Family Matters

Chapter 1

Oh, Miss Wilder! Can you explain what that confusing double number sign thingy is?

The question came from a plump woman draped in a flowing, fuchsia suit who was crammed into a student desk at the back of the classroom. She grinned, dipping her head like a naughty schoolgirl, and Roxanne Wilder plastered on her teacher’s smile and ran through her limited knowledge of music theory.

This was the last week of Putting on a Musical Rendezvous, a community class offered by WACKED—the Wilton Adult Center for Knowledge and Education. The class’s proper name, "Putting on a Musical Review", had suffered at the hands of the WACKED typing pool. Instead of advertising for a qualified choir, the catalogue error had attracted several tone-deaf seniors looking to spice up their love lives. Rounding out the group were four detention students from Paxton High School who, after skipping school, had been forced to participate in the class as a form of community service.

You know, the woman in fuchsia continued, waving her sheet music in the air to make her point, I just can’t understand why anyone would use a perfectly good key like G Major and then litter it with all these unnecessary marks. She set the page back on the desk. It seems—oh, how I shall say it. She hesitated, fingertips resting on her full bottom lip. "I’ve got it! It seems excessive. Yes. That’s the word I want. Excessive."

It was common knowledge the class accompanist, Pam O’Brien—a frog-faced woman who resembled a tree stump—had composed the maligned piece. Pam rose from the piano bench with her hands spread wide. Her treble clef earrings jangled, and her voice oozed with condescension as she said:

As a Professional Musician, I see the music through a different lens than a lay person.

I didn’t ask you. I asked the teacher. Score one for the woman in fuchsia.

"I liked our first teacher, the other Miss Wilder, Mr. Petrie shouted from the front row. Why isn’t she here?" He elbowed his wife.

Mrs. Petrie paused in her knitting and tapped her ear. "Your hearing aid battery is dead again, dear. And I already told you. Miss Wilder—the first Miss Wilder—ran into a pickup truck with her bicycle and she’s feeling poorly. Her sister’s the best WACKED could do on short notice."

Pam cleared her throat. I beg to differ. As a Professional Musician—

A glare from Roxanne silenced the accompanist, and she settled her ample bottom back down on the bench.

Damn fool thing to do, if you ask me, Mr. Petrie declared. I could have told her the pickup would win that round.

You’re right as always, dearest, Mrs. Petrie shouted back, needles clacking.

Mr. Petrie cupped a hand over his ear. What?!

I said you’re a smart one! Mrs. Petrie yelled.

Pam cleared her throat and said, Perhaps we want to concentrate on perfecting our performance instead of debating artistic choices. She looked at the students in turn, her thick lips stretched into a pained smile. "After all, Saturday night you’ll be standing in front of all of Wilton."

A self-conscious silence fell over the room.

Don’t worry, Roxanne soothed. No need to be nervous. It’s not as if your family members will heckle you.

That’s what you think, said the woman in fuchsia.

No need to be nervous? Roxanne’s aunt, Ida Nichols, jumped to her feet, her designer black cape swirling around her ramrod straight frame. She jerked her head toward Pam. Miss Musical Notes is right. The Christmas Walk represents the grand finale in the Wilton Centennial celebration. Years from now, the one thing that’s going to stick in anyone’s head is our performance. We’re doomed! She grabbed her Gucci handbag from the floor next to her chair. I don’t plan to be humiliated in front of the entire town. She crooked a finger at her fraternal twin sister, Mabel. Let’s go.

Mabel creaked to her feet. Ida was her ride home.

I know it’s difficult to imagine how great we’ll sound, Roxanne said, "but the payoff is this Saturday night, and I’ll have to include special thanks to you, Ida, for your tireless work in the alto section. We’re all counting on you."

Mollified, Ida returned to her chair. I do my best, she murmured. Mabel sat back down.

You’re a rock, Roxanne said, even as she silently agreed with her aunt. People had short memories. They’d probably already forgotten the Fourth of July Run for Wilton, the Fall Festival and Book Fair, and the Founder’s Day reenactment of the original settlers, too tired to cross the Fox River, laying down the camp that would later become downtown Wilton. At least the performance was at the end of the evening. Grog and eggnog might numb the audience and they wouldn’t notice the missed notes, uneven tempo and occasional forgotten lyric.

Are we going to practice our scales? The rest of the class groaned when Mabel warbled out her request, one she made every fifteen minutes.

"I can think of some things I’d like to scale," Georgette Henderson said with a leer toward Bob Goodman. Catalogue typo be damned, Georgette was determined to hook up with one of her fellow students before the semester ended. Bob innocently flashed a smile back at her, showing his perfectly fitted dentures.

