The Corporal Works of Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie Page B

Mary Helen said, but not before she felt a chill run up her spine.

    As Kate Murphy drove out Geary Boulevard toward home, she was scarcely aware of the evening traffic. In all the congestion, her car seemed to operate on automatic pilot, stopping at stoplights, waiting for pedestrians to cross, and avoiding buses and aggressive bikers alike. It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of her yellow peaked-roof house on Thirty-fourth and Geary that she noticed that great waves of fog had rolled in from the beach, covering the Avenues. She slammed her car door and felt the moisture in her hair. Soon the fog would be as thick and dense as her mind trying to make some sense out of the death of the policewoman, Sarah Spencer.
    Kate was glad to see her husband’s car. Jack was home. It was his turn to pick up their son from Sheila, the babysitter, and to
make dinner. She was starving. No wonder. The last thing she remembered eating was a cookie at the Refuge. Then all hell had broken loose.
    Beside her front stairs the wide leaves of the iron blue hydrangea bushes glistened in the dampness. Carefully she mounted the steps. The fog made them slippery, and she had no time for a broken bone.
    â€œHi,” she called, pushing open the front door, fully expecting her son John to squeal and run to hug her. But the house was silent.
    â€œJack. Pal. John, it’s Mom,” her voice ricocheted through the empty hallway. “Jack, are you there?” she called toward the kitchen. The light was on, but there was no hint that a meal was cooking—no aroma of onions or garlic. Fear prickled her scalp. No matter what Jack was preparing, he always sautéed a few onions or a clove of garlic first, claiming that the smell alone relieved everyone’s anxiety about dinner being served.
    â€œJack?” she called, controlling her urge to scream, and listened. Was water running in the upstairs bathroom? The shower? Yes. Someone was in the shower. It must be her husband. But where was her son? If he were in the shower with his father wouldn’t she hear some noise?
    Struggling to calm the whirlpool of dread, she started up the stairs. Why must I always imagine the worst? Kate wondered, gripping the banister. Was it an occupational hazard?
    The jangle of the telephone pierced the house like a scream. Taking the stairs two at a time, she snatched up the receiver from their bedside phone. “Hello,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
    â€œHello, Kate,” her mother-in-law chirped. “This is Loretta.”
    As though I wouldn’t recognize your voice, Kate thought. “Hello, Loretta,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound impatient. Mama Bassetti had the unfailing knack of calling at the absolute wrong time. Tonight was no exception.

    The shower stopped. She heard the curtain being pulled back. She desperately needed to talk to her husband. Where was their son? Had Jack done the unthinkable and forgotten to pick him up?
    â€œDid Jack tell you?” Mama Bassetti asked.
    â€œTell me what? Kate was distracted.
    â€œThen, I guess he didn’t. That boy!” Kate visualized her mother-in-law, one hand on her ample hip, lips pursed, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with my Jackie,” she said. “I raised him better than that, Kate. I swear I did. His papa and I did our very best.” She sighed. “What kind of a husband is too busy to call his working wife and tell her that they are going out for dinner? I ask you?”
    When her mother-in-law paused for breath, Kate heard a familiar giggle in the background. It was John! He was with his grandmother. Quick tears burned her eyes. What in the world was he doing there?
    The bathroom door swung open and Jack appeared in a cloud of steam smelling clean and fresh. “Hi, hon,” he said, kissing the back of her neck. His wet hair dripped on her shoulder.
    Suddenly angry, Kate handed