Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Are the names of the contracting companies there?” Susan asked, thinking of Cory Construction.

  “Not as such. There are numbers and initials to identify the companies. It might be possible to figure it all out if you had records of all the building that has gone on in town for the past twenty years or so.”

  “Is it a lot of money?”

  “Maybe not to everybody, but for us it was. As much as fifty thousand some years. And never less than twenty-five.”

  “And tax-free,” Susan muttered to herself.

  Patricia nodded. “You know,” she said, “I’m partially to blame for all this. I never got involved in our finances. Simon handed me the money that I needed to do what I wanted. I never questioned where it came from.”

  “I don’t see how that makes you responsible. I don’t question Jed about where our money comes from. You just assumed that your husband was acting ethically and legally. Like lots of wives.”

  “I suppose. But I keep thinking that I should have been paying more attention. That I should have known. We … we lived very separate lives and I accepted that. But I had no idea that Simon was doing anything like this.”

  Susan could see that Patricia was close to falling apart. “And you haven’t told Brett Fortesque anything about this?” she asked, hoping to return to a less emotional topic. “This could have something to do with your husband’s murder.”

  “I … I know that,” Patricia said, taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter. “That’s why I wanted to see you. I was hoping you would tell him. I just don’t think I can bear to talk about this with someone I hardly know.”

  Susan thought for a moment. “These records that lay all this out …” she began.

  “They’re in my car,” Patricia said, apparently anticipating her suggestion. “I could get them for you and maybe you would give them to Chief Fortesque.”

  “I suppose I could do that,” Susan said slowly. “But he’s going to insist on talking to you about all this.”

  “Yes. I … I know that. I just want to spend some more time with my sister first. It’s important. She’s probably going to leave for Montauk today.”

  “Then why don’t you just give me the records and I’ll take them to Brett,” Susan suggested. She had heard enough tinkling bells and windchimes for one day—for a year, in fact.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Brett had warned her about how much happened in the office of the building inspector, but Susan was still surprised by the activity behind the double doors of the building inspector’s office. She was even more surprised when Ken Cory stepped out of the crowd and greeted her.

  “Mrs. Henshaw. Susan. What are you doing here? I thought we agreed that I was handling all the paperwork for your job.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I had to see someone who works in the office,” she explained, sniffing deeply.

  “Catching a cold?” Ken asked.

  “I think it’s an allergy.” Susan didn’t want to admit that she was trying to detect any telltale odor clinging to him.

  “Have a Kleenex.” Evie Forest thrust a flowered cardboard box across the counter.

  “Thanks.” Susan tried to blow her nose and ended up honking loudly.

  “Did you come here to see me?” Evie asked.

  “Why?” Ken began.

  “I thought you’d know the name of a good allergist,” Susan said inspired.

  “Sure. I have to do some work here, but we close at noon for lunch. You can wait for me in my office if you’d like.”

  “Great,” Susan said. She turned back to Ken Cory. “I guess I’ll be seeing you at home.”

  He merely nodded his reply and Susan followed Evie down the hall and into a small office. “Is that Simon Fairweather’s office?” she asked, nodding at the closed door nearest to Evie’s. Bits of the yellow tape the police had used to cordon off the room were still stuck to the woodwork.

  “Sure is. Go on in and look around, if you’d like. I have to get back out there.”

  “I’ll be fine here,” Susan assured her, her hand on the office doorknob.

  She entered the office and Evie hurried back down the hall.

  Fifteen minutes later the two women were together in Evie’s office.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Evie said, moving a large pile of papers off the spare chair so that Susan could sit down. “We’ve been getting behind ever since Simon died. And I don’t suppose it’s going to get better until there’s a new man in his place.”

  “What happened when Simon was on vacation? Or sick?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t remember Simon ever being ill. And when he took a vacation, we just waited for him to return.”

  “You’re kidding!” Susan said with more surprise than she felt. No wonder Simon had managed to keep his illegal dealings a secret. He’d been the only person who had done his job and his secretary had been so enamored with the man that she would never suspect anything illegal.

  “Hancock isn’t a very large town, after all,” Evie said. “And we always knew when he was going to be out of town so we could plan for it. The contractors were never seriously inconvenienced by Simon’s vacations. He saw to it that everything got done in a timely manner.”

  Unless he was trying to extort money from one particular contractor, Susan added silently.

  “Did you really want the name of my allergist?”

  “No, I wanted to ask you some questions, but I didn’t want Ken Cory to know.”

  “Of course, Cory Construction must be full of suspects in this case,” Evie said complacently.

  “Well, some of them,” Susan admitted. “And I need to know the way your office worked when Simon was alive.”

  “Of course. Where do you want me to start?”

  “What happened when someone came in to see Simon? Did you screen people or keep track of his appointments?”

  “No. Never. Simon believed in being available to the people. He was a servant to the community. He said that time and time again. And he had an open-door policy. If anyone wanted to see him, they saw him. Unless, of course, he wasn’t in his office.”

