“You should be at home in bed with a glass of orange juice, not out running around trying to solve murders.”
“I was hoping for a hot toddy,” she kidded him, turning into the parking lot in front of the store. “But that will have to wait. Did Amy Ellsworth tell you what she wanted when she called this morning?”
“No, she said it was urgent, but you know how she is … although maybe I should have taken her more seriously?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re right, she is like that. I get sick of calling her back over something she calls urgent and then finding out that it’s nothing.” She switched off the engine and turned to her husband. “Well, here we are. I hope you can remember what it is that we’re out of.”
“I …” He followed her through the lot and to the building.
“You know, though,” she began, grabbing a cart. “Maybe Amy saw the person who locked me in.”
“Does she even know you were in the office?”
“I guess not. That was a foolish idea.” She stopped to pick out some apples. “Jed, I just don’t understand. Why was I locked in? There was no reason for me to be kept away from anything that happened last night. Why couldn’t whoever locked me in just have let me go home to bed?”
“Do you think it could have been done to scare you? You know, make you have second thoughts about being involved in the investigation?”
“Why would it scare me? I admit I was shocked for a minute or two, especially when I realized the phone wasn’t working, but I thought they must turn the phones off at night. The only thing that concerned me was that you might wonder where I was, but I didn’t get frightened. Why would I? The worst that was going to happen was that I was going to spend the night in Charles Grace’s office.”
Jed was examining a display of autumn pears. “I guess the person who locked you in doesn’t know you very well—thinks you get hysterical easily or something.”
“Someone who doesn’t know me well doesn’t exactly eliminate anyone in this situation, does it?”
“Have you talked to Kathleen? You did say you were going to call her about that phone call last night.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“It is, and you can do it right now.”
The Henshaws turned to discover that Kathleen Gordon was standing right behind them.
“Does everyone in town go shopping on Saturday afternoon?” Susan asked, laughing.
“It’s the best time for me to get out of the house. Jerry is taking care of Bananas for the day—and putting some last-minute touches on his costume.”
“His costume? Oh, no. The Ellsworths’ costume party! It’s tonight, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is. Didn’t Amy call you this morning to remind you that it was going to go on as planned?”
“She probably did. I got a message from her, but I didn’t bother to call back.”
“She also wanted to remind Rebecca about the party …”
“What?” Susan shrieked so loudly that some of the shoppers nearby turned and stared.
“And invite whoever else is staying at your house. She called me and asked if I thought it was appropriate.”
“I hope you told her no. After all, Rebecca’s husband just died. To say nothing of her being suspected of murder. She certainly wouldn’t go to a costume party.”
“That’s what I said. But you know Amy. She said that she wanted to ask my opinion, but really she wanted to tell me hers. I’d bet that call to your house was to issue invitations.”
“Well, my houseguests have gone to the city to take part in some sort of press conference about the murders, so we don’t have to worry about that.” She moved her cart closer to a bin packed with tiny round acorn squash.
“You were going to ask me about the phone call last night,” Kathleen reminded her, filling a bag with chestnuts.
“That’s right.” She weighed one squash in each hand. “There’s too much to think about these days,” she sighed, and tossed both into her cart. “What time did this person call and what did she …”
“He.”
“He? Then it wasn’t a voice claiming to be me.”
“I’ll tell you all about it. Mind if we do this at the butcher’s counter?”
“No.” They moved in that direction and continued to talk. Susan noticed that her husband had disappeared. “So what happened?”
“Well, I got the call almost as soon as I got home from the library. I’m not completely sure of the time, but I think it was around eleven or eleven-thirty. I was ready for bed, but Bananas was teething, and so I was trying to get him to sleep and not paying much attention, if you want to know the truth.
“Well, a man called up and said that he was from the police department. He was very brief. He explained that you were with Chief Fortesque, and that your home phone was constantly busy and they didn’t have a lot of time, so Brett had requested that I call Jed and tell him that Susan was just fine but that she was going to be with him for a while. He didn’t really leave any time for me to ask questions; he just hung up.”
“How long did it take you to get through to Jed?”
“Oh, I did that right away. I thought I must have been lucky and caught the line free between calls. Of course, now that we know the person who called was lying … I know the next question you’re going to ask. The call could have come from a woman disguising her voice. There was a lot of background noise on the other end of the line—and a lot of noise coming from Bananas in my lap—I really can’t be sure of everything. You know,” she added, peering at a tray of tiny pheasants, “I used to get so mad at witnesses who couldn’t remember things. Now I’ve become one of them.”
“Now you have a life besides a profession—and life can be very distracting,” Susan said as her husband appeared at her side, a large bottle sticking out of the bag in his hand. “What is that?”
He pulled out a magnum of Mumm’s. “Champagne. I thought we could use a prop to go along with our costumes tonight.”
“What are you going as?”
“We’re wearing something old. And that’s the only hint you’re going to get,” Susan answered. “Do you really think we should go?”
