Chapter One

Sane women do not plot homicide at Parent Teacher Organization meetings. Libby O’Rourke was the exception.

“Give me one flipping reason not to slap the spray tan right off those self-righteous tramps,” Libby screeched, along with the minivan’s tires.

“It’s not like you didn’t see this coming, Lib.” Caroline Duffy, Libby’s best friend since Immaculate Conception Primary School gripped the overhead chicken bar for dear life. “Oh God,” she gasped. “Red light, red light!”

“Of course I saw it coming.” Libby breezed through the light and onto the defenseless streets of Rhyme, Connecticut at drag-race speed. “That peroxide-damaged brain trust wouldn’t recognize a smart choice if it bit them.”

Nestled along the picturesque shoreline, Rhyme consisted of two clearly defined areas: the waterfront—housing elite, old money residents—and the Buy Mart side of town, for all lesser citizens. October was low-tourist season, and as luck would have it, there were few witnesses to Libby’s manic traffic skills.

“Jogger!” Caroline screamed.

“Relax,” Libby swerved, “he’s fast. See how quick he jumped the curb?”

“You didn’t give him a choice!”

“Worry wart.”

Rounding the corner onto Murray Lane, she slowed. Home to Libby, her husband Bob and their children, Shannon and Charlie, the historically designated neighborhood was perfect for the tool-inexperienced homeowners. Peeling paint, moss covered roofs and structural deterioration all fell into the category of authentic New England charm. Neighborhood associations required meticulous gardens, so as long as you mowed and maintained seasonal plants, drug-den-like exteriors added character.

“I want to live!” Caroline begged, “Slow down, please! I have a date Friday, my first shot at kissing something other than my client’s ass in over a year, and I’d rather not show up at Casa Alfredo in sling backs and a body cast. Show some compassion for the repressed and get us home in one piece.”

Libby decelerated onto the crumbling asphalt driveway, surveyed the house, and laughed. Fifteen years ago, the chipper realtor described the 1800’s Colonial as “a partially restored gem with endless possibilities.” Libby described the realtor as “liar, liar, polyester blazer on fire!”

A faded picket fence lined the front lawn, the third post to the right cracked during the unfortunate weed whacker incident of ’08. Repair was number eighty-seven on the to-do list, before college educations and after retirement planning.

The property’s cedar shingles were a cheery yellow, to be precise, Buy Mart Citrus Blend. The trim was Midnight Black. All colors had been preapproved by the Rhyme Historical Society.

The Society, as they called themselves, was a coven of witches meeting semi-annually for the sole purpose of making Libby’s life miserable, and although she did not have any hard evidence, quarterly restoration meetings concluded with a faint smell of brimstone.

In the backyard sat a small, one-time caretaker’s cottage. The same delusional realtor had spun a colorful tale in which the building housed members of the Underground Railroad during the Civil War and insisted a little elbow grease would spiff the place right up. After a failed recreation room attempt, Libby discovered a dump truck full of vegetable oil wouldn’t come close to doing the job.

Calming, Libby jumped two scooters and the remainder of a sandcastle before tearing open the main house’s front door.

“Where are the Cheese Bites?” she boomed.

“That good, huh?” Bob answered from his beloved black leather recliner, Old Stink.

“Don’t mess with me Bob, where are they?”

“On the table next to the pinot I picked up at Wine Cellar. Call it a hunch.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Married twenty years, Bob and Libby had the uncanny knack of anticipating the other’s every need. Bob, an easygoing guy, needed solitude for all televised New York sports. This included, but was not limited to, exhibition games and spring training. Libby, a tad more stress eater, required a pantry stocked with wine and Cheese Bites. No couples therapy or separate vacations for Bob and Libby—they maintained their bliss with overpaid athletes and orange snack food.

Caroline entered to witness Libby’s first inhalation of orange crackers. “You’re so pretty,” she teased.

