“She doesn’t know! She doesn’t know!”
“She doesn’t know wha—Oh, no!” Susan gasped, turning and staring at Dave as the meaning of Linda’s message became clear.
“Are you sure?” Dave asked as Linda reached them.
“I’m sure … That is, I’m almost sure,” Linda panted. “She … she passed me and said hi, and I said hi back, and then, without thinking, I asked how she was doing.…”
“And?” Dave prompted when she paused.
“And she said … She said ‘great.’ With a huge smile. She couldn’t possibly know. Unless …”
“Unless what?” Susan asked.
“You two aren’t letting me catch my breath,” Linda complained, inhaling loudly.
“You can breathe later,” Dave said unfeelingly. “Unless what?”
“Unless she knows and she took a bunch of tranquilizers and she’s gotten flaky … Shhhh. Here she comes again.”
“Finished so soon?” Again that beaming smile.
They all waited until Rebecca had trotted out of range of their voices. “She doesn’t know.” Susan spoke first, turning to the others. “And she isn’t doped up on any sort of medication. No one could run that way and be high.”
“So what are we going to do?” Linda asked.
“Do?”
“We can’t just stand here and watch her run, knowing that her husband is dead and not telling her. It’s wrong.”
“You’re right,” Dave agreed. “Someone has to tell her. Linda … ?”
“I’ve never even met the woman.”
“Susan?”
“I had a short conversation with her at the library this morning. Except for that, we’ve never spoken.”
“Well, I’ve had all sorts of conversations with her in my dreams, but never in real life,” Dave admitted. “I think it’s up to you, Susan.”
“But I can’t do that! What am I going to do? Go up to her and announce that her husband was murdered? I can’t do that!” she repeated.
“We have to do something,” Linda stated flatly. “We all agree to that, don’t we?”
“Yes, but …”
“Then you are going to have to do it, Susan. There isn’t anyone else.”
Susan looked from Linda to Dave and then to the woman happily circling the track. “Okay. If I have to do it, I have to do it. And I guess I’d better get it over with.”
THREE
Susan thought she had a viable plan: she would run up to Rebecca Armstrong, casually asking to speak to her for a few minutes, and then the two of them would sit on the benches at the far side of the track, where, gently, Susan would relate the facts of Jason Armstrong’s death.
Not a chance. In the first place, even by judiciously planning the start of her run, Susan had such a difficult time catching up with the other woman that, once at her side, she was out of breath and could hardly force out the necessary words. In the second place, Rebecca Armstrong had no intention of cutting short her exercise time. She was willing to talk, only they would do it while pounding around the macadam. She even chose the subject.
“You’re not spending enough time warming up, you know. You could have problems with your knees or even shinsplints if you aren’t more careful.” Rebecca ran her fingers through her extraordinary hair as she offered this advice. “Who did you train with?” she continued.
“ ‘Train with?’ ” Susan repeated.
“Did you see the series we ran on women runners?”
“No, I must have missed that,” Susan answered, thankful they were skipping her own background. “When was it on?”
“Early last summer. Maybe you were on vacation or something.”
“Yes, we went canoeing. It’s difficult to watch television in the wilderness.” She inhaled deeply. “I really have to talk to you. Really,” she repeated for emphasis.
“Fine. I’ve done my miles. How about that bench over there?” Rebecca nodded toward the exact spot Susan had planned.
“Great!” Susan perked up, then cringed. This was no time to sound cheerful. She followed Rebecca to the bench.
“So? What can I do for you? I have a person who takes care of my own public appearances and charities—and you should talk to my husband if you want both of us …” Rebecca began, wiping her forehead on her sleeve and sitting down.
Susan knew that Jason Armstrong wouldn’t be talking with anyone about anything. “No, it’s nothing like that. I … I have some terrible news,” and she told her as gently as possible.
Rebecca’s reaction was the last thing she would have expected. The woman stood up, flung her hair back over her shoulders, laughed sarcastically, said, “So there are just as many crazy people in the suburbs as in the city,” and jogged off without a backward glance.
David and Linda joined Susan so quickly that she could safely assume they had been waiting nearby.
“What did she say?”
“Where is she going? I could drive her.…” David began.
“She didn’t believe me,” Susan murmured.
“What?”
“She didn’t believe me,” Susan repeated as Rebecca got into her Mercedes. “She said something about crazy people living around here and took off. She doesn’t know her husband was murdered.”
They all watched the white car drive off.
“She’ll find out quickly enough,” David said. “It’s a small town; she’ll run into someone who’ll tell her the same story pretty soon.”
“Poor thing,” Linda commented, standing up. “Well, I’d better be getting back to the trick or treaters.”
“Me, too.” Susan agreed. “I guess the police will notify her.”
“You’re probably right. They’ll want to talk to her—even though this is one case where no one will suspect the wife first.”
“Why not?” Susan asked, surprised by David’s comment.
“Rebecca Armstrong isn’t a murderer. Everyone knows that.”
