The Fortieth Birthday Body

by Valerie Wolzien

  THE FORTIETH

  BIRTHDAY BODY

  A Susan Henshaw Mystery

  Valerie Wolzien

  © Valerie Wolzien 1989

  Valerie Wolzien has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1991 by Ballantine Books.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  To Trevor

  Table of Contents

  FORTY YEARS MINUS

  THREE DAYS

  FORTY

  FORTY PLUS ONE DAY

  FORTY PLUS TWO

  FORTY PLUS THREE

  FORTY PLUS FOUR

  FORTY PLUS FIVE

  FORTY PLUS SIX

  FORTY PLUS SEVEN

  FORTY PLUS EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FORTY YEARS MINUS

  THREE DAYS

  I

  “… And with winds of thirty miles an hour, this snow won’t stay off the roads for long, so we can look forward to a difficult rush hour tonight. And that’s the forecast for today: more blustery winter weather. Sleet changing to snow during the morning with an eight- to ten-inch accumulation expected before tapering off around midnight. Alternate side of the street parking …”

  Susan forced her eyes open and sat up in bed. It wasn’t a dream: There was snow coming down outside her bedroom window. She squinted over her husband’s shoulder at the clock-radio on the nightstand by his side of the bed. Six a.m. Too early for him to get up. Why had she set the alarm half an hour ahead last night?

  A gust of wind hit the north side of the house, its chill piercing the well-insulated walls. She shivered. The automatic thermostat wouldn’t turn on until six-thirty. Grabbing a robe from the back of the mirrored closet door, she hurried downstairs to turn up the heat.

  Minutes later, a creamy cashmere robe tightly wrapped around her, shoulder-length brown hair pulled from her freshly scrubbed face into a skimpy ponytail, glasses perched on her nose where they would remain until she was awake enough to face her contact lenses, she was in her kitchen on a stool near the vent directly over the furnace, a mug of instant coffee cradled in her cold hands. So why was she up so early? A glance at the family’s calendar didn’t enlighten her. As far as it was concerned, nothing important enough to write down was happening early this morning.

  She peered out the window into the light beginning to illuminate her backyard. This was going to be some storm. Already the ground was covered and small drifts were forming at the corners of the bluestone patio. The flakes were falling so fast she could barely see through them to the half-dozen tall willows lining the brook that marked the end of their property.

  As she watched, the wind shifted and the willows’ long, leafless stems lashed about the bending limbs. She hoped the trees survived the storm. True, she and Jed were always saying that they should have them taken down before they fell down. But every year in the spring, when their leaves first turned green and dipped into the water, she knew the trees would be left to die naturally.

  She had spent her first afternoon in this house under those trees, picnicking with Chrissy, trying to show the then four-year-old child that moving from the city would be lots of fun. And probably trying to convince herself that it didn’t mean giving up everything that she had grown to love in the six years she and Jed had occupied a tiny one-bedroom walk-up on the West Side of New York City. A year later, she had sat in the privacy of the willows and nursed her baby son. That child, Chad, had fallen from the top of one of the trees only four years later—his first trip to the hospital emergency room. She sighed, then smiled at herself: It was amazing how sentimental she was becoming as her children grew up. Oh well, she thought, reaching into the freezer for breakfast. Maybe frozen waffles … She paused and read the calorie count printed on the back of the box. Could they possibly be that fattening without syrup? She put them back and decided on toast. She’d just remembered why the alarm was set. She had been planning to get up early and “Exercise with Irma” on the local cable channel. Just because she had missed that was no reason to pig out.

  “Mom! Did anyone call? Is school canceled?”

  “Not that I know of, Chad. There isn’t even an inch of snow on the ground yet,” she hollered up the stairs. “Wear your heavy Mets sweatshirt. It’s going to be cold.”

  “I ripped it playing field hockey in gym. Remember? I told you and you said you’d fix it. I’ll wear the Ferrari shirt. It’s warm.”

