Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “Suzie Lu for Nightblind.” There was applause and glee from the rest of the table. Lucy figured Jake wasn’t really surprised, as the Chinese woman rose and approached the podium to accept a plaque. He probably wanted his mouth full so he wouldn’t have to comment. But just as Suzie was preparing to speak, he began to shake. His trembling moved the whole table so they all turned toward him. Covered with sweat, his face was convulsed as if he were about to heave, and he turned to get up but collapsed on the floor.

  There was a moment of disgust as the women at the table didn’t seem to believe what they were seeing. But Lucy did. There was something really wrong. Jake was moaning with pain and grasping his abdomen. Lorna jumped up with her hand over her mouth, staring down in horror. There were shouts to make room and call 911. As Lucy stood to help, a doctor who had been on another panel rushed over and beat her to it. He was assisted by the sheriff’s deputy who knew first aid, but the little man kept writhing for several minutes, then all motion stopped. Lucy’s tablemates were dumbfounded, and they looked on as Molly hovered helplessly over the doctor. When the EMTs hurried in, they consulted, checked Jake out, and declared him beyond help. At that, the woman who had spent so much of her life with the obnoxious little man broke into tears and several friends led her away.

  Lorna was sitting alone by the door, white faced, as the EMTs put Jake’s body on a stretcher and began to carry him out. She rose, demanding to accompany them, but the medics asked Molly to go instead, which angered Lorna. It made sense, though, Lucy thought. She was still his wife, and they probably needed the name of his physician and his medical history.

  “That was pretty awful,” Norah said as she, Lucy, and Cat sat back down at their table. “But when you consider the way he ate—all that salt, and then three desserts. He didn’t take care of himself. Really, what can you expect?”

  Not to mention the stress of not winning the award, going through a divorce, and arguing with his mistress, Lucy thought. Jake’s death made Lucy realize she’d have to pay attention to Norah’s eternal warnings about her health. What a way to go, and she wasn’t ready to go yet, even if she was a little at sea in this retirement thing.

  From the podium they announced an early adjournment of the conference, doing a hasty reading of the other award winners and promising that a newsletter would be published with details. No one questioned the need to put an end to the day after such drama. They didn’t try to eulogize the man as it was too soon to digest it all.

  When Norah and Cat went over to check with the organizers, Lucy lingered at the table. She’d been on the job too long to ignore her gut, and her gut had begun telling her something was off. Before the servers could sweep in, eager to finish their work, she grabbed a couple of napkins and quickly wrapped up the salt shaker, Jake’s beer glass, and some large crumbs from his cupcake, and shoved them in her purse. On the way out, she nodded to Suzie Lu, who looked grim as she gathered up her award and her belongings.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, Lucy was invited to a memorial get-together for the deceased author. Norah and Cat were going, and she decided that, although she really wanted to forget the whole incident, she should go. The memorial was being held in the backyard of Molly’s big old rambling Victorian on a side street in Newton. The block was filled with cars so they had to walk a ways after parking.

  “So this is Molly’s garden,” Lucy said as they approached the picket fence surrounding the house. There were bushes of pink and red rhododendron spilling over the top.

  “Yes, it’s always been her passion,” Cat said, opening the front gate. “Wait till you see the backyard. It’s even more spectacular.”

  “And he was trying to take it in the divorce?”

  “Yes, wasn’t that mean?” Norah said. “I know we’re here to remember him, but I’m not sure he deserves it. I hope that Lorna Lisbon doesn’t have the gall to show up.”

  They followed the path around back, where the garden was indeed more extensive. There were a couple of crab apple trees with pink blossoms shedding petals, graceful pink and white peonies, and beds of light green shoots of more plants and some large terra-cotta pots of brightly colored petunias. The spring air was heavy with the scent of blossoms on some of the flowering trees.

  “There’s Suzie,” Norah said. “I never got a chance to congratulate her. I suppose it might be embarrassing considering Jake was up for that award, too, but she deserved it. I’m going to go talk to her.”