Harold Pinter, quicker on the uptake, said, Georgie, you’re a tramp, with great admiration.

To answer the first question, Roxanne said, struggling to take charge of her wards, the thing that looks like a number sign is a sharp. It increases the pitch of the note by half a step. Two of them increase the note by a whole step. She slid a glance toward Pam. "It’s the composer’s prerogative, her artistic choice, to use a double sharp instead of the next whole note. Now, let’s run through the program one more time."

Mrs. Petrie, whose sweet soprano had won her the only solo, folded her knitting into a satchel by her feet and resigned herself to sing.

Roxanne raised her arm and Pam gave each group—sopranos, altos, tenors and the single bass—their starting note.

You’re off key again, Ida snapped at Georgette, who responded with a martyred smile.

"Someone needs a dose of Metamucil."

Alice Zimmerman, owner of the Golden Bear gift shop, threw her head back and laughed until Ida growled, Close your trap, Alice. Your dentures are slipping.

Ladies, please! Roxanne shouted. These women had been at each other’s throats since she took over the class. The root of their animosity probably revolved around a stolen pound cake recipe, but after Saturday night, it wouldn’t be her problem.

The juvenile delinquents snickered up a storm. That’s enough, Roxanne said. And put the Game Boy away, Toby.

A tall, dark-haired teenager pushed a few buttons and stuffed an electronic toy in his back pocket. It’s an iPhone. Game Boys are old news.

She skipped the rest of the starting pitches and gave the signal to begin, and the choir launched into a medley that began with White Christmas, morphed into Silver Bells and finished with a rousing rendition of Pam’s original number, Onward Wilton.

Roxanne relaxed during Mrs. Petrie’s too brief solo, and then the choir came in for the last refrain.

Wilton, Wilton, our hearts are forever in Wilton

Through high and low, wherever we go

Wilton is the place to be.

Not exactly Shakespeare, but a nice sentiment. The final note resonated in a long, off-tune waver, and when Roxanne’s watch alarm went off, she greeted the end of class with more enthusiasm than she’d shown the entire hour.

Don’t forget to practice your parts at home, she called after her departing students. We’ll meet in the lobby of the Paxton Building at nine o’clock. See you then.

"Drinkies at my house for anyone who’s interested—or interesting," Georgette announced with another leer.

Give it a rest, Ida said, cramming her music into her purse. Come on, Mabel.

Pam remained behind. If you ever need me to step in again….

I’ll be sure to ask if the occasion arises. Roxanne knew Pam felt WACKED had committed a cardinal sin when they passed her over as their original choice for music teacher in favor of Roxanne’s sister Vanessa.

"After all, I am a Professional Musician," Pam continued. She found a way to slip this into every conversation. It further annoyed Roxanne that, technically, it was true. As church organist for Mother of Good Faith, Pam received a stipend for weddings and funerals and free cheese and crackers for providing background music on Bingo Night in the church hall.

However, Pam was no match for Vanessa. A child prodigy, Roxanne’s sister had gone on to major in piano performance at Bradley University, with a minor in education. She’d even performed at the historic Paramount Theater in nearby Aurora when that city had showcased top Illinois talent. Next to Roxanne’s sister, Pam played like a four-year-old with hooks for hands, but that hadn’t stopped her from competing with Vanessa ever since the two were children. And the fact that she held one victory over Vanessa only egged her on.

I’ll keep it in mind, Roxanne said, and she turned her back on Pam and gathered her notes from the lopsided music stand, fiddling with the pages until she was finally alone. The peace didn’t last long.

The woman in fuchsia plunked a large purse on the piano while she struggled into a bright, multi-colored quilted coat that in Biblical times would have gotten her tossed into a pit by jealous siblings. She topped it off with a purple Pashmina scarf. You really stink at this.

Roxanne pressed her fingers against the corner of her left eye to stop the twitch. You know perfectly well I haven’t had a music lesson since I was nine.

I know. I took the call when Mrs. Jared told me you were banned from her house for getting gum on her guitar strings.

Then why, Mother, did you keep trying to stump me with questions?

Deanna Wilder raised her eyebrows in surprise. I was making you look good, darling.

You came very close to making me look like an idiot.

After you referred to F as an E sharp, I thought you could use some help.

It was written that way in the music, Roxanne grumbled. Onward Wilton was incredibly boring, and Pam compensated with a complicated score filled with unnecessary notations, probably in an attempt to prove something to the WACKED board of directors.

