“I did it,” he said to the floor. “I was bad and now we’ll never get a dog and it’ll all be my fault. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”
“Oliver.” I spoke sharply. It seemed harsh, but it was the best way to handle the boy when he edged into inanity. “Oliver!”
He dragged a hand across his face and his palm came away wet. My heart crumpled, and it took a superhuman feat of strength not to pull him tight against my heart. I had to be both mother and father to my children now, and this was a time for Dad to show up. “Tell me what you did.”
“I haven’t, not for a long time. I haven’t!”
“Okay.” I had no clue what he was talking about—none whatsoever.
“Please don’t be mad.”
How I hated when the kids said that.
“Oliver, just tell me.”
“It’s the . . .”
“The what?”
“The bed.” Jenna thudded into the kitchen. “He wet the bed again last night. Are
“Jenna! Get that boot off the table!”
She dragged her heel across the glossy wood, leaving a dark trail.
“Oh, Jenna. Why did you do that?”
Her face took on that dreaded stubborn look. “All you care about is the furniture and what we wear. You don’t care anything about us. Especially me!” She ran across the room and opened the door to the garage.
“Don’t—”
Too late. She was already out the door, slamming it shut behind her. I winced. I recognized it all: the sulks, the slams. At long last, my mother’s curse was coming true. I had a daughter just like me.
“Mommy?” Oliver asked.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Are you mad?” His big, round eyes looked up at me.
I abandoned the father mode and ran straight back to being Mom. The hug I gave him was as full of love and reassurance as it was possible for a hug to be. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s not your fault you wet the bed. These things happen.”
“They do?” He squirmed out of my embrace. “Did you do it when you were little?”
I decided to fictionalize my childhood. “No, but I had a friend who did.”
“What happened?” A small line appeared between his eyebrows. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s a. . . .” I thought through the friends of my youth and came up empty-handed. Back to fiction. “A police officer.”
“What’s her name?”
The short story was becoming a novella. “Sharon.”
“Here? In Rynwood? Has she found out who killed Mrs. Mephisto yet?”
The garage door opened six inches. “We’re going to be
“Get your coat, Oliver,” I said. “We’ll talk about this tonight.”
I backed down the driveway, thinking hard. Oliver hadn’t wet the bed in months. Jenna hadn’t had a shouting sulk like that in . . . well, ever. To have the two incidents occur simultaneously made me think there was a single cause. And there was only one way to fix it.
I dropped the kids off at school, made a short stop back home to toss Oliver’s pajamas and bedding into the wash and to put some vinegar on the mattress, then headed to the store and the privacy of my office. Any other time I might have been nervous dialing this particular phone number, but today my fingers didn’t quiver at all.
“Dane County Sheriff’s Department,” said a calm female. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the murder of Agnes Mephisto. She was killed in Rynwood two days ago.”
“The sheriff oversees all murder investigations, ma’am, but the deputy in charge of that case is Deputy Wheeler. I’ll transfer you now.”
There was a click, a hum, and then a ring and a half. “Deputy Sharon Wheeler.”
I gasped loud enough for her to hear.
“Hello? Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Her name was Sharon. What were the odds? My multidegreed brother could probably tell me, but then I’d have to feign interest in how he got the answer. “I’m fine. Just a . . . a little frog in my throat.”
“How can I help you?” The deputy sounded busy but helpful. I knew the tone well; I used it myself every Saturday afternoon I worked at the store.
“My name is Beth Kennedy,” I said, “from Rynwood. My children attend Tarver Elementary, the school where Agnes Mephisto was principal. I was just wondering if you’re close to finding her murderer.”
“The investigation is proceeding. The local media will be notified when we have solid information.”
“Do you have
“I’m sorry about your kids,” Deputy Wheeler said. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“Thank you.” As if a seven-year-old would care about “everything we can.” I squinched my nose at the phone. “Gloria Kuri, Agnes’s sister, is sending me the key to the house. She wants me to clean out the refrigerator. I should have the key by Saturday. Will it be okay to get into the house?”
“The house is no longer a crime scene,” Deputy Wheeler said. “If you have lawful right, you may enter at any time.”
“What if I find something important? To finding the killer, I mean. Should I call?”
“At any time,” the deputy said, and I realized I must have sounded like an idiot. Crime-scene people had probably gone over the house with all sorts of fancy equipment. What was I going to find that they already hadn’t?
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
Embarrassment heated my face. “Thanks for taking my call.”
“Not a problem. Hope those kids of yours are okay.”
I hung up, thinking that she was just busy, not unfeeling. She probably had children of her own and knew what it was like.
Still, it sounded to me as if this evening’s first chore would be to haul out the vinyl mattress pad.
Chapter 8
Friday night, Richard picked up the kids. While Jenna and Oliver were fastening their seat belts, I told my ex about the wish for a dog and the bed-wetting incident and their reaction to the death of their principal.
“But they hardly knew Agnes Mephisto.” He glanced at the car. “They can’t possibly be that upset.”
“They saw her every day at school. And it’s not as if she died from cancer or a car accident. She was murdered.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
This was Richard’s standard response to anything he wished to avoid. It covered everything from worry about finding the perfect Christmas present to panic over blood gushing from a child’s nose.
“Could be.” I waved good-bye to the kids. “But if you have to buy a new mattress on Monday, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Saturday morning I was at Marina’s bright and early. I knocked and let myself in. The lady of the house sashayed into the kitchen wearing Capri pants and a fitted blouse with a scarf tied flat around her neck. Another