  “Okay.” She hated that shirt as much as her son loved it. She had agreed to buy it, hoping its fluorescent colors would fade after repeated washings. Thanks to the wonders of modern science, that hadn’t happened, but it wasn’t something to start the day arguing over. She should have remembered to mend the other. She looked out the window again and wished for the survival of the willows before returning to reality and the confusion that was her weekday morning.

  “I don’t have time for breakfast. Just some coffee if it’s ready,” her husband announced from the doorway to the kitchen. “This storm’s going to mess up the trains. I think I’ll drive your car in, if you don’t mind.”

  “My car?”

  “The Mercedes is due at the garage this morning. I told you about it last week, remember? I think it’s just the fuel injector, but it may be something more complicated. Make sure they have my number at the office in case they want to reach me.” He crossed the room and absently kissed his wife good-bye, caressing her shoulder with one hand and accepting the coffee she had poured for him with the other. “Thanks. I’ll call, but you can plan on me being late with this weather,” he commented, peering out the window before leaving for his job as vice president of financial affairs at a large ad agency in New York City. “I didn’t need this. I shouldn’t have scheduled that meeting with the graphics department for nine.”

  Their ten-year-old son ran into the room, nearly colliding with his father. “Watch out, Chad. I almost spilled hot coffee on you.” He raised his cup in the air. “I’ve really got to go. You help your mother with the snow on the walks and the drive until the plow comes,” he ordered, and then added, “I’ll pay you. Just keep track of how long it takes. ’Bye,” he finished and was gone.

  “Oh, good, frozen waffles,” the child said, not answering his father but watching his mother open the microwave door. “I’ll get the syrup.”

  “Mom, you know I can’t eat waffles. Kathy and I just started our new diet. I told you last night.” The protest announced her daughter’s arrival.

  “I remember,” her mother replied, handing the thirteen-year-old girl a glass of juice and a plate of Ry-Krisps. “But this won’t hurt your waistline and I hate sending you off to school without something in your stomach. Do you have your boo—Oh damn.” Still holding her mug of coffee she ran into the hall after her husband. “Jed! Jed!” Flinging open the front door, she watched her little green Datsun sedan scoot down the street. “Damn,” she repeated and returned to her children. “My boots are in the trunk.”

  “Mine are in my locker at school,” her son informed her complacently, pouring an excess of syrup over two waffles.

  “Good move, Slick,” his sister commented and then turned her attention to other matters. “Mom, Kathy’s mother’s going to drive me to school. And don’t forget that you have an appointment with my art teacher this afternoon. She said it was important.”

  “If this snow keeps up she’ll probably want to make it another day and get home to her family. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t forget an appointment with a teacher,” Susan lied. “And I’ll call the school in a few hours to see if she wants to change the time.”

  “This is
very important to me, Mom,” her daughter reminded her. “I think she may want to tell you about the trip to European art museums that she runs each summer. And you know how I want to major in art in college.”

  “I know, but I’m not promising anything, Chrissy,” Susan said. She did know what it meant to the child, so she worked to keep the irritation from her voice. This wasn’t promising to be a great day. “What good are your boots going to do you if you leave them in your locker, Chad?” she asked rhetorically.

  “They don’t do me much good anyway,” was the reply. “There are holes in both of ’em. There’s your ride, Chrissy,” he added as a horn sounded in the driveway.

  A loud knock on the back door preceded the arrival of a girl in a shocking pink parka with a turquoise sweater and bright orange tights hanging below and bleached blond friz above. “Hi, Mrs. Henshaw. Hi, Chrissy … oh, Ry-Krisps. I wish my mom had thought of them. I’m starving.”

  “Hi, Kathy. You girls better hurry,” Susan interrupted, knowing that once they started talking about their diets they would hang around the kitchen forever.

  “Oh, my mom says not to rush, Mrs. Henshaw. She knows it’s early and she says she’ll just sit in the car and warm the engine until Chrissy’s ready.”