“Bite me,” Libby spat. “Wine?”

“Yes.”

Libby yanked the fishbowl-size glasses off the top shelf and poured.

Caroline snagged a glass and said hello to Bob. “Hey there, counselor, how’s Muggers and Thieves Land?” She loved Bob. His stoicism was the best counter balance for Libby’s Irish temper.

A public defender for eighteen years, Bob started his career on the other side of the aisle, but quickly realized he did not like the view. After a brief career with the District Attorney’s office left him bogged down in political bull, and out of touch with the flesh and bones of the judicial system, he made the jump to the PD’s office and never looked back.

“About the same.” Bob answered Caroline. “How’s the whole deliberately-misleading-the-public thing going?”

Advertising, in Caroline’s opinion, did not mislead the public; it gently guided, with a hint of subliminal manipulation. “Can’t complain,” she said. “And hey, after tonight’s PTO meeting your job may come in handy. Lib needs to put you on retainer.”

Libby spun from the kitchen. Cheese Bites spewed. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Caroline scolded. “Or did someone else call Stacy Warner ‘an uneducated fundraising whore’ and threaten to publish her high school fat pictures online? I’m pretty sure that crosses into defamation of character.” She turned to Bob. “What’s your opinion lawyer guy?”

He could not help but smile. “Lib, we’ve talked about this.”

“Do not use the Dad Voice with me or I’m wearing the don’t-touch-me flannel pjs for a month!” She piled in more crackers, chewed minimally and swallowed. “I know I flew off the handle, but come on! I singlehandedly raised over thirty thousand dollars for that school, and they desperately need a reading teacher. But no. Silicone-Whore and her evil minions have a wicked-great idea!” Chasing down the crackers with an unladylike gulp of wine it was clear tasting the wine was secondary to feeling the effects.

“Do I want to know about the ‘wicked-great idea,’ or can I safely assume it is crap?” Bob asked.

Libby dripped sarcasm. “Oh no, honey, it’s wicked, wicked great!” Hands on her hips, she plastered on a whopping grin. “The Acorn Elementary PTO is going to spend thirty thousand dollars on a new Kiddie Kardio Slide for the playground. Isn’t that marvelous?”

Bob frowned. “I’m confused. Didn’t you just have some cookie fundraiser deal a couple of years ago for a playground?”

Caroline groaned. “Shit Bob, now you did it.”

“What did I say?”

“Two years ago we thoroughly renovated that damned playground!” Libby fumed. “I sold more freaking cookie dough than a chain of bakeries! Half of which I consumed. Cookie dough, for exercise equipment? Does no one see the irony? I had to buy new pants and join Fat Be Gone, but we got the stupid equipment.”

Reluctantly Bob asked, “At the risk of losing my genitals, I’m going to assume you pointed that fact out to the PTO?”

She walked over and planted a quick kiss on the top of his head. “I sometimes make use of your genitals, so I’ll let that one go.”

Bob continued, “Why’s this slide-thing more important than a teacher?”

Libby turned back to Caroline. “I can’t go through this without more wine, you fill him in.” She tossed the brochure to her and headed back to the kitchen.

In her best ad pitch, Caroline plopped down on the couch and read aloud. “The Kiddie Kardio Slide has two ladders!” She gasped. “This exceptional bonus feature allows more students to experience the cardiovascular benefits of free play sliding while fostering an environment of team building and turn taking, thus successfully combating the growing epidemic of childhood obesity.”

“Ladders?” Bob’s face pinched in confusion. “That’s what thirty grand buys you?”

Libby returned to the couch, wine in hand and said, “Tremendous plan, don’t you think? Now we will have a school full of thin, team-oriented, illiterate children. They’ll speak without verbs but look fabulous in skinny jeans.”

She closed her eyes and laid her head on the back of the couch. “No more, I fold.”

“Feel better?” Bob asked.

“Defeated.”