“Definitely,” her husband answered. “Chad and Chrissy are busy with other things. Our houseguests will probably stay and eat in the city—and, if not, they are more than capable of fending for themselves for one evening—and you need a break.”
“True,” Kathleen said. “Besides, Amy just happened to mention to me that Charles Grace was invited.”
“What’s he going as? The birdman of Hancock?”
“What?”
“It’s a long story, and you’re going to finally get waited on,” Susan said, nodding to the butcher who was approaching them. “I saw Mr. Grace in the middle of last night. I’ll tell you about it if we get a moment together at the party.” She pushed her cart off down the aisle. “What did we come here for?” she asked her husband, looking into its almost full interior.
“Juice,” he reminded her.
She turned toward the correct aisle. “And we should pick up a frozen pizza. Chad is bound to get hungry if we leave him alone.”
“We’d better pick up a few in case he isn’t alone,” Jed said.
They did their shopping, miraculously chose the shortest checkout line, and arrived home before four.
“What time do you think we’ll hear about the press conference?” Susan asked as they carried their groceries into the house.
“I think it was scheduled for about now, but I don’t suppose there will be anything on TV about it until the local news this evening.”
“What about CNN?”
“I suppose it’s worth a try.” Jed turned on the small TV that sat on the end of the kitchen counter. “There aren’t any other major stories right now—and no other scandals for them to turn their attention to.”
The anchorwoman said something about Pittsburgh, and Susan headed back to the car for the
last bag. When she returned to the house, Jed was sitting on a stool, eyes on the television.
“Is it on?” She dumped the bag on the counter.
“No. I’ll help put those away. But I think it may be coming up. They said something about a murder in Connecticut.… Wait! That’s it. She said Hancock, Connecticut.”
“Turn up the volume. I can listen while I work.”
“… The anchorwoman, married for only a few months, has decided to give the press a chance to ask questions. The network issued this statement this afternoon: ‘Rebecca Armstrong, devastated by the death of her husband, has been attacked by various disreputable papers that have tried to increase their circulation by printing stories that are untrue and libelous. She is going to hold a press conference this afternoon, despite her desire for privacy at this trying time, because she feels that it is important for the true story to be told.’ … Here she comes now.”
The picture changed to a close-up shot of Rebecca sitting in a chair similar to the one she used each morning when interviewing guests on her show. She was wearing a navy suit with a gray blouse. She looked appropriately subdued. As the camera zoomed in on her face, she bent her lips into a gentle half smile and rustled the papers she held in her lap.
“I was going to read straight from this prepared statement—and I will—but first I want to say something. I went to my office this afternoon for the first time since my husband was killed. The room is filled with flowers, letters, and cards from viewers who felt it important to express their sympathy for me in this terrible situation. I can’t tell you how much that touched me and how much I appreciated it. Thank you all.” She wiped a tear from her eye, looked down at the script she held, and took a deep breath.
“Thank you all for coming. As you all know, Jason Armstrong, my husband, was killed on Halloween. He was stabbed on the porch of our new home in Connecticut. A homeless man well known in the area has confessed to the murder—as well as to another that happened earlier in the day.
“Naturally I am devastated by this. Jason and I have had a very public courtship on ‘This Morning, Every Morning,’ and our marriage was well known. We had expected to continue to do the work we loved, as well as raise a family and, eventually, live a more private life, away from publicity—with a chance to sleep late in the morning.” The tiny sad smile reappeared for a moment. “None of this is to be.
“And now, I find that I am the subject of numerous attacks in various so-called newspapers on sale around the country. My lawyers and the lawyers at the network will be filing suit against these scandal sheets, their editors, and their owners. I have long believed in a free press and in journalistic freedom. But freedom without responsibility is a travesty, and I do not intend to allow it to destroy either the memory of Jason, the memory of our marriage, or my career.
“There are also rumors about the other man who died the same day as Jason. Mitchell Waterfield was employed by this network for many years. We knew each other in a professional capacity, and no other. I would like very much to publicly express my sadness over his death to his family and his many friends. I am ready to answer some questions, but my lawyers”—the camera panned back to include three solemn-looking men standing nearby—“are advising me to be careful and not jeopardize our case in any way. I’m sure you understand.” She looked straight into the camera as she said this.
“Ms. Armstrong. Rebecca,” a woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the room. “First we want you to know that, as your friends and colleagues, we all sympathize with you and feel that it is terrible that you should find yourself in this situation.…”
“But we all have our jobs to do,” Rebecca interrupted, the half smile reappearing on her face.
“Uh, yes.” The camera had found the speaker, a woman reporter well known in New York City for her incisive reporting and irritating mannerisms. “Are you saying that there is no truth to the stories that hit the newsstands today—the stories about men in your past?”
“It is true that people I have known have died. But that is true for all of us. Never were any of those deaths related to me—nor did I ever have more than professional relationships with any of the men mentioned.” She nodded curtly to another reporter in the audience.
