Murder as a Second Language by Joan Hess

“No, not really. Well, she has a problem, but none of us can figure it out. When she gets upset, she lapses into Polish, and she’s upset most of the time. We have the pleasure of entertaining her several times a week. Her grandson’s afraid to leave her home alone for more than a few hours. She doesn’t get along well with the neighbors. He tried to park her at a senior citizens center. That lasted three weeks.”
    â€œIf she’s not happy here, then why let her come?”
    â€œWe have to be very careful to avoid any hint of discrimination. Her grandson’s a professor and may have friends at the law school. She could qualify under several categories: age, disability, and country of origin.” Gregory pulled down his mouth and widened his eyes, making a wickedly funny face. “Even Notre Dame has its gargoyles. Just smile and nod, and don’t pay attention to anything she says.” He went into Keiko’s office.
    It was tempting to eavesdrop near the cubicle where Ludmila was berating Caron, but I’d done my good deed for the day. That, and I’d only had a muffin for breakfast. I folded up the newspaper, washed the cup and put it away, and was collecting my purse when Keiko caught me. She thanked me profusely, and I made polite responses while I eased out of her clutches. I’d almost made good on my escape when I heard Ludmila’s voice bellow, “Dupek!”
    I froze and then looked over my shoulder, hoping she wasn’t physically assaulting Caron. I still was burdened with a few maternal obligations, one of which was packing my offspring off to college intact. Ludmila was pointing her finger at Gregory, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a Sherman tank. Caron was peeping over the wall of the cubicle, as were Inez and her student. Keiko stumbled out of her office. Leslie appeared in the doorway of her office, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. Miao cowered behind her notebook.
    It was a splendidly melodramatic scene. I replayed it several times as I drove home, chuckling at the images of stunned faces and ungainly poses. Once I was inside my perfect house, however, I dismissed it and curled up with a cookbook. Peter would be home in time for dinner, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

 
    4
    Peter and I had a lovely time Friday evening, despite a small problem with the Emincé de Volaille sauce Roquefort (my sauce refused to homogenize properly). We dawdled in bed the next morning, and had breakfast on the terrace. Caron had rescheduled her pool party for the afternoon, and shortly after noon a horde of hormonally addled teenagers descended. Peter conveniently remembered that he had paperwork at the PD and deserted me. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing on the rolling ladder in my library, with occasional forays to the pool area to keep an eye out for pot, beer, and/or undue rowdiness. I did not anticipate any problems, since they all knew that Peter was a cop. Later, I was able to assure him that there’d been no felonies committed under my watchful scrutiny. I did not comment on the likelihood of misdemeanors in the demilitarized zone.
    On Sunday morning Peter and I were sharing the newspaper when Caron dragged herself out to the terrace and grabbed a bagel. I handed her the comics. After she’d had time to compose herself, I said, “Everyone seemed to have had a nice time yesterday.”
    â€œYes, I know I left a mess in the kitchen. I’ll clean it up, so don’t bother to—”
    â€œI already took care of it,” Peter said from behind the sports section. “The trash bags are in the trunk of your car. You can put them in the Dumpster behind the PD, unless you want to keep them as souvenirs. There’s a red bikini top on the dryer in the laundry room.”
    Caron frowned. “Red?”
    I did not want to hear any details. “I noticed you didn’t invite Toby Whitbream to