth, she sounded like a marine sergeant.

Have you ever been to a therapist before? Selma began, picking up a pen.

No. My voice was quiet, shaky. I was embarrassed to be there and fighting back tears.

What brought you here? Selma pushed over a box of tissues and the bowl of candy.

I'm having some difficulty coping. My husband was killed a few months ago by a hit-and-run driver. I'm not sleeping well.

Selma snorted. Well, of course you're not coping very well. Your husband just died. You're not supposed to be coping well. Trouble sleeping? I bet you're having trouble brushing your teeth in the morning.

More quietly she added, You've got to let yourself grieve.

My head snapped up. Not to worry. I know how to grieve. My voice was harsh and ragged. That's all I do. I cry if a light bulb burns out. My kids haven't had a meal that wasn't carry-out in weeks. Don't worry about teaching me how to grieve. I don't know how to do anything else.

Phooey, Selma jabbed her finger for emphasis. You think you know how to grieve, but what you've really got down pat is feeling guilty.

She used her fingers to tick off the emotions.

You feel guilty for crying. You feel guilty for not cooking. You feel guilty for not getting on with your life. And boy do you feel guilty for being so furious with your husband that you're ready to kill him, except of course, he's already dead.

I'm not angry with Pete!

Of course you are. How stupid could he be going and getting himself killed? What the hell was he thinking?

He didn't have much of a choice. I couldn't keep the anger out of my tone.

How did he die? Selma pushed.

What does it matter? I could feel my face getting red. Perspiration was beading on my forehead.

Was it his fault? Did he do something reckless to get himself killed? Did he smoke? Drink too much? Play with guns?

Of course not. He went for his morning run. The same damn morning run along the same damn route he'd done every single damn day for three years, I yelled. Only that morning, some idiot plowed into him and didn't even bother to stop...just left him there, alone...to die.

I was sobbing now, gasping for air. What the hell kind of therapy was this?

Selma leaned back in her chair. So he really didn't want to leave you?

I blinked.

No, I whispered. He loved me. He loved Caleb and Zoe. We had plans...lots of plans...we were...we were a family...and now we're not. The tears ran down my face and I fumbled for a tissue.

Well, you're still a family, just not the same family you used to be.

I don't want this kind of family.

Selma smiled. That's reasonable, but it's the one you've got. We get to pick our friends, not our family.

I don't think I can do this. My hands were shaking so hard that I crossed my arms and tucked my hands under my armpits to still them.

I don't think you have any choice. The therapist's matter of fact statement echoed around the room for a second or two.

I sighed, then said, I keep looking around thinking, 'who's the grownup here?' It can't possibly be me.

Fortunately or unfortunately, yep, you're it. But that doesn't mean you have to be perfect. Right now, you've got only one goal for the next year–to get through it.

How? You're right. I can barely brush my teeth in the morning.

Stop beating up on yourself. You want to eat chocolate ice cream at 2 in the morning, do it, if that gets you through the night. There's plenty of time to diet next year. This year is just a day-by-day thing. Carry-out never hurt anyone, so stop worrying about it. You will make dinner again. Personally I don't ever plan to cook another meal, but okay, if you want to, I promise that you will cook again.

I sat there shocked and then I started to smile. That progressed to giggles, which moved on to belly laughs, so hard I couldn't catch my breath. Tears ran down my cheeks. I reached for a handful of peanut M&M's.

We talked for about an hour, and I emerged feeling a little less shaky. Not much, but a little. I saw Selma for two more weeks, confessed to feelings I was embarrassed to have, asked questions about how to handle some of the questions the kids were posing, and each visit I laughed a little more. At the end of the third session, Selma said, Look you don't need a therapist. You just have to get through the next year. Make it as easy on yourself as you can. Accept help when it's offered–and ask for it when it's not.

Sure, Selma! Everybody wants to help when it comes to baking cookies, but where the Hell is everyone when I've got to cut up this damn rug?

Well, let the games begin, I muttered. But my steely resolve faded over 45-minutes in the broiling sun, as first one blade and then another broke as I sawed my way through the rug.

Shit, Pete, where the hell are you? You're never around when I need you. I laughed. Uh-oh, moving from the let's get on with life stage of grieving back to the anger" stage. Been there, done that.

At last the rug was cut up in the required four-foot lengths, tied with string. I was dripping with sweat, my hair was frizzy and damp, but poor widow Brooks was triumphant.

Chapter 2

The phone was ringing as I walked back into the house.

Hello!

I need the copy on the Columbiettes 25th Anniversary Concert as soon as possible. I want to get that page set, so all that's left is the article on the outlet mall hearing tonight. You're still going aren't you?

Good morning, Gene. I smiled. I'm fine, thank you for asking.