  “Well, take her this mug of coffee and tell her I asked if she’d drive Chad over to the elementary school on her way to Hancock Junior,” Susan requested.

  “Sure, Mrs. Henshaw, I’ll ask her. She won’t mind.” Snow blew in the open door as she left.

  “I can’t imagine what Stephanie is thinking of to let her daughter dress like that,” Susan commented.

  “Mother, she looks wonderful,” loyally protested her daughter.

  Susan reminded herself that it was too early in the day to deal with conflict. “Is your homework in your backpack, Chad?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have time for two more waffles, do I?”

  “No. I appreciate you going with Mrs. King,” said his mother, who knew that her boisterous son was surprisingly shy around strange adults. “I have to get the Mercedes to the dealer this morning and …”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I like going to school with Mrs. King. You should see the way she takes the corners in that new Jaguar of hers. Outta sight!” He waved his arms in the air to demonstrate how the car careened around turns.

  “A new Jaguar?” Susan asked, peering out the window through the snow.

  “Yeah. It’s fantastic! Two-twenty horsepower …”

  “A burgundy sedan,” Susan mumbled to herself, the car’s expensive newness undiminished by the snow. “Nice. Now don’t keep Mrs. King waiting. Get your backpack and hurry. And don’t forget to wear your boots home; even with holes, they’re better than nothing,” she added. “And look at your spelling words before the test. Remember gymnasium is spelled g … y … m …” She gave up the lesson and watched as her son sank his Reeboks in the largest drift he could find between the house and the car.

  She braved the now heavy snowfall long enough to wave to the last of her family before returning to the kitchen.

  The willows creaked from a particularly torturous blast of cold air and then, sighing, righted themselves.

  II

  “You know how it is: We have two cars and the one that doesn’t work is mine,” Susan said into the phone while emptying the dishwasher of last night’s china before adding the morning’s accumulation. “Sure. I’d appreciate it, but do you have the time? Well, starting a new business always takes a lot of … I know, but don’t get discouraged. Did the Smalls get in touch with you? I know they were very unhappy with their system after their most recent burglary … Yes, their most recent. They’ve been broken into three times in the last three years. Well, maybe you ought to give them a call. It couldn’t hurt.” She stopped cleaning to concentrate on the voice at the other end of the line. “Look, I know how you feel. But at least you’re doing something. You’re not just taking care of other people.” She listened again, a slight smile on her face. “Okay. Maybe it’s just the weather or maybe it’s my birthday coming up. All I know is that I feel more and more like I don’t have a life of my own, and taking a car that I only get to drive on weekends in for service isn’t helping any … Okay, you’re right. I’d better get going. I’ll drop off the Mercedes and meet you at the Inn at noon. Okay? … No, I don’t think we’ll need reservations in this weather, but get them if it would make you feel better. Great. See you then.”

  She hung up and, flipping the switch that would start her dishwasher humming, left the kitchen and headed up the stairs, a cacophony of sounds greeting her arrival on the second floor. She went first into her daughter’s room and then into her son’s, turning off their respective radios, each set for a different rock station. In her own bedroom, an all news radio station was reporting on the myriad of traffic and train delays in and around the city. In the corner of the room, Bryant Gumbel and Jane Pauley were chatting happily. She reached to turn off the radio as the phone rang again.

  “Susan.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded excited. Susan didn’t anticipate the same response, and reached out with her free hand for the remote control that had spent the night tucked down in the sheets between her husband and herself. “Have you heard who’s coming back to town?”

  “No.” She’d succeeded in turning off an interview with the rock star who had just written a book, and she flung the line of the phone across the mattress so she could reach her dresser drawer while talking. She found her underwear, but where was that moss green turtleneck?

  “Dawn Elliot.”

  Susan froze, but her caller continued.

  “It’ll be interesting to see her after so long, won’t it? I wonder if she’s still as gorgeous as ever. Or as skinny. Maybe she’s stopped smoking and gotten fat …” And on and on.