Susan was still considering that when she dropped Linda off at home. And when she followed a midget karate expert, a blue fairy with a runny nose, and a cowardly lion up the sidewalk to Kathleen Gordon’s house.
“So where’s your costume?” the woman who answered her knock on the door asked. She was slender and chic, with shimmering long blond hair. The little boy drooling on her shoulder was the only sign that life in the suburbs had changed Kathleen Gordon.
“This is my costume. I’m a suburban housewife. Not a bad disguise for the notorious head of an international spy ring, is it?” Susan answered, patting Alexander Brandon Colin Gordon, better known as Bananas ever since his birth last year, on the head.
“I’ve been bringing him to the door each time it rings. It’s good stimulation for him to see all the children and their costumes.”
“He certainly seems to be enjoying it,” Susan said, smiling at the child, who was resting his head on his mother’s shoulder, eyes closed.
“It’s past his nap time. Come on in and have a cup of tea or a Milky Way.”
“Have you heard about the murders?” Susan asked as they settled the child into his playpen, which was set up in the corner of the dining room.
“The what?”
“Shhh … You’ll wake up your son.”
“It would take an earthquake to wake him. He’s a wonderful sleeper,” Kathleen said proudly. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me what’s going on.”
“Just some seltzer. I’ve been running,” Susan said, following her friend into the kitchen and explaining exactly what had been happening that day.
“So Brett’s back” was Kathleen’s only comment.
Well, that’s an interesting reaction to a double homicide, Susan thought. “Yes,” she agreed. Kathleen had worked with Brett Fortesque when she was an officer for the Connecticut state police. Susan had never known if their relationship had been anything other than professional. Not that she hadn’t wondered.
“You don’
t think the homeless man did it” was the next thing Kathleen said. It was a statement rather than a question.
“No.”
“You never think the obvious person is the murderer.”
“So far I’ve been right,” Susan insisted, finishing her Perrier. “Not that we really have anything to go on,” she added quickly. “I don’t even know who the man in the library is. And I don’t know any more about Jason Armstrong than what I’ve read in TV Guide, so …”
“So you probably don’t know very much about the murders,” Kathleen began.
“And so you don’t think I could possibly have any idea who did or didn’t do it.” They were good enough friends for Susan to be sarcastic.
“But I have faith that you’ll find out the truth in the end,” Kathleen assured her.
“Not that we’ll find out?” Susan asked, with emphasis on the pronoun.
“Is that more trick or treaters?” Kathleen hurried to her door, not answering Susan’s question.
“I’d better get going,” Susan said, putting her glass in the dishwasher and following her friend out of the room. She paused beside the sleeping child, brushing wisps of hair back from his forehead.
“Perfect, isn’t he?” Kathleen asked, coming back into the room from the front hall.
“Definitely. I’m going to head home. I don’t know if Chrissy and Chad are passing out candy.”
“Okay,” Kathleen said, walking with her to the door. “Call when you find out more about the murders.”
“You’re interested?” Susan tried not to sound too excited.
“Of course. I’m just a little tied down these days, that’s all. But I do get to the library once in a while, and I have been watching a lot—a whole lot—of early-morning TV since Bananas was born. He’s an early riser, you know.”
“Most babies are.” Susan hated to destroy her friend’s image of her child as unique, but the truth was the truth.
“But Bananas wakes up just in time for me to watch the Armstrongs every morning.”
“What a talented child,” Susan agreed. “Maybe he’ll be able to help solve this murder.”
Kathleen was laughing as she closed the door.
But driving home, Susan wasn’t so amused. She was remembering the party last week where she had met the Armstrongs. Except that she hadn’t, in fact, met them at all. Only guests who came early, stayed unusually late, or who were very aggressive managed to break through the crowd surrounding the famous couple.
Hancock is a friendly town, and it isn’t terribly unusual for someone to hold a cocktail party to introduce a new neighbor, so Susan and her husband, Jed, hadn’t been terribly surprised when an invitation appeared in their mail asking them to meet the Armstrongs at an open house held by a couple they knew well; the husband owned an advertising agency and was famous for the slogan credited with selling innumerable diamonds larger than a carat: “Prove you love her more than the one you married before.” The agency where Jed worked had lost more than one account after the success of that particular sentiment.
The Henshaws had been surprised when they arrived at the party and found over two hundred guests milling around inside the large colonial home. The day had been rainy and bitterly cold; perhaps if the party could have spread out over the patio and into the yard, it would have been more successful. As it was, the guests were squashed inside, overflowing into bedrooms, the pantry, laundry room, and other places guests don’t usually get an opportunity to enjoy.
Jason and Rebecca Armstrong had been seated on a large couch in the center of the living room. The idea had probably been that people would come in, be introduced, speak a few words, and then leave. Almost like being presented to royalty. Except it hadn’t worked out.