The caller was Eugene Marshall Lefkowitz, owner, publisher, and editor-in-chief of The Sound Shore Times, the local, twice-a-week newspaper where I was a reporter. Gene, the former night city editor for the Daily News, had bought The Sound Shore Times six years ago when he retired. He wasn't one for telephone pleasantries.

Maggie, I'm counting on you to go to the meeting tonight. I've got tickets to the Yankees.

I was used to his grumbling. Sure. I've already got a sitter lined up. I'm almost finished with the copy for the Columbiettes piece. I'll e-mail it to you in about an hour.

I'm saving you 12 inches on the front page with a jump to page five if you need more space for the mall stuff. And do me a favor. Reno will be there to photograph the hearing. Be sure and double-check what he's shooting. Last time, he got so damned artistic that you couldn't see who was in the picture.

No problem. I'll write up the hearing as soon as I get home. Speak to you later.

The Sound Shore Times covered the political issues of the area, as well as all the lunches at the Senior Center and the fundraisers at the three churches and two synagogues in town. Gene focused only on what was local–news and sports–and left the national and international stuff to The New York Times and dozens of web sites. Gene printed twice a week and had an active web site. If you wanted to know what was happening in Milford and surrounding areas, or even the scores of the local high school teams, you checked The Sound Shore Times.

As chief, and in fact only, reporter for the paper, I covered it all. I'd been a professional journalist until I'd had Zoe and then decided to take a few years off to be with the kids, maybe work on my great American novel, the one that was still sitting in the bottom drawer of my desk. Pete's death had delayed my return to full-time work, but recently I'd been considering my career options.

I made a mental list of what needed to be done before school pickup at three o'clock. First I needed to pound out the story on the 25th anniversary concert of the Columbiettes, an acappella singing group of local women. I also had to read the position papers on the controversial law that the Town Council had drafted to stop development of the proposed outlet mall; pick up some milk and turkey breast to make sandwiches for dinner; and find Zoe's Girl Scout Badge Book.

Shit, I've got to bring the stupid snack. I added Oreos and grape Gatorade to the shopping list. But before I did anything else, I had to walk Jake before he pooped on the family room carpet. If there was a spare minute, I needed to throw on a load of laundry so that Caleb's baseball uniform was clean for the game the following afternoon. No chance of expanding my professional career today. I'd be lucky to keep the job I had.

Chapter 3

I grinned. The ding meant an instant message from Shelley.

~*~*~

Shelley: Hey, I'm home.

Me: Why aren't you at work??

Shelley: Damn pipe burst. Plumber just got here. Yet another reason I'm pissed off at Joey.

Me: Yeah, what can I say? I had to cut up a wool rug with an Exacto knife today. If Pete weren't dead already, I'd kill him.

Shelley: You think these guys died just to piss us off?

Me: Maybe

Shelley: It's day 315 and I got to say I'm looking at my plumber with newfound appreciation.

Me: Is he *hot*?????

Shelley: Only if you call 40 pounds overweight and missing two teeth, *hot*. But it is day 315, that's all I'm going to say.

Me: Day 425 here, but who's counting? Maybe you can trade sexual favors for plumbing repairs?

Shelley: I'm considering it. Got to go. Romeo is calling for a wrench. Ah, those sweet nothings are always a turn-on. Later.

~*~*~

I had first encountered Shelley online through a message board for Young Widows, women who were under 40 when their husbands had died. We'd never actually met, but had started e-mailing each other when I read the subject line on one of Shelley's first postings, Anyone else horny? and immediately fired off a message.

Shelley's husband, Joey, had died 9 months earlier of leukemia, leaving her 28 years old with a toddler, a crappy job as the office manager for a fruit wholesaler, and a heap of debt.

Now we 'talked' daily and I considered this woman I'd never actually met face-to-face one of my closest friends. Shelley understood in a way that nobody except another young widow could, about the loneliness, frustration, and anger that came with the territory. And the advantage of an Internet friendship, I'd learned, was that you could say things, express outrageous thoughts, and not have to face the person the next day.

I sat down at the kitchen table, with a highlighter pen, and began reading through the pile of material that the two sides of the Outlet Mall controversy had been churning out. Whole forests had died in the paper blizzard generated by this debate.

It was simple, and it wasn't. On the one side, were the developers, led by Mickey Towers, of Towers Limited. He wanted to build a 100-store mall of outlet stores that would sell the wares of major designers and retailers like Tommy Hilfiger, Anne Klein, Saks Fifth Avenue and more. Towers proposed renovating a depressed area in Somerville, a city whose glory days had long since passed.

Somerville City officials were happy because they saw much needed dollars coming into their city's treasury. The pro-mall forces painted themselves as heroes who wanted to change a blighted neighborhood into a money-making magnet for shoppers. The outlet mall would improve an area that desperately needed upgrading; would generate needed jobs; would add to the municipal coffers through sales and property taxes; and all would be done without any negative impact on the environment.

The hitch was