Moving Can Be Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

bid as quick a farewell to Eagles’ Nest and Jessie as
we could without being rude.
    She looked so sad to see us go that I was
afraid she was going to kiss us goodbye.

     
    “At least that place was easy to get to,” My
Beloved said in defense of his first active adult community
choice.
    I didn’t respond. I just gave him a
look.
    “OK, Carol. You’re right. It’s much too
close to the highway.”
    “Well, it did have that lovely gazebo,” I
said with just the right touch (I thought) of sarcasm. “Think of
the fun we’ll have decorating it with red, white and blue streamers
for the Fourth of July. We could even organize a fireworks
display.”
    “Very funny,” Jim snapped, never one to take
criticism well. “Let’s just cross it off the list. The next one is
supposed to be ‘nestled in the bucolic countryside.’ So it can’t be
close to a major interstate.”
    Forty minutes later, when we were bouncing
along one unpaved road after another, I asked, “Where is this
place, anyway? Is it in the middle of a pasture?”
    Jim replied by tossing me the information
he’d printed off of MapQuest. “We’re supposed to be looking for a
split rail fence on the left, and then a sign to lead us into the
development. It’s called Bertram’s Hollow.”
    “More like Sleepy Hollow,” I snorted, trying
to make some sense out of the directions. We passed by some houses
with abandoned cars rusting on the front lawn. “Nice decorating
touch.”
    Then I screamed, “Stop, Jim. There it
is.”
    Jim screeched to a halt, then backed up and
turned into another rutted road. I thought I heard him mutter,
“This one better be good,” but I didn’t comment. I do know when to
keep my mouth shut. Sometimes.
    Suffice it to say that Bertram’s Hollow,
which was a small community of semi-detached homes, didn’t pass
muster with us, either. Despite their cute slogan: “It’s not about
counting the years. It’s about making the years count.”
    The model house/sales office was small and
packed with way too much furniture. The kitchen was postage-stamp
size. There was only one master bedroom suite, and it was on the
second floor.
    We were back in the car in less than ten
minutes. We made a quick escape because the salesman, who looked
younger than both of our kids, had another couple enthralled with
his sales pitch and he’d left us to our own devices. “This one
didn’t even have a gazebo, Jim,” I pointed out as we made our way
back to a paved road and civilization.
    Two master suites was beginning to look like
a fantasy. An unattainable one.
     



Chapter 5
     
    No outfit is complete without dog hair.
     
    I was tired, I was cranky, and I was hungry.
Not necessarily in that order. And also, a little bit smug. I’d
done what My Beloved wanted. I’d looked at two active adult
communities. And we had both – both! – agreed that they weren’t for
us.
    As far as I was concerned, the discussion
was over. I wanted to go home, let my dogs out for a run, have a
late lunch in my beautiful kitchen with its granite counter tops,
and chill out.
    Imagine my surprise when Jim drove into
neighboring Westfield and pulled into a parking spot in front of
Chita, the trendy tapas restaurant everyone was talking about.
    Huh? You mean we were going out to lunch, as
in “out at a real restaurant”? I was immediately suspicious. Maybe
the day wasn’t over yet. This was certainly untypical behavior for
My Beloved.
    Then I thought, Jim must have a coupon.
Although I doubted that a restaurant this new, and this popular,
had to stoop to offering coupons to get customers.
    The maitre d’ waved us to a table, and in no
time Jim had placed our order – in Spanish, yet.
    I was duly impressed. But still
suspicious.
    “What’s this all about, Jim? Since when are
you a foodie? And how in the world did you manage to get us in here
today, much less find a parking spot right in front of the
restaurant? This is the hottest new place in