“Are you convinced, Ms. Armstrong, that the man who confessed is the man who killed your husband?”
“I see no reason not to believe that, if the police are convinced of his guilt. One of the hazards of being in the public eye is that sometimes people who are unbalanced develop a hatred for us—there are many famous cases of this in the past, of course. Although he caused me a great loss, I feel sorry for this man. I hope he will get proper psychiatric care if that is what he needs.”
“That sounds pretty artificial to me,” Susan muttered. “I know I’d hate anyone who killed you.”
“Thank you,” Jed said. “I promise to hate anyone who kills you, too.”
Susan punched him gently in the stomach, and they both returned to the television.
“Have you met the man who confessed?” a gentleman in the rear of the room asked.
“No, the police haven’t asked me to do so. I’m following the direction of Brett Fortesque, Chief of the Hancock, Connecticut, police department. I do whatever he asks me to do.”
“Do you plan to return to ‘This Morning, Every Morning’?” The question came from a woman on a different network who was often mentioned in articles as a replacement for Rebecca if she became pregnant and retired from the business, or if her ratings dropped.
“I am approaching the future one day at a time,” Rebecca answered. “A private funeral—family only—will be held for my husband on Monday morning. There will be a public memorial service sometime next week. The time and place will be announced when that information is available. I plan on returning to my professional family here at the network as soon as I feel that I can fulfill my obligations to the wonderful people with whom I work and to the viewers.” She sighed deeply, and one of the men she had identified as a lawyer walked up and put his arm around her shoulder.
“Ms. Armstrong has had a very difficult few days. I think just one or two more questions,” he suggested.
“How long have you lived in Connecticut? And will you stay there now that your husband is dead?”
“Jason and I moved to Connecticut less than a month ago. We enjoyed fixing up our new home, meeting new neighbors, finding our place in the community. I’m afraid I can’t plan for the future right now. I think I’ll just let things settle down a bit before making any big decisions.”
“Maybe just one more question?”
“Of course.”
“There are rumors that you and your late husband weren’t getting along, that there might have been a divorce in your future if the murder hadn’t …”
“Any rumors, innuendos, or statements that my marriage to Jason wasn’t perfectly happy are lies. We were perfectly happy until my husband was killed.” Rebecca stood up, and Hilda rushed forward.
“It’s possible that Ms. Armstrong could answer questions all day, but this has been a terrible time for her, and I’m sure you understand her need for privacy. Now there will be refreshments in the room down the hall, and the public relations department will handle all questions from here on out.”
Hilda hurried Rebecca, clutching a damp handkerchief of Italian linen in her hand, from the room, and the interview was over. Cameras swerved around the milling crowd, and Jed reached to turn off the set.
“Nothing new there,” he commented. “It will be interesting to see which sound bites they use on the news shows. I’ll bet the beginning where she thanks all her fans for their support. That was a well-staged news conference.”
“They didn’t ask her very difficult questions, did they?”
“Just another example of an industry taking care of its own,” Jed said.
“You think that’s it?”
“I’m sure that’s it. Even journalists aren’t fond of see
ing their own dirty linen hanging on the line.”
“No, I suppose not,” Susan agreed, and sneezed. “You know, I need to shower and do something with my hair if we’re going to be in costume tonight.”
“I should check to see if everything is in place. I haven’t worn my tux since that dinner at the Waldorf last spring. I hope I had the shirt cleaned.”
“So what did the press conference accomplish?” Susan asked, following her husband from the room.
“Well, she alerted everyone that she would sue if untrue stories about her were printed. And it looks like the network is supporting her completely. In terms of empowerment, it did a good job. I think that was the whole point.”
“I suppose so,” Susan agreed reluctantly. “But don’t you think it’s sort of much ado about nothing?”
“No, I think it’s much ado about at least a couple of million dollars’ worth of revenue to the network—maybe more. Where are you going?”
“The attic,” she answered, turning at the top of the stairs. “My costume is up there, remember? It’s been in storage for the last nineteen years. I hope it doesn’t smell musty.” She opened the door at the end of the hall and headed up the uncarpeted stairs.
They went their separate ways. Jed peeked into the bathroom half an hour later and told his wife that Brett had called.
“Should I call him back?” Susan asked from under a mountain of mousse and hot curlers.
“No. He said he was just checking in to see if you had any new thoughts about the murder. I told him that we were going to be at Amy’s party tonight. He knew about it—evidently she issued him a last-minute invitation this morning. He says that if he has to talk to you, he’ll appear. You’ll know him; he’ll be the police officer.”
Susan chuckled. “You know what I forgot? To pick up my bouquet. I ordered it a few weeks ago at Festoons and Flowers,” she mentioned the florist in downtown Hancock, “and I was supposed to pick it up this morning.”
“It was delivered a few minutes ago. They called, and when I said that we had forgotten and I’d be right down, they explained that their truck was going to pass nearby on the way to make a delivery to the Presbyterian church, and it would be dropped off.”
All Hallows Evil Page 21
