Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  ELECTED

  FOR DEATH

  A Susan Henshaw Mystery

  Valerie Wolzien

  © Valerie Wolzien 1996

  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 1996 by Ballantine Books.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  This book is dedicated to the staff at the Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor, Maine. In a crisis they were there and I thank them very much.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  ONE

  There are various perverse ways for masochists to gain pleasure. Trying to get elected to town council in the suburbs may, perhaps, be kinkier than most, but any more obvious signs of sexual deviance were hidden by the well-groomed, conservative appearance of the seven candidates gathered around Susan Henshaw’s dining-room table.

  “They’re really obsessive people, aren’t they?” Kathleen Gordon asked Susan as voices floated out the open bay window above their heads. The two friends were enjoying a warm autumn day outside. Kathleen was helping her year-old daughter sort the brilliant-colored leaves that were falling from the trees as Susan gardened.

  “That’s one word for it,” Susan agreed, continuing to cut back frost-damaged chrysanthemums in front of her white Colonial home.

  “I suppose you’ll be happy when all this is over,” Kathleen suggested.

  “Every day I wake up and the first thing I think of is how many more days until the election.”

  “How many?”

  “Eleven,” Susan answered. “But I keep thinking about the election results.”

  “You’re afraid Jed might lose.”

  “Sure.” Susan leaned back on her heels and frowned at the garden. “First I worry about how badly he will feel if he loses—and then I worry about how our lives will change if he wins. Did you know that the Coopers had an extra phone line, two fax machines, and an expensive security system installed the week after Bob was elected to the school board? They even had sensors placed in their lawn and I think Margaret would have hired helicopters to circle overhead if she could have.”

  “But aren’t people in town more involved in their children’s education than in the town council?” Alex, Kathleen’s son, had begun kindergarten last year, and she had been astounded by the passions seemingly innocuous topics evoked at school meetings she had attended. “No one even mentions the town council.”

  “Their children and their homes,” Susan muttered, using more force than necessary to rip a mauve mum from the ground.

  “Excuse me?” Kathleen removed a yellow Norway maple leaf from her daughter’s mouth.

  “Everyone cares about their children’s education—and the other thing they care about passionately is their homes. That damn Landmark Commission has made everyone crazy. I can’t believe Jed walked right into the middle of this one. He usually stays away from politics.”

  “He did talk over his decision to run with you, didn’t he?” Kathleen asked, accepting the brown pin oak leaf that her daughter offered her.

  “Well, sort of. He chose a warm spring day to take me to the Sign of the Dove in the city. We had kirs before dinner, a bottle of my favorite wine with the meal, then brandy afterward.…” She looked up at her friend with a scowl on her face. “Same old story—the man plied me with liquor and seduced me into saying yes.” Then she laughed. “That’s the trouble with being my age. Men still want me to say yes—just not in response to the same questions. Getting old is hard on the ego.”

  “Forty-seven isn’t old,” Kathleen protested like a good friend should.

  Susan didn’t answer. Kathleen might not be saying the same thing when she was Susan’s age—ten years from now.

  “Is there any way of knowing if Jed is going to win or lose? I suppose they don’t do polls for town elections.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that. Hancock does everything in a big way, but this election is insane.” Susan tossed the last of the dead flowers into the bushel basket she was using for trash and struggled to her feet. “I’m exhausted. Want some tea?”

  “It’s been a long few months for you, hasn’t it?” Kathleen asked.

  “Only the last month. I cannot tell you how glad I am that I spent so much of the summer in Maine. I should have stayed,” she added, glancing up at the window.

  “My own personal opinion is that citizens who live in contemporary homes should not be allowed to vote on this issue,” an angry female voice insisted loudly from within the house.

  “Listen. People who have so little taste that they would buy one of those ranch houses they built back in the fifties probably don’t have the sense to get out and vote.”

  “My home was built in 1952 and it has been mentioned in numerous articles and books about design. It was even included in The New York Times listing of significant residences of the last half of the twentieth century. If you believe buying a home like mine displays less taste than buying one of the hundreds of Victorian clichés that line some streets around here, you’re nuts!” These words were shouted in a deep male voice.

  “They’re angry again,” Susan said, standing up. “You’d never know they were running on the same ticket, would you?”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kathleen suggested. “I think Alice is too young to be exposed to so much anger. Might scar her delicate psyche and she’ll never run for office.”

  “You’re planning on raising the first female president of the United States?”

  “Sure,” Kathleen said, taking her daughter gently by the hand and leading her around the side of the house toward the brook at the end of Susan’s backyard. “Who would have thought we’d be waiting until the next century for that one?”

  Susan just shook her head and walked by her friend’s side. “You’ll never guess what I’ve been asked to do.”