“Finish your wine. It heals.” Caroline tipped back her final sip as she headed toward the door. “I have to go. Trevor has a book report due tomorrow that I need to proof.” Caroline’s fourteen-year-old son was the only decent thing to come out of her marriage to Steve-the-Schmuck.

“To be clear,” Libby teased, “by ‘proof’ you mean finish the book, write the report and edit to ensure ninth grade authenticity?”

“No, wise ass.” Caroline reached for the knob. “I’ll have you know I finished the book yesterday. And enough about my crimes, I’m worried about yours. Remember Lib, homicide is a felony; and no matter how thick the PTO bimbos are, you’d look horrendous in prison orange. Worse...no lattes in the Big House.”

“True,” Libby said. “Thanks for the moral support tonight.”

“Are you kidding? Me miss the show? Never.” Waving goodbye, Caroline left.

Libby grabbed a last fistful of Cheese Bites and snuggled into Bob’s lap on Old Stink. The ugly recliner was the one item from bachelorhood she had permitted him to move into their marriage. A pool table, air hockey set, and iceberg-sized stereo was sold off to buy baby furniture.

“What did I miss on the home front tonight?” she asked.

“Standard issue O’Rourke night,” Bob said.

His late father, General James O’Rourke, had communicated with career military precision. Whether reading a grocery list or delivering a heartfelt eulogy, the General kept it brief. Bob inherited the conversational skill.

“Shannon requests I no longer pick her up in front of the school. Apparently, that was exceedingly seventh grade of me to do to her today, but I have been forgiven. Please note: the socially acceptable point of pick up for eighth graders is the side of the building, adjacent to the tennis courts. Also, and this is key new information, we cannot say hello or make eye contact until we have pulled away from said location.”

“So noted,” Libby snickered. “Anything new with Charlie?”

“Ah yes, Master Charles. You may have noticed the beach in the driveway?”

“I did.”

“It’s for Cha-Cha.”

The toddler-sized tabby cat, Cha-Cha belonged to Libby and Bob’s neighbor, Dominic Genovese. “Charlie,” Bob explained, “is convinced Stump will eat Cha-Cha if she continues to use the sandbox in the backyard as a playground, and, in an effort to avoid bloodshed, brought sand out front to keep the dueling parties separate.”

“Did you explain Cha-Cha is using the sandbox as a toilet?” Libby asked with a grimace.

“Circumstantial evidence.” Bob answered.

“Speaking of Attila the Labrador, where is Stump?”

“I had to put him outside for a little gastrointestinal alone time. Charlie shared some coleslaw at dinner. I opened the windows, but it may take a few days to get the smell completely out of the house.”

The O’Rourke family had rescued Stump, a three-year-old ball of drool and energy, from the local animal shelter. All they knew at the time was the black dog previously belonged to a single, professional woman who could no longer manage his needs. A month with the family, and Stump’s special needs became apparent, as did the need for multi-room air fresheners.

“Did you call the vet today for his prescription?” Libby asked.

“I picked it up on my way home. I forgot to throw it in his dinner.” He shifted in the recliner, facing her. “Come on Lib, everyone gets gas. Do we really need to drug him?”

“Bob,” Libby reasoned, “we all get gas. Stump, however, defies the laws of digestion. May I remind you I am the one trapped in the car with him ninety percent of the time? The smell was so awful on the way to Charlie’s soccer practice I almost lost consciousness. He gets the pill or lives in the garage. You pick.”

“Fine, we drug him. Nevertheless, you could cut him a break once in a while. We already took the poor guy’s balls.”

She set her head on his shoulder. “So what else did I miss? Any calls?”

“Mae. Message is on the machine. I was outside talking to Dom after dinner when she called. I started to play it back but had to stop listening after she started talking, in detail, about her colonoscopy.” He grimaced. “Really Lib, can you broach the too-much-information factor with your mother?”

“Did she want me to call her back tonight?”