WACKED didn’t offer sick leave, and Vanessa could hardly have crawled from her hospital bed to teach class. She had only recently been allowed to use a wheelchair.

With her sister’s income at risk, Roxanne had stepped in and cited her childhood music lessons as experience. She’d just lost her job as an insurance customer service rep in Los Angeles due to cutbacks, so she didn’t have other commitments. Deanna flew her to Wilton where she went over the lesson plans with Vanessa before each class and prayed she wouldn’t have to answer too many questions.

She secretly believed the board’s decision to allow her to step in for her sister had less to do with pity for Vanessa than with a general dislike of Pam. When confronted with Pam’s loud protests, they had cited a little-known rule that allowed them to waive instructor qualifications in the face of an emergency.

Why are you here, anyway? Roxanne asked. You’re not on my attendance sheet.

"My Criminal Psychology and You class finished early. I’m here to give moral support."

Roxanne bit her tongue to keep from responding and led Deanna down a corridor lined with Christmas drawings from the Young Rembrandts class offered on Tuesday nights. Ten-year-olds had an odd sense of humor. Roxanne noticed reindeer droppings on one rooftop, and another picture showed poor Santa after he landed on his head in the fireplace, and the scene included a cracked skull and lots of blood.

When they arrived at the teacher’s lounge—a solid door with more Keep Out signs than a boy’s clubhouse—Roxanne said, "I have to get my purse. You stay here. These people deserve a break from the riff-raff."

Two years ago, the current Dean, Mrs. Battencourt, had decided to spice up the WACKED curriculum in order to attract a broader base of students. The typical attendee of courses such as What a Wok! stir-fry class and Snow Sculpting Success were retirees looking to fill time—frugal retirees who expected their money’s worth from the teachers. One cooking instructor had threatened to file a restraining order after a student tracked down her home address and demanded she assist with a flambé at eleven o’clock at night. The break room was off-limits to students as a mercy to the teachers.

As soon as Roxanne unlocked the door, her mother, ignoring her warning, pushed inside.

The lounge was one long room filled with stained, unpadded carpeting, a threadbare couch, and a Formica lunch table. The corner held a refrigerator, microwave and a Bunsen burner borrowed from the science lab and used to brown toast. Several weary adult education instructors slouched around the room in recovery mode. When they saw Deanna, their betrayed glares followed Roxanne across the room.

How’s the music coming? called out a thin, middle-aged woman, her denim skirt and orange blouse covered in paint splotches. She sported a near-militant haircut and zebra-striped horned-rimmed glasses. Besides the Young Rembrandts class, Ms. Anne Orrick taught Talented Toes, a tribute to an armless painter she’d seen on the public access channel. In her class, students were expected to paint with their feet.

We’ll be ready, Roxanne said, even as Deanna chuckled and delicately waived her hand under her nose. Roxanne glared. Is there something you’d like to share, Mother?

I’m entitled to my opinion.

Ms. Orrick rose to toss her empty yogurt container into the trash, but she was stopped by Miss Edith Delany, a sweet, fluffy elderly spinster enrobed in Goodwill castoffs who taught Surviving Retirement without a Cat Food Diet.

Could I have that, dear? They make excellent candy dishes if you decorate them with old newspaper clippings.

Ms. Orrick made a face and handed off the container.

A rickety credenza served as a locker for all the teachers. They were assigned duplicate keys, and Roxanne pulled hers out of her jean pocket, unlocked the door, and grabbed her purse.

Don’t close it, Ms. Orrick called out. I’m leaving in a minute.

Roxanne grabbed her leather duster from the coat rack, said her goodbyes and led her mother from the room.

The building had switched over to cost-effective evening lighting, leaving the corridor dimly lit. At the end of the hallway, two men shook hands under the glowing exit sign that marked the back door. Illuminated in soft red, their features were hard to distinguish. The dark-haired man left the building, but the second man remained, deep in thought. He had a lanky build, all knees and elbows like Jiminy Cricket. The only thing missing was the top hat. As she moved closer, Roxanne noticed his light gray hair and a trimmed beard.

Professor Tidwell! Deanna scurried up to him and clutched his arm, shocking the man out of his reverie. Just the man I wanted to see.

A wary look crept into his eye. Mrs. Wilder. How nice to see you.

"You must be my mother’s Criminal Psychology and You instructor," Roxanne said, and she introduced herself.

He shook her proffered hand. "And you are substituting for Vanessa. I see musical talent runs in the family."