  “Give the victory party on election night—Jed mentioned it to Jerry on the train on the way into the city the other day,” Kathleen told her. “Are you going to do it?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t like turning Jed down and it has been a while since we gave a big party—but what if he loses? What sort of party will that be?”

  “Good question. You won’t even be able to hang up a banner saying ‘Congratulations’ in block letters, will you? Or serve champagne?”

  “You can always serve champagne. It’s just as good for drowning your sorrows as for celebrating a victory,” Susan said. “Or maybe a celebration isn’t exactly in order if Jed wins,” she added, seeing her husband emerge from their back door. There was a scowl on his face. “He sure doesn’t look happy about running. I can’t imagine that he’s going to enjoy spending time with these people if he’s elected.”

  “Even Clue looks unhappy,” Kathleen said as the Henshaws’ large golden retriever followed Jed from the house.

  “Anthony Martel is allergic to dogs,
so she has to be put in the basement or the yard while he’s here.”

  “You mean ‘Call me Tony,’ don’t you?” Kathleen asked, referring to the button that Anthony Martel had been handing out all over town since collecting enough names to get on the ballot for mayor. A large circle, it displayed a photo of a smiling man with the words anthony (call me tony) martel for mayor of hancock, connecticut. please vote. The message was so long and the print so small that it was almost impossible to read.

  “Look, he’s not very original—or glib. But he’s really bright and he’s a hard worker. Jed says he’ll make a good mayor—”

  “As long as he doesn’t bore all his constituents to death.” Jed smiled at Kathleen as he joined them. “I thought I’d take Clue for a walk. Anyone want to come along?”

  “It’s time that Alice and I were heading home,” Kathleen said.

  “I didn’t mean to run you off,” Jed said immediately.

  “You didn’t. I have to get home and cook and clean for tomorrow afternoon.” She gave Jed a pointed look.

  “You and Jerry are wonderful to give a cottage party for me and my fellow candidates,” he responded promptly. “And I’m sure Jerry will eventually figure out a way to apologize for the fact that he volunteered your home and your abilities as a hostess. I’ll just start around the block with Clue,” he added to Susan.

  “Turn left at the end of the driveway and I’ll walk in the other direction and meet you,” she suggested. “As soon as I see Kathleen and Alice to their car.”

  Jed said good-bye to Kathleen and her daughter and started off.

  “You’re not too angry at Jerry for volunteering your services, are you?” Susan asked Kathleen as they returned to the front of the house.

  “Not at all. And since my cleaning lady was there yesterday and I’m having the whole thing catered, it hasn’t been that big a deal. I was just kidding Jed. Although I must admit I was a little irritated when Jerry told me about it. I gather these cottage parties are common around election time in Hancock?”

  “You’re not telling me that you’ve lived here for six years and you’ve avoided going to election-time teas?”

  “Yes. Have I been avoiding my civic duty?”

  “You’ve been very lucky. You cannot imagine how boring these things are.”

  “Oh, thanks. I was hoping to give a really dull party,” Kathleen said somewhat sarcastically.

  “No one expects anything else,” Susan assured her as they arrived at Kathleen’s Jaguar. Kathleen fastened her daughter in the child safety seat as they continued to chat. “Most of the people who are coming are already supporters of the candidates who sponsor the party. Those people drag along willing neighbors and friends with the promise of food and a few drinks and hope that a decent repast in the middle of a fall Sunday will be a sufficient bribe to convince them to vote for the people they meet. The only problem usually is that one or two cranks try to corner the candidates and talk their ears off.”

  “That’s not going to be the only problem unless I get home quickly,” Kathleen said.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “When you said drinks, you meant alcoholic, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but what …” A look of dawning understanding appeared on Susan’s face. “You didn’t think tea meant tea, did you?”

  “How could I possibly have been so stupid?” Kathleen asked, slipping into her car and starting the engine. “I think I’d better get hold of the caterer—right away. Wave bye-bye to Auntie Susan, Alice,” she suggested, and roared off down the drive before her child could comply with her request.

  Susan chuckled and started walking around the block. She knew that Kathleen, having spent many years as a police officer before marrying a widower and moving to suburbia, was more than capable of producing the required libations tomorrow afternoon. It was time to find out why Jed had looked so serious when he left the house after his meeting.

  Susan scuffed through the fragrant leaves drifting across the bluestone sidewalk that ringed the large block on which she lived, and thought about the election. Buck Logan, longtime mayor of Hancock, had left town suddenly last spring. There were those who blamed the move on his wife’s drinking problem. There were those who said that his daughter, Cameo, had probably done things sober that were more likely to embarrass the family than anything her mother had done while drunk. The truth was that Buck had retired and moved himself and his family to North Carolina, but it wasn’t a terribly interesting story, so the rumors persisted.