“Again, stopped listening; TMI.”

Libby yawned and climbed out of Bob’s lap. “All right, I’ll check the voice mail before we go to bed.”

Bob heaved out of Old Stink and went to the back door to call Stump in for the night. Tail wagging, the loveable dog bounded in and slurped Bob with warm licks. “Hey Stump. Go see Mom. She’s had a tough night.”

Stump spotted Libby and shot to her side. “Hey bud, all the coleslaw pass?” Libby scratched his ears. “Not planning any late night surprises for me, are you?” Something about Stump’s colossal happy-dog face made Libby’s frustration melt away. Then the smell hit. Happy moment gone, she filled his dish with water and double-checked the doors.

Lights out, Libby trudged upstairs with Bob. After a quick peek in on Shannon and Charlie, the couple settled into their bedroom. Stretching, Bob turned to her.

“I’ve got a deposition in the morning,” he said. “Can you get the kids on the bus?”

“What’s tomorrow?” She rubbed her forehead.

“Wednesday. Will you make it to Friday?”

“God willing; tomorrow is fine. I don’t have to be in until ten.”

A part-time librarian, Libby’s job was the ideal book-lover/mother combo. The blissfully quiet six-hour days made nighttime family chaos tolerable. There were more lucrative careers an English Literature degree could attract, but none appealed more to her sense of family.

Libby went to the bathroom and got ready for bed while Bob stripped down to his boxers and climbed between the cool sheets. He smiled in anticipation. Two glasses of wine in Libby’s system was a green light for sex. Three tipped the scales to the dark side, guaranteeing drool, snores, and in one unfortunate instance, incontinence. For better or worse, she was all his.

Brushed and flossed, Libby exited the bath in Bob’s tattered college T-shirt. He wiggled a brow and said, “There is something so hot about a woman in beer-stained cotton.” She smiled and he went for gold. “How about it, up for a little lovin’?”

“Um”—her expression said socks under the Christmas tree—“sure.”

“You’re tired,” he pouted. “Tomorrow.”

Still attracted by Bob’s Polish/Irish machismo, Libby weighed her options—romance or sleep. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “I’m up for a quick one, but no kissing. I’m wearing one of those overnight tooth-whitening gimmicks.”

“Good oral hygiene is such a turn-on,” he said, tossing the sheet aside. “I’ll take the deal!”

She slid into bed. “Honey, this isn’t a plea bargain.”

“I’m pleading. You bargained.”

At three o’clock, excess wine and a bladder weakened by two pregnancies woke Libby from a sound sleep. She crept to the bathroom as quietly as two-hundred-year-old floor boards would allow and, on the way back, noticed the phone’s blinking message light.

“Crap.” Mae’s message taunted from the answering machine. “What to do?” she said to herself. “Check it, or go back to bed?” Years of maternally ingrained guilt won out as she pressed play.

“Hi Lib,” Mae’s recorded message played. “It’s your mother.”

“Color me surprised.” Libby groaned.

“I just got back from my visit with Dr. Cooper. You remember him, he removed Daddy’s planter’s wart.”

“TMI Mom, TMI.”

“Anyhow, he did a splendid job with my colon and said I had none of those dirty pollocks.”

“Polyps, unless you’ve got a ten-foot abstract in your small intestine.”

“You can watch now. Did you know that? They have a camera in your bum the whole time, fascinating really. Anyway, a few of my other test results were a bit off, and he wants me to see a neurologist for some silly reason. Nothing to worry about, just a little blip to check out. Anyhow, I need someone to take me for the appointment, and I was hoping you could find the time. If not, don’t worry, I’ll call your brother Sean. I’m sure he can drop anything less important than his mother.”

“Of course. He’s Jesus.” Libby’s eyes rolled.

“Take care, sweetie. Call me when you can, love to all.”

Libby replayed the message and returned to bed. Blip speculation haunted her dreams.