  “Which was frequently?”

  “Well, he had to carry out his inspections on-site, didn’t he?”

  “Of course.”

  “And he was also very active in civic affairs. Well, you were at the funeral. You heard what the mayor said about him. He was a very busy man.”

  “But your office is right next to his. You must have seen who was coming and going sometimes.”

  “I don’t believe in prying. I’m a worker and too busy with my job to be watching what isn’t my business.”

  Evie’s voice was beginning to take on an offended tone, so Susan resorted to flattery. “Naturally,” she said. “I’m sure Simon couldn’t have done all this without you.”

  “That’s exactly what he was always saying.”

  “But I really need to know if you noticed two particular visits from members of Ken Cory’s crew. Like George Porter back in the early spring.”

  “Of course, the man who cut through the 220 wire. Simon was very upset about that. He said that any carpenter who did such a stupid thing shouldn’t be working in Hancock.”

  “And you saw George visit Simon’s office sometime before he died?”

  “No” came the disappointing answer. “That is, I might have, but I certainly don’t remember it now.”

  “Do you happen to remember who visited Simon Fairweather in his office the day before he died?”

  “That’s different. I’ll never forget that day—it was our last together, you see.”

  Susan just nodded and Evie continued.

  “Simon was very busy that day. I’ve already told the police about it.”

  “But did anyone from Cory Construction visit his office that day? Probably late in the afternoon?” Susan asked.

  “You’re asking about that carpenter, right?”

  “Art Young or Kyle Barnes?”


  “I don’t know anyone called Kyle Barnes. Art has been working on houses in Hancock for years. I know him.”

  “And he visited Simon that day?”

  “Late that afternoon, just like you said. In fact, he was still in the office when I left for the day.”

  “Really? You’re sure about that?”

  “Of course I am. I went in to tell Simon that I was leaving and he was sitting there. I couldn’t miss the man, could I? Of course, I didn’t know then that that was the last time I would see Simon.”

  Susan pushed the box of Kleenex across the desk toward Evie.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to sit here and bawl my head off. That would be entirely unprofessional. I still try to keep Simon’s standards.”

  “His office is immaculate.”

  “His office was always immaculate. And, of course, the police cleaned up any mess in there before they opened the office for business.”

  “You mean blood and … and everything,” Susan said.

  “Yes, and, of course, all Simon’s scribbles.”

  Susan remembered the note that had been found in Simon’s hand linking her name with Cory Construction. “Did he doodle when he talked?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. It was even something we joked about. I used to tell him that you could figure out what he was thinking by what was on the scrap of paper closest to his hand.”

  “Did you happen to notice if he was scribbling while he was talking with Art Young? The last time you saw him?”

  “No. I didn’t notice anything. There was probably a sheet of paper nearby, but I didn’t see one. I would probably have noticed if there hadn’t been one. You know what I mean?”

  “Like the dog that barked in the night,” Susan muttered, standing up.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking about an old Sherlock Holmes story,” Susan said. “I’d better be going. A friend of mine is bringing her baby home from the hospital today and I want to check on her.”

  “I hope I helped you.”

  “You did. I think I’m getting closer to an answer all the time,” Susan said. “Sometimes all you need is the missing piece.” She headed down the hall and back to her car.

  The ride to the Gordons’ home took less than five minutes and when she got there she was no closer to a solution than she had been before. But she knew that the answers were there, right below the surface. All she needed was a final clue for everything to fall into place. At least that’s what she told herself as she rang the doorbell.

  Kathleen’s mother answered the door, the baby tucked lovingly in her arms. “Susan, how nice to see you again. Kathleen is upstairs in her bedroom, resting. We’re heading out to the backyard to get some fresh air, aren’t we, lovely lambkins?”

  Susan was fairly sure that she wasn’t the lambkins being addressed. “I’ll just go on up and see her,” she said, reaching out and patting the baby on her soft, fuzzy little head.

  “Kathleen’s upstairs,” Mrs. Somerville repeated, turning so that the baby was beyond Susan’s reach.

  “I’ll go on up,” Susan repeated, then did so. “Kathleen? It’s me! Susan.”

  “Come on up. I’m in the nursery.”

  “Hi,” Susan said, entering the room indicated. “Your mother said you were in bed resting.”

  “She hopes that I stay there and leave the baby to her,” Kathleen explained, bending stiffly in an attempt to peer under the new cherry dresser.

  “You may not need complete bedrest, but you shouldn’t be doing that less than a week after giving birth,” Susan insisted, dashing to her friend’s side. “What are you doing anyway?”

  “Looking for an electrical outlet. We had one added to this room and now I can’t find it.”

  “Sit down in the rocking chair and I’ll find it for you,” Susan instructed. “What do you want to plug in, anyway?”

  “A radio.”

  “Nice, then your daughter can listen to classical music. It’s supposed to increase an infant’s IQ, although I have no idea how they test that type of thing.”

