Moving Is Murder Read Online Free

be so dramatic. We’re fine. Livvy’s fine. It was an accident.”
    “FP Con: Bravo,” declared one sign at the main gate to Greenly AFB. Another sign announced, 100% id check. I shoved the diaper bag aside with one hand and pulled my billfold out of my purse. Some women have a weakness for shoes. I’ve got a passion for purses. I breathed a sigh of relief this morning when I found the box marked PURSES. I might look like a frazzled, sleep-deprived mom in my red T-shirt, jean shorts, and sandals, but my purse said I still had style. Today I had my patriotic purse, rectangular red and blue leather, with a short oval strap, an appropriate choice for a squadron barbeque.
    I extracted my pink photo ID and cranked down the window of the Jeep Cherokee. Everything on the Cherokee was manual—windows, seats, locks. I’d scraped together the money to buy it in college and I was quite fond of the Blue Beast, as Mitch called it. He preferred his sporty Nissan. He’d almost convinced me to sell the Cherokee, but when we got our northern-tier assignment there was no way I was parting with four-wheel drive.
    Livvy gurgled in her sleep as a blast of hot, dusty air tinged with gasoline fumes swept into the car. I came even with the young security policeman in fatigues toting an M-16 on a shoulder strap. He skimmed the card. “Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped back and I eased downthe wide, flag-lined boulevard to Mitch’s squadron. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that we were out of Lodging and into our house. The two weeks we’d spent in the small hotel room waiting for our household goods had seemed like two months.
    We were in our house, but so much for my intention to not get too deeply involved in the squadron. Abby had guilt-tripped me into going to the spouse coffee where I’d somehow volunteered to help with the garage sale fund-raiser. And here I was, two days later, going to the squadron barbeque. I had boxes to unpack, crumpled packing paper to flatten. I still needed to find the answering machine. I’d be polite for the shortest amount of socially acceptable time and then get home.
    I heard Cass as soon as I pushed open the heavy door to the squad. Frigid air hit my bare arms as I followed her excited voice down the stairs.
    “So, I was practically pressing the brake through the floorboard with trees whizzing past me. In the park!” Cass’s voice rose and her eyes widened as she mimed driving without brakes. She pulled the energy and attention of the room to her. “Can you believe it? I barely missed Abby and Ellie. And the baby! I was terrified when I saw that stroller and I couldn’t move the steering wheel. Anyway, I finally remembered to put it in neutral. Joe showed me how to do that last winter, if it was icy. I took out a whole row of azaleas.” A group of people holding paper plates piled with hamburgers and chips gathered around Cass.
    The squad was built into a man-made hill. The steep sides at the front dropped away in the back so the basement had doors that opened outside to picnic tables with a view of the flight line. Usually we’d be outside at the picnic tables, but today everyone was inside thesquadron, which had air-conditioning, something I realized I had taken for granted all my life. Now I was thoroughly appreciative and wouldn’t dream of eating outside in the 100-degree weather.
    A few bursts of color, the spouses, broke up the monotony of the green flight suits that dominated “The Hole,” the name of the basement break room. In every job I’ve ever had the break room is a little plain space no bigger than a cube with a few sticky tables, painfully uncomfortable chairs, a vending machine, and an ancient microwave that makes you wonder if you should wear protective gear when you hit the “on” button. Unlike the civilian workforce, the military takes rest and relaxation seriously. The Hole took up the entire basement of the squad. It had a bar at one end, scratched tables and