By the time the Henshaws arrived at the party, the living room was filled with guests who had no intention of giving up their right to socialize with the rich and famous and were going without food and drink in hope of catching any pearls that might fall from the lips of these anchorpersons—or to impress upon them that they were not the only people of interest. Susan overheard one particular bore loudly expounding on his part in various civic affairs. He was not being listened to by a woman who hoped to interest Rebecca Armstrong in emceeing the fashion show her charity group was putting on to raise money for a very worthy cause; she was doing this by talking about the upcoming event as enthusiastically and loudly as possible. Amy Ellsworth, leaning across Jason’s shoulder, claimed an intimate relationship with the wife of the head of the news division. Susan had peeked around the crowd, hoping to see how Rebecca and her husband were taking all this. The back of Rebecca’s head revealed nothing; Jason had looked—incredibly, she thought—enthralled. Susan and Jed had nibbled on appetizers, greeted a few guests standing on the hallway stairs, given up hope of getting a drink, and gone home. Jed had wanted to watch a football game that afternoon anyway.
Susan had known a few minor celebrities in her time: a major league rookie had owned the apartment next to theirs in the city; an actor or two lived in Hancock, commuting to Broadway; a congressional representative lived on her block; her own cousin was a featured dancer with the American Ballet Theater. But she had never seen deference like that paid to the Armstrongs.
A group of preteens running between the houses dressed in rags, cork blackening their faces, reminded her of the opposite extreme of all this. It was interesting that children would still choose to dress as hobos and bums when the homeless problem had moved from fantasy to reality over the last decade. But less in suburbia than elsewhere, she reminded herself, turning the car into the driveway—right behind a white Mercedes. It displayed a vanity plate saying “sunny.” It couldn’t be.
Susan climbed out of her car and hurried up to the house. Scooting around the large jack-o’-lantern on the top step, she almost ran through the door. Chad, hearing her entrance, hurried out into the hallway.
“She’s here!” They both knew whom he was talking about.
“In the living room?” Susan asked quietly.
He nodded yes, grabbing her arm. “She’s crying, Mom. She just walked in the front door, crying, and now she’s in the living room and she’s still crying. I didn’t know what to do.” He looked very distressed.
“That’s okay, Chad. I’ll talk to her. Can you stay by the door and answer it for the kids?”
“Sure.”
“But you don’t have to stay here if you want to go out with your friends.”
“We’re not going out till nine or so, Mom.”
Susan might have had something to say about that if she hadn’t heard the loud sobbing in her living room. She entered the room and found, as she had expected, Rebecca Armstrong sitting on the couch, sobbing. Rebecca looked up at her entrance.
“You were right,” she said, mascara running down her cheeks. “I thought you were one of the crazies, but you were right. He’s dead. Someone killed my Jason. You were right,” she repeated, putting her head in her hands and wailing.
Susan didn’t know the grieving woman well, but she couldn’t just stand there. She sat down on the couch and put her arms around Rebecca, letting her, literally, cry on her shoulder. She didn’t try to say anything until the tears had slowed. And then she didn’t know what to say. But Rebecca spoke first.
“I’m sorry I doubted you. I … When you’re on TV, you get attention from some insane people. And I don’t know you.…”
“That’s okay,” Susan assured her, removing some of the woman’s hair from her mouth. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. How did you find out?”
“I went home, and there was a policeman waiting at the front door—he told me.”
Why did you come here? Susan wanted to ask, but thought the question might be misunderstood.
“I didn’t know where to go,” Rebecca continued. “I don’t know anyone in town …”—the image of the party where Rebecca had been invited specifically to meet people appeared in Susan’s mind—“… and I didn�
��t know what to do. I was wondering if you would go to the police station with me. I have to go there to talk to them about what happened. And …”—she faltered—“… I have to identify the body.” She looked up at Susan. “Please. I don’t know anyone else to ask. Would you please go with me?”
“Of course.” It wasn’t a request that she could decently refuse. “Do you want a cup of coffee? Tea? Maybe some brandy or something first?”
“No. I’d like to get this over with.”
“Then why don’t I drive?” Susan suggested.
“I’d appreciate that. I had a difficult time getting here,” Rebecca said, standing up.
Susan led the other woman to her car, issuing quick instructions to her son as she left and wondering when she would get the chance to ask exactly how Rebecca had known where to find her.
Rebecca had stopped crying by the time they arrived at the police station, but she was so pale that Susan wondered if she was going to faint. She parked the car, and together they entered the building.
“We’re looking for Detec … Brett Fortesque,” Susan told the woman at the reception desk, unsure of Brett’s title.
“So is everyone else today,” the exhausted middle-aged blonde assured her. “This has been some Halloween,” she continued. “And we still have tonight to get through. Do you know … ?” she began. But it looked as if Susan would have to wait to find out the rest of the question. The receptionist had just recognized Rebecca Armstrong and appeared unable to talk.
“It really is very important that we speak to Brett immediately,” Susan stated, hoping to return to the subject at hand.
“And he really wants to see her,” the blonde agreed. “Say,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “does she know that her husband was murdered?”
“Yes,” Susan answered. “And you see how important it is that we see …”
“Susan …”
Rebecca had begun to sob again, and it was with much relief that Susan turned in the direction of Brett’s voice.
All Hallows Evil Page 5