  “I don’t want Alice to listen to classical music. Or rock. Or anything else. I want to listen to all-night talk radio. I discovered when I was nursing Alex that it was one of the great perks of motherhood.”

  “Alice?”

  “Alice Emily Gordon. Like it?”

  “I sure do!” Susan exclaimed. “And I’ve found the outlet. Just let me move this dresser and I’ll plug it in. Then you’ll be all set for the two a.m. feeding.”

  “Great.” Kathleen yawned. “Just the thought of it makes me sleepy.”

  Susan spent a few more minutes moving furniture, and then, setting the Sony on the edge of the dresser, she pressed the on button. A loud male voice filled the air.

  “… that seventy-eight percent of all accidents happen in the home. So remember—”

  “You don’t have to shout,” Kathleen admonished the anonymous announcer, reaching out and turning down the volume. “And where are you going? You just got here!” she asked, realizing that Susan was heading out the door.

  “Call the police station and tell Brett to meet me in his office,” Susan called back over her shoulder. “I think I just figured out who killed Simon Fairweather.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Brett had called them all to this meeting in Simon Fairweather’s office.

  “Not bad.” Frankie looked about appraisingly.

  “The best office in the building,” Brett said. “Mainly because Simon built all these shelves and cabinets around the walls.”

  “Nice work,” Art said, running his hand over the dark wood. “Hard to find chestnut this fine these days.”

  “Is the wall hanging your work?” Susan, sitting on the desk next to Brett, asked Patricia Fairweather. Patricia was leaning against a window, shredding a tissue, and she only nodded nervously.

  “Notice the quote over Simon’s desk,” Evie insisted. She was prepared for any nasal eventuality with an unopened box of tissues under her arm. Susan glanced at the words, but Ken Cory spoke before she could say anything. “Why are we wasting time in this place? My crew and I have a large job to get on with, as you well know.”

  “We’re here because this is where Simon Fairweather was killed.”

  “Are we revisiting the scene of the crime with hopes that someone will break down and confess?” Frankie asked, sounding interested.

  “No, we’re here because Simon Fairweather was murdered here rather than someplace else,” Susan said, moving forward on the edge of Simon’s desk. “Remember those public service announcements that declare that something like seventy-eight percent of all accidents happen in the home?” Susan looked around at her audience. Some were interested, a few were obviously nervous. “There was one playing on the radio a few hours ago and it finally struck me that I had missed something significant. Why was Simon Fairweather killed in his office?”

  “Why not?” Buns asked.

  “Because it could have been made to look like an accident if it happened on a job site,” Susan explained.

  “Like George Porter’s death,” Frankie said, nodding his head. “I have to admit, that one sure looked like an accident to me.”

  “That type of thing just happens once in a while,” Josie agreed. “There was no reason for anyone to think it was anything else.”

  “It was an accident,” Brett said.

  “But it was an accident that led straight to Simon Fairweather’s murder,” Susan said.

  “I don’t see how.” Art spoke up, looking around nervously. “It didn’t have any effect on us—except we needed a new carpenter.”

  Everyone in the room glanced at Kyle Barnes.

  “Hey, guys! I didn’t kill anyone!” he protested, brushing his blond hair off his forehead. “I came to work to get together some money so I could travel around the world for a while, not to murder Simon Fairweather. I didn’t even know who the man was until two months ago.”

 
; “I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had anything to do with Simon’s death.”

  “So you’re saying that Kyle and Josie aren’t suspects in the murder because they weren’t working with the rest of us when the conflict began between Simon Fairweather and Ken,” Buns said, scratching his neck with filthy fingernails.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Look, I told you—” Kyle started to protest, beginning to sound angry.

  “Why don’t you just wait until the entire story is finished,” Brett suggested, moving over behind the young carpenter.

  Kyle glanced nervously over his shoulder, but he shut up.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Susan said to Josie.

  “I didn’t know anything about all this. Honest,” the young woman protested. “I got offered this job. And I took it because I needed the money so badly. This is the first year my son’s wanted to go to camp. I barely manage to support him during the year. Camp is a real luxury, one that I couldn’t afford working for my old boss.”

  “Hey, it’s not like Ken pays better than anyone else,” Buns said. “Unless, of course, he pays women extra.”

  “That doesn’t seem too likely, does it?” Frankie said, standing up for Josie. “Considering how prejudiced you all are, how unwilling to accept anyone different from yourselves.”

  “Hey, who are you talking about? We’re not like that,” Buns protested. “Just look around this room. Does this look like a … a what-do-you-call-it … a homogeneous group?”

  “Well, not really,” Frankie answered slowly.

  “They know you’re gay, man. And they could care less,” Kyle said impatiently. “You’ve got nothing to bitch about here.”

  “Just don’t start wearing dresses to work and we’ll get along just fine.” Joel spoke up. “Even Uncle Joe.”

  “Uncle Joe wants everyone to do their work to the best of their ability,” Joe told them.