  Lucy lingered with Cat on the soft grass. She noticed Molly mixing with the many people who had turned out. Molly looked appropriately mournful but relaxed.

  “They pronounced it a heart attack?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh yes. Jake had a condition, and he was terrible about taking his medicine, getting exercise. You saw how he ate and drank,” Cat told her. “Molly said his doctor wasn’t surprised.”

  “Lucky for her it happened when it did,” Lucy commented. “Otherwise she might not have her garden.”

  “He was a nasty man,” Cat said. “Nasty. But nasty is as nasty does.” She stared at Lucy, straight into her eyes. “But they don’t last, those nasty men. Like Rita over there, her husband was terrible to her. She put up with it for years. She used to fantasize about getting rid of him, you could see it in her books. Then he was killed in a car accident. It was such a relief. She was away at a conference in Chicago when it happened.”

  “You mentioned aconite, that day at our conference,” Lucy said.

  “Why, yes. Molly needed a poison for her next book.” Cat looked away across the green yard.

  “Seems like aconite poisoning might be mistaken for a heart attack,” Lucy said.

  “Well, yes, that’s exactly why I suggested it. That way, in the book it could seem like the victim died of natural causes.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Cat, I had the cupcake analyzed. How could you do it? You could have killed me or Norah. Or somebody else at that table. How could you know someone else wouldn’t eat it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cat’s eyes blazed. “I would never do anything of the sort.” She paused and sighed. “Of course, if I were to do something like that, I’d make sure to use a flavor my intended victim loved, like chocolate, so I could be sure he’d eat it. And I’d only put the drug in the cupcake made especially for him, one with a special appearance so I’d know which one to give him. And I’d only do it to someone who really deserved it.”

  Lucy thought about Jake’s cupcake—the only cupcake Cat made that was chocolate. Was Jake’s sweet tooth something that could be counted on?

  “Oh, excuse me, Lucy, I really must go over and see Eleanor.” Cat waved at a gray-haired woman. “She has finally been able to travel since her husband passed away. So I hardly ever get a chance to talk with her anymore.” She gave Lucy a peaceful smile and slid away toward the pleasant-looking woman.

  They were all pleasant-looking women, Lucy thought as she scanned the garden. Mostly middle-aged or older. Apparently they all wrote mysteries or tried to. Perhaps like Molly Keane they escaped unhappy marriages by indulging their pent-up frustrations in their stories of murder. Fictional murder.

  In Lucy’s mind there was no question about what Cat had done, despite her protestations. Yet Lucy couldn’t do anything about it. She was stymied by her own action. She’d stolen the evidence, said nothing to the police about her suspicions, and now Jake had already been buried. Lucy thought about all the women who suffered at the hands of men like Jake, men who usually got away with their cruelty. Maybe it was okay that the tables had finally been turned and Cat had helped her friend. Besides, the medical and legal experts whose responsibility it was to certify the cause of Jake’s death had had no suspicions. They hadn’t questioned what he had eaten. They were satisfied that his own bad choices had led to his death. Who was she to question that? No one.

  Lucy got her
self a glass of wine and stood gazing around at the lovely flowers and the women all gathered to comfort Molly. She found herself wondering. She was not a fanciful person, but she remembered an old Alfred Hitchcock movie about strangers on a train who met by chance and arranged to do murder for each other. She shook herself. It couldn’t be.

  She managed to have a couple of conversations and nibble on some goodies away from Norah’s watchful eye until they all finally decided to leave. As she turned for a last look at the peaceful gathering, she heard a humming noise. “What’s that?”

  Cat turned and smiled serenely at her. “Bees,” she said. Norah had already tramped away toward the car. “Molly keeps bees.”

  COVERTURE, by KB Inglee

  July 18-20, 1848

  Seneca Falls, New York

  Had I heard right? Was someone going to propose letting women vote?

