Disorderly Conduct. Mary Feliz
I stopped abruptly when I overheard that last line, nearly sloshing lemonade from the pitcher I was carrying all over myself and the person who’d uttered the impossible words.
“Are you talking about Tess?” I asked Pauline Windsor, a PTA volunteer with a perfect, ultraconservative wardrobe, expensively colored and coifed hair, and an entitlement complex. I’d run afoul of her on more than one occasion and tended to grit my teeth on principle whenever I saw her. “You know better than that,” I said, adopting the disappointed expression I typically saved for misbehaving children.
The woman whom Pauline had buttonholed, a short woman with fluffy white hair, pink cheeks, and a voluminous quilted purse, blushed and looked away. Muttering an apology, she disappeared into the garage.
Pauline, on the other hand, sniffed and rolled her eyes. “That’s what I heard. You know they always suspect family when there’s a murder. Are you denying that Tess and Patrick were separated?”
I clenched my jaw until I feared for my dental work, trying to get a lid on my anger before opening my mouth. Pauline’s statement, as usual, was full of traps it would be far too easy to fall into. I was tempted to defend Tess, explaining that though she and Patrick maintained separate permanent residences, they were devoted to one another, to their marriage, and to their son. It was an unusual relationship, but it worked for them. And it was none of Pauline’s or anyone else’s business. I responded slowly, hoping to avoid triggering any of the scandalmonger’s land mines.
“I know you like to verify information before you repeat it,” I deliberately lied. “Tess would be the person to ask about her personal life with Patrick. To make sure you get the story right.”
Pauline took a deep breath, crossed her arms, and opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. “And as far as I know, the Santa Clara County medical examiner, Dr. Linda Mindar, hasn’t reported on the cause of Patrick’s death or the manner of death. She hasn’t yet had time to review the science or the facts. At least she hadn’t when we talked to her personally a few hours ago.” I glanced at my watch. “Have you heard something from her more recently?”
Pauline dodged the question. “It makes sense that the authorities are talking to Tess,” she said so loudly that everyone stopped talking and turned toward us. “It’s always the closest relative.”
I was gratified by the number of people, all friends of Tess or Patrick’s, who rolled their eyes or sniffed and returned to their own conversations.
Jason appeared out of nowhere and took Pauline’s elbow, guiding her outside. “Is your husband here? Your daughter? I wanted to talk to you about a problem we’ve been seeing in your neighborhood. I need to make sure none of you are in danger.”
Pauline gasped. My guess was that her thoughts had immediately and selfishly turned to her own safety, and she was calculating how to get social mileage out of the drama of being protected by the dashing new police chief.
Behind me, the murmur of voices had risen to a dull roar from the shocked silence that followed Pauline’s barbed remarks. Apparently I wasn’t the only resident of Orchard View who’d learned to dismiss her gossip. Tess had once told me that many of Pauline’s whims were indulged by the community only because she was an avid volunteer and handled positions that were tricky to fill otherwise.
Someone tapped me on the back. I turned, and a broad-shouldered man in a wheelchair wearing a Stanford University ball cap held out his glass for a refill of lemonade. With the glass in one hand and the pitcher in the other, I used my chin to point to his cap. “You knew Patrick from his undergraduate days?”
“And grad school. Then we both took jobs at Hewlett Packard. We still work—worked together at one of the Google spin-offs. I run with—ran with Patrick’s club, the Orchard View Road Runners.” He snorted and shook his head. “I heard what that woman was saying. She’s nuts. Tess wouldn’t hurt anyone. Did you say there’s a cop here? Can you point him out? There are some things that don’t add up. Stuff the cops should know.”
Chapter 7
If these organizing steps come naturally to you, consider reaching out to become involved in emergency preparedness programs in your neighborhood, community, school, or workplace, particularly to assist people with disabilities who may need extra help adapting in a crisis.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Sunday, August 6, Evening
Intrigued by the stranger’s suggestion that Patrick’s death was more complicated than it appeared on the surface, I pointed him toward Stephen. Stephen wasn’t an official member of the Orchard View Police Force, but he’d know how to handle the man’s information while Jason was dealing with the dreadful Pauline out on the front lawn.
I quickly lost track of the man, and didn’t have a chance to follow up with Stephen. At quarter to ten, as though a gong had gone off, guests started to leave one by one, and then in a flood. A few stayed behind to tidy up the kitchen, take out the garbage, and leave Tess’s kitchen and backyard spotless. The dishwasher sloshed and hummed with a first load while other dishes were set, rinsed and stacked, on the counter. Bulkier items had been washed, dried, and put away.
Orchard View people aren’t perfect. Some, like Pauline, I could barely stomach. But the town took care of its own. Neighbors looked after neighbors. Those connections of kindness, even between people who didn’t otherwise like one another, made Patrick’s death exceptionally shocking.
It seemed like hours later when Max and I unfolded Tess’s sofa and climbed into bed. Tess had insisted we stay, saying that it made her feel safe to have us close by.
“This whole situation is overwhelming,” Tess said. “I’m preoccupied and certain I shouldn’t be driving. Tomorrow morning I’ll need your help with issues that haven’t even occurred to me yet.” She’d sighed and hugged me. “Please stay. There’s that fire too. I can’t let you go out there. I need to know you’re safe. I can’t worry about you and Teddy and hang on to my sanity. It’s too much.”
“Of course. Do you want us to sit up with you, or do you think you can get some sleep? What about Teddy?”
“All three boys are curled up on my bed watching some movie full of car chases and explosions. When it’s over, I’ll kick them out. Your boys can crash with Teddy if they want. Or...they may want to stick close to you two. They’re looking pretty shell-shocked themselves.”
In the end, all three boys decided to bunk together in Teddy’s room. But it wasn’t long before David and Brian dragged their sleeping bags into the living room and plopped them down on the floor near us. Belle launched herself from the sofa bed and somehow managed to land on the midsections of both boys at once. Their joint “ooof!” set us into gales of much-needed stress-relieving laughter. As our snorts and giggles trailed off and Max’s soft snores began, I heard a shuffling sound at the end of the hallway and imagined Teddy was dragging his own blanket or sleeping bag toward his mother’s bedroom. Teenaged boys are mostly grown-up, but when they’re hurting, they still need their parents. And there was no question Teddy was hurting.
“Mom?” David whispered.
“Yes?” At first, I thought he was looking for reassurance that I was close by, but David’s sleeping bag rustled as he sat up. I leaned over the side of the bed where I could almost make out his expression in the light cast by the streetlights through the sheer curtains. David’s hair was already tousled from his brief attempt at sleep. He rubbed the back of his neck and squinted at me.
“Something happened when we were all outside. By the fire, in back.”
“Okay,” I said, to let him know I was still listening.
“Well, um.” David cleared his throat and stared into the distance, avoiding my face. “That Mrs. Windsor. Bratty Rebecca’s mom.”
“Right.”
“She’s