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At first, Sandra had been so motivated to help Bob figure out who had killed Jazmyn. And if good intentions did anything, she would already have the crime all solved. But that’s not the way things were going. The week had slipped by, frantic minute by frantic minute. She’d had to zip kids back and forth to soccer practice. She’d had two more games herself, games for which she was grateful, as she’d wondered if the whole Dixville Falls debacle would lead to her termination. Instead, her boss had dealt sternly with the Dixville Falls athletic director.
In addition to all the demands of soccer season, she’d had to last-second-prepare for, then facilitate, and then clean up after a knitting workshop at church. This was more of an ordeal than it should have been as she wasn’t a very good knitter, and she was incredibly stressed out about the whole affair. She was sure that there were real, expert knitters in the group waiting to judge her.
Somehow, Tuesday afternoon sneaked up and then popped out at her like a scary clown out of a jack-in-the-box. Dance night. It was time for Joanna’s dance class, which wasn’t very scary at all. But it was time for hers.
She had nothing to wear.
“Just wear some sweatpants,” Nate suggested less than helpfully. She thought back to what the other women had been wearing. She couldn’t remember any sweatpants. Colorful leggings and flowing sleeveless tops. One woman in leather shorts and black fingerless fishnet gloves that reached past her elbows. One woman who looked as though she’d just stepped off the plane from India. One woman in an olive jumpsuit. But no sweatpants.
“I can’t wear sweatpants,” she snapped.
He looked wounded.
“Sorry, I’m just stressed out.” More like panicked.
“Wear your reffing outfit,” Peter said with a snort, and she threatened to ground him for the rest of his life.
“Let’s go shopping,” Joanna chirped.
“We don’t have time,” Sandra said. Nor did they have extra money to spend on Mommy dance clothes. She announced that Mommy needed a time out and asked her children to please stay downstairs. Then she went upstairs to contend with her options.
She opened the closet door and surveyed the options.
Then she went through her drawers.
Sweatpants it is, she thought. She pulled her “newest” pair out of the bottom drawer. She’d bought them used before Joanna was born. She shook them out and then promptly sneezed. She’d left the drawer open a few inches, and Mr. T had squirmed in there for a nap or two. Maybe three. Now her black sweatpants were mostly white. She gave them another firm shake and then put them on. At least they were comfortable. She then pulled a faded Tenth Avenue North T-shirt out of her drawer and on over her head. She put her hair up in a sort-of-bun, looked in the mirror, flinched, and then headed for the door.
Nate met her in the hallway. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her on top of the head. “You look lovely,” he said, managing to sound sincere. He stepped back and held her at arm’s length.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
He let out a long breath. “I’m still not excited that you’re doing this, but I appreciate your braveness. Just remember, no investigating unless Bob is right there.”
“I’ve already promised that.” She had to get going. They were going to be late. She tried to get by him, but he didn’t let go of her.
“I know that. Promise me again?”
Something in his tone softened her heart and calmed her spirit. She smiled up at him. “I promise.” She brushed her lips against his and then pulled away. “Gotta go!”
She herded Joanna into the van and then headed toward Synergy Dance Studio.
“Where’s Bob?” Joanna chirped from the back.
Sandra had been thinking the same thing ever since Ms. Cowbell had threatened to kill her with the world’s most obnoxious murder weapon. She looked in the rearview mirror. “Joanna?”
She looked up, and she was so adorable in her little leotard.
“I know that I’m helping Bob, and you know that I’m helping Bob, but no one else can know that, right?”
She nodded eagerly and put her small finger up to her lips. “It’s a secret, I know.”
“Good girl. We don’t want Bob getting in trouble with God, so we have to keep him a secret.”
“I know. I won’t tell anyone.”
“And we can’t tell anyone that I’m trying to figure out who hurt that woman. That’s a secret too.”
Joanna tipped her head to the side and gave Sandra an exasperated look. “I know that, Mom. I’m not stupid.” She sounded more like a fourteen-year-old than an eight-year-old.
“Slow this life down, Father,” Sandra prayed under breath. “Slow us down.”