  I understood that women were far from equal to men in our world, but the vote?

  Clutching the notebook and pencils my husband had thrust into my hands, I found a seat close to an open window. It was hot in the chapel. I was uncomfortable in both mind and body as I took on a task I had no idea how to accomplish, in an unfamiliar situation. The room was filled, and I made a quick count, number of pews times the number each held. Perhaps three hundred people. I wrote my name, Ruth Hill, at the top of the page followed by the approximate attendance.

  My husband, Thomas Hill, was a journalist for the Albany Gazette. His editor had sent him to Seneca Falls to cover this Women’s Convention. He was disheartened to learn upon arrival that only women would be allowed into the meeting. He was as adamant about getting in as the organizers were in keeping him out, but it looked like a losing battle.

  He took my hands, and said, “They won’t let me in. You will have to take notes for me. I can use the time to interview the other men, who, like myself, are excluded. I know you will see things differently than I would because I am a man and a journalist. Do your best for me.”

  * * * *

  We had arrived in Waterloo, a few miles west of Seneca Falls, midmorning of the day before the convention. Tom’s old school chum Paul Anderson and his wife, Lucy, had opened their home to us. Staying there with us were another old college friend and his wife, Ned and Martha Longwood.

  The two wives could not have been more different. Mrs. Anderson was beautiful of form and dull of mind. Her house was fashionable and comfortable. Mrs. Longwood was horse-faced and intelligent.

  Martha Longwood seemed to know everyone who was involved with the convention. She believed fervently that the next two days would herald a change for women. She was not shy about telling anyone within earshot.

  After a drink with his friends, Tom left to interview two of the organizers, Mrs. Wright and her sister, Mrs. Mott, who with Mrs. Stanton had organized the meeting. In the evening he planned to find Frederick Douglass, who had offered them his support.

  While Tom plied his trade, I joined the wives in the parlor for what I hoped would be a pleasant afternoon. Mrs. Anderson was a gracious hostess, but when Mrs. Longwood talked of the meeting we were to attend the next day, Mrs. Anderson’s eyes glazed over and she began fingering the fringe on her elegant shawl.

  “I understand your husbands are in business together. But one lives here and one lives in Albany. How can that be?” I asked Mrs. Anderson, more to be kind than of any interest.

  “They broker food from the local farms and ship it to Albany and New York. You would not eat if it weren’t for him.” The reply seemed a bit sharp for ordinary conversation. I wondered if she had been unhappy with her husband’s decision to let us stay.

  Mrs. Longwood softened it some by adding, “My own dear Ned is the man in Albany who receives the shipments and makes sure they get where they are supposed to. They laid plans for the business while they were still at Union. I believe that your husband was involved at the beginning, Mrs. Hill.”

  I knew that both men had asked Tom to go into business with them after college, but Tom had already taken the job with the Gazette.

  “Yes,” I replied, “that was before we were married.” Then Mrs. Longwood turned the conversation back to the convention, while Mrs. Anderson reached under her chair and slid her knitting basket out. Why had I not thought to bring my own knitting?

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  She withdrew yards of lacy pink fluff. It was beautifully done but far too frivolous for my taste. As she pulled out the material, an array of implements spilled out onto the floor. There were fancy stitch holders, a rather oversized knife with a green onyx handle, cable needles, several wooden rulers and tape measures, and at least five things I couldn’t identify.

  Mrs. Anderson glanced at the pile at her feet. “This will be a baby blanket for our neighbor.” She picked up one of the things I couldn’t identify. “See how much Paul cares for me? He finds these things everywhere so I can be a better knitter. Why, I don’t even know how to use most of them.”

  “Your work is beautiful,” I offered, running the pink stuff between my fingers. The yarn was an expensive merino.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Longwood dryly. “They do shower us with things. Does that prove they love us or only that they can afford to indulge us?”