  Susan couldn’t think of anything to say. Oddly enough, she found she was thinking only of the frill of ivory lace hanging from the cup of the bra she was wearing. Should she mend it? Was it worth the time? Did she even like this bra? Maybe the style made her look fat … or flat?

  “So what do you think?”

  “I … I have to go. I have to drop off Jed’s car at the dealer, and I’m meeting Kathleen for lunch and … I really do have to go,” she insisted.

  “Oh. I didn’t know you were in a hurry. But think about when we can get together with Dawn. I want to give her a party. Or maybe it would be more fun if we just get a bunch of women together for a lunch. I like that idea. Let’s do it. I’ll call around and check to see what dates are free and get back to you tonight. Okay? Drive carefully. The snow sure is coming down.”

  “I will. ’Bye.” Susan hung up and stood studying the telephone, feeling like she’d taken a bad fall and had the breath knocked out of her, a gray gloom wrapping her in its envelope. “No way.” She pulled herself together. “That bitch isn’t going to get to me now.” She flung her cashmere sweater over her head, tugged on tweedy wool pants and tall leather boots, and stamped down the stairs to the hall closet. So what if the weather was too rotten for her to wear her new nutria coat. Today her morale needed it.

  III

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Henshaw. If we have a problem, we’ll just call your husband. I have his number in the city right here. Now, do you need a ride home? The courtesy van is due back in a few minutes and we’d be glad to give you a lift.”

  “Thanks. But I have a date for lunch and I’m going to shop until then. I appreciate the offer, though,” Susan replied, handing an extra set of car keys to the man on the other side of the service desk.

  “Why don’t you leave through the showroom then? We keep the front of the place shoveled, and you’re less likely to slip in the snow. Sure is coming down, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” she agreed, not particularly anxious to chat. “Maybe I’ll look at the new cars on the way out.”

  “Good idea. Check out that signal-red 560SL. Perfect car for a nice lady like you,” he urged.

 
; Susan smiled. Why not? If wrapping herself in an expensive fur was good for the morale, just how would she feel if she and her fur stepped into an expensive new car? She was moving across the deep rug of the lush showroom when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a well-dressed salesman starting in her direction. He was probably surprised to see a customer in this weather. She decided to view the car another time. That man had a lot of time to spare and, in her present mood, she just might find herself ordering a dozen 560s—each in a different color, please. She changed direction and hurried toward the door.

  IV

  “I thought you probably knew all about it.”

  “How many people are allowed to go through their fortieth birthday without a surprise party?”

  “I’m sure Jed’s giving it for you because he wants to make you happy. I mean …”

  “Oh, I know that, Kathleen.” She smiled across the table at the stunning blonde. “I’m not being very nice about this, am I? I guess I’m just in a bad mood today.”

  “Anything I can do? Or is it just turning forty? You know, it really isn’t the end of the world.”

  “You’re not going to tell me ‘life begins at forty,’ are you?”

  “Not me. And I always thought that it was ‘life begins at fifty.’ ”

  “Oh, good. You mean I have ten more years to wait?”

  “Yup. Have another hot buttered rum while you’re waiting.”

  “Good idea. Where’d that waitress go to?” Susan swallowed the last of the creamy, warm liquid from her tall white mug and looked around. She might be depressed, but she’d picked a great place to be depressed in. The Hancock Inn, a very successful restaurant in a Connecticut town of very successful people, had added this room last fall. Now the Colonial stone front of the building was balanced by a sun room in the rear. At first, resisting change, Susan had disliked the addition, but, during the winter, she’d come to love it. The large copper and glass room was filled with spring flowers in wooden window boxes and hanging baskets, their green lushness dripping down to the tile floor or growing up toward the moisture-covered glass ceiling. As she spied their waitress and nodded, Susan thought that she would be happy to sit here forever, the warm artificial spring protecting her from the snow and cold outside.