I’m just filling in. Vanessa’s the true prodigy. I can’t remember a time when the house wasn’t filled with sounds of her practicing Chopin and Mozart.

Over and over and over, Deanna said with a false gaiety. Professor Tidwell is a prodigy in his field, too.

The gentleman put his hand to his heart. "Thank you, but you exaggerate. I’ve advised the authorities on a few cases, but I’ve spent most of my time with my nose in my books. When I was starting out, criminal psychology wasn’t considered such a glamorous field, but with shows like The Profiler, everyone wants to jump on the bandwagon. I spend all my time in the classroom now."

Don’t be modest, Deanna said. She flung her hand out in the manner of a circus ringleader introducing the attraction at center stage. Professor Tidwell wrote the textbook which is the basis for our entire class. She dug through her bag and pulled out a hardbound book. "Criminal Psychology and You by Professor Marcus Tidwell."

You’re too kind. The professor clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. I’m fortunate to have an opportunity to share my knowledge through WACKED. Just the other day I was telling a colleague what a privilege it is to educate keen minds.

Don’t be so modest. Deanna pinched his cheek. When he stepped back in surprise, she slipped an arm through his and pulled him close. Speaking of class, you’re a naughty boy. You weren’t clear in your instructions for our final essay.

Professor Tidwell stroked the underside of his chin with his free hand. I thought I was perfectly clear. You are to write up a criminal profile and an accompanying essay explaining your profile. You are to use an open case, one in which no profile is available. That discourages cheating. You’ll be limited to the clues available to the public, naturally, but you should be able to take enough details from newspaper archives and such to give me an assessment of the murderer’s personality. Perfectly clear.

Deanna waggled a finger at him. That part’s fine, but you didn’t say if there were, er, limitations on who we could choose as our subject.

Limitations?

Criminal is such a vague term.

Is it? The professor blinked several times.

For instance—purely as an example, she patted his arm, can it be someone local? And living?

The professor seemed to be scanning his memory banks for recent crimes in Wilton. May I ask who your subject is?

Mitch Stallworthy, Deanna announced, returning her textbook to her backpack. He murdered his wife four years ago.

Deanna missed the professor’s look of worried surprise, but Roxanne understood the man’s shock. People often had that reaction to her mother.

Mitch Stallworthy? he repeated.

We don’t get murders here. Not like Chicago, Deanna said with regret. "However, I was browsing old copies of The Daily Fleming, and there it was—Margaret Browne Stallworthy, stabbed to death four years ago in what appeared to be a botched burglary. The killer took some jewelry and a few other valuables, but everyone in Fleming knows Mitch Stallworthy did it and tried to make it look like a burglar committed the crime. You should have seen the comments about him offered by the locals. All anonymous, of course."

Of course, Roxanne muttered. Since they were maligning him without worrying about troublesome facts. That’s probably what drove him to leave Fleming and move to Wilton.

Deanna shot her a withering glance. "Not all gossip is true, but sometimes you can just tell if someone is guilty. It’s a gift. Mother’s have it. That’s why children never get away with anything."

Roxanne snorted. Maybe criminals should walk around with top hats and curling mustaches and laugh maniacally while rubbing their hands together.

Deanna nodded. "That would make things simpler. I say; if you’re going to be a criminal, why hide it? Just be the best criminal you can be and be proud of your work." She dug through her bag for a tissue.

Anyway, when I found out he was Ida’s accountant and she knew Mitch personally, it seemed like fate. She added, almost as an afterthought, Want to see my clippings?

Roxanne pushed through the door and led the way to the parking lot. Was he even charged with the crime?

A valid question. The professor scurried to keep up. There are libel laws.

No, Deanna conceded, but only because the Fleming police are morons. If they were competent, he would be scheduled for the electric chair right now. I, myself, would pull the switch with a clear conscience.

If Illinois brings back the electric chair, I’m sure they’ll ring you.

I told your aunt she was a foolish woman. A murderer could easily move on to stealing, and that is not an acceptable trait in an accountant. After all, murder is a doorway crime. Like marijuana.

Gateway, Roxanne muttered, correcting her mother’s vocabulary out of habit. "Marijuana is a gateway drug."

Deanna continued. The point is, it leads to bigger things, though she failed to clarify what could be bigger than murder. And I’d be performing a public service. Half the women in Wilton are in love with him. They need a wake-up call.

The professor cleared his throat. "I’d like to point out, though I don’t believe it’s true, if Mitch Stallworthy is a murderer, roaming free as it were, he might feel threatened if you question him. Goodness knows what he might do to you."

Deanna stopped walking and turned to him, flinging the end of her