  But Buck’s departure had left a vacancy on the town council that, in past years, might have been difficult to fill. The real issue in town, as Susan and Kathleen had been discussing, was the schools, and every few years the battle to get elected to the Board of Education was fierce. But the mayor’s job involved many hours of busywork and a commitment to making long, boring speeches at what were frequently long, boring events. Town council meetings, at which the mayor presided, rarely attracted many spectators, but to read the reports in the town’s paper, they were nothing to write home about—unless you had a family fascinated by the minutiae of running a wealthy community in the last decade of the twentieth century.

  Until recently, Susan reminded herself, walking around a large pile of dog droppings in the center of the sidewalk. She forgot about the election long enough to wonder whether or not Jed had remembered to grab the pooper-scooper or a plastic bag on his way to the street.

  Recently, she continued her ruminations, the office of mayor had become a hot property. Three people wanted the job and fourteen people were running for town council on one of the tickets. All because of houses like the one she was passing at the end of her block.

  Susan stopped and stared at the humongous Victorian. Someone, she thought, had chosen the colors in the springtime. The muted blues and greens looked marvelous with the banks of rosy azaleas and rhododendrons that bloomed in May and June. Right now, surrounded by piles of yellow and orange leaves, it looked a little washed out. The house was large and ornate, built about thirty years before 1939—and that was the problem.

  Last summer, the local Landmark Commission had decided that any homes or structures (churches, schools, even the old mill down by the river) built before 1939 were historical treasures—and were to be treated as such. Owners of these houses suddenly found that there were rules and regulations that prohibited them from what the commission referred to as “unwarranted change”—and that included remodeling and any number of things that owners felt entitled to do to their own homes.

  Hancock was founded before the Revolutionary War. That many of its homes had been built before 1939 went without saying. Thus the outcry was enormous. Three separate people were running for mayor on three different platforms, all of which had to do with this issue. Town council meetings had become standing-room-only events. Letters to the editor threatened to become the fattest section of the local paper.

  And Jed seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time getting around the block, Susan thought, smiling at the woman who was trotting down the brick pathway from the blue Victorian to the sidewalk. Susan didn’t know this particular neighbor well, but she returned her wave, trying to remember the woman’s first name. Something beginning with an L, she thought. Was it Lillian? Or Lillith? Or maybe …

  “Susan Henshaw.” Damn. Apparently her neighbor’s memory was substantially better than hers. “You are just the person I wanted to talk to.” The woman stopped at the end of her walkway. Her long blond hair was somewhat disheveled; she lost pins from her French twist every time she moved.

  “What about?” Susan asked, hoping her cheerful demeanor would be a good cover for her poor memory.

  “This election. I understand your husband … uh, Josh …”

  Apparently her neighbor’s memory was flawed, too, Susan thought, supplying the correct name. “Jed.”

  “Of course, isn’t it terrible what getting old does to your memory? Jed. How could I have forgotten? W
ell, you must get him to vote against that absolutely absurd Landmark Commission thing.”

  “He’s running on Anthony Martel’s ticket. They want to alter the Landmark Commission’s regulations,” Susan began the prepared speech that she had been making in grocery stores, dry cleaners, aerobics classes, and every other place she had been for the past month. This woman, however, didn’t want to hear it.

  “There’s absolutely no reason for this Landmark Commission to think they can tell me what to do with my own property. It was not a landmark when I bought it. It was a wreck. Now that we’ve remodeled every bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room—and have completely redecorated the interior, we can’t extend the porch around the pool in the backyard because suddenly it has become a landmark. Ha! Tell Jeff I said that! Tell him ha!” Hair flying, she stormed back to her landmark.

  Spying Jed walking around the corner, Susan hurried toward him. As they got closer she realized that the walk hadn’t had a relaxing effect on him. Clue, in good retriever fashion, flung herself forward as if another moment without her mistress would be completely unbearable, pulling Jed along behind.

  “Is something wrong?” Susan asked, when they were close enough not to have to shout. She noticed that he didn’t have a pooper-scooper or bag in his hand.

  “Everything is wrong. Do you have any idea how many of our neighbors have opinions about this election—opinions that they are only too willing to share with me!”

  Susan was very aware of the almost universal need to badger the candidates—and the candidates’ wives. “Maybe,” she began in what she hoped was a soothing tone of voice.

  But Jed wasn’t any more interested in listening to her than she had been in listening to her neighbor. “Things have really gotten out of hand here, hon. Half of our neighbors have stopped to talk with me. And do you know what they’re talking about?”

  “I—”

  “Apparently Bradley Chadwick was quoted in one of the local papers as saying he was afraid for his life.”