Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “I think that’s the end,” Kathleen stated as Barney returned to the screen in all his purple glory. “The VCR is new and I don’t think I set it correctly. I would have gotten the whole thing if I hadn’t fallen asleep again, of course.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Susan said. “Jed was the most important part—to me at least.”

  “Do you want to take the tape home with you? Maybe Jed would like to see it.”

  “I’m sure he would. Thanks. I suppose I’d better get going. I promised Jed that I would check on the organization of the calling chain for election eve. We have less than a week to go, after all. I have to contact almost three dozen people and make sure they got their information in the mail and answer any questions they have.”

  “Isn’t an awful lot of this falling on your shoulders? Don’t the other candidates have families?”

  “I’m the only spouse without a full-time job. And that doesn’t mean the other spouses aren’t busy—they’re probably talking to divorce lawyers at this very moment.”

  “What about loyal volunteers? If so many people have such strong feelings about this election, why aren’t they working on it?”

  “Excellent question.” Susan stood up and stretched. “If you find an answer to it, be sure to let me know.”

  “If you need any help …”

  Susan could hear the reluctance in Kathleen’s voice