  Once more, Mrs. Longwood was off and running with the theme we were to face for the next few days. As I listened to her lecture, I began to sort through my own feelings. I remembered that on the death of my grandfather, his house became the property of his sons, who let their mother live there out of kindness. My mother always turned all her egg money over to my father, but only now was I beginning to realize that was his money, not hers. Now, thinking about it, neither of those things seemed right.

  Finally, the dinner chime interrupted my thoughts and Mrs. Longwood’s tirade.

  I realized that Mrs. Anderson was the flower and Mrs. Longwood the thorn of the rose. I was surprised to find that I liked both of them very much.

  Conversation around the dinner table was polite and subdued. That is, until Mrs. Longwood dropped the word coverture into the discussion of tomorrow’s events.

  Never averse to showing my ignorance if it promises to teach me something, I asked, “What is coverture?”

  My husband began, “It is the legal premise tha—”

  Mrs. Longwood cut in. “It is the notion that a husband and wife are one, and that one is the husband.”

  Mr. Anderson bristled with pride as he said, “It means that her,” he tipped his fork toward his wife, “choice of elected officials is covered by my vote. She lives in the housing I provide. In return she keeps my home as I wish it to be kept.”

  Mrs. Anderson glanced at her husband, sighed, and looked away.

  “And if you should die?” I asked, knowing full well her options were limited, “where is your wife to go?”

  “It becomes the duty of my brother to take care of her until she marries again.”

  The look Mrs. Longwood gave Mr. Anderson could have set the tablecloth afire. “You must realize—” she began.

  “How is the business working out, gentlemen?” I was grateful that Tom had shifted the conversation with such ease.

  “Just fine,” Mr. Anderson said.

  “It was underfunded from the start,” Mr. Longwood said. “We needed to have our own transportation instead of relying on what we could hire. Tom, you should have gone in with us. We would have had a more stable base. If you had, there would have been a tie breaker.”

  From what I could see, Mr. Anderson was the tie breaker simply by force of his will.

  By the time we finished dinner, I was feeling the effects of the two-hundred-mile journey from Albany to Waterloo. I went up to my room as soon as I could politely do so. I changed out of my dinner dress into my wrapper and was enjoying the cool breezes that the evening called in off the lake when there was a tap on my door. Thinki
ng it was either of the other two wives, I opened the door without enquiring. I was shocked to see Mr. Anderson, standing there leering at me.

  “It can be quite cool at night, even in the summer. I could warm your bed for you until your husband returns to take over the job.”

  I was so astonished, I simply slammed the door in his face. My hands were shaking as I turned the key in the lock and slipped it into my pocket.

  The room had a little balcony that overlooked the rose garden. I drew up a chair to listen to the night sounds and calm down. What would I tell Tom?

  As I sat there, staring out into the night, trying to control my feelings, I heard the french doors below me open. The voices of Mr. Longwood and Mr. Anderson floated up to me along with the smoke from their vile cigars. I considered closing my window and going to bed. I changed my mind when Mr. Anderson began talking about their wives. I sat still and listened.

  “How do you handle that hothead wife of yours?” he asked.

  “Martha may be wrapped up in this women’s thing, but she is kind and intelligent. I think I can allow her this one foible.” The tone of Mr. Longwood’s voice said he really cared for her, and his friend would do well to change the subject. Mr. Anderson didn’t take the hint. “What is it these women want? We earn good livings, we care for our wives well. What more could they ask for?”

  Mr. Longwood chuckled, “You had better ask Martha.”

  Mr. Anderson made an ugly sound. “What are we going to do about the freight wagons for next week? I have only two. We need six. Anything from your end?”

  “The cost of wagons from Albany would be prohibitive, since they would have to come here first.”

  “It’s the same distance either way, you fool.”

  Not interested in business matters, but glad my husband was not part of this, I shut the window and turned down the light.

  Tom called out to me and rattled the bedroom door as the clocks were striking eleven. I let him in and began to tell him what had happened. He was so engrossed in his own activities from earlier this evening that he heard not a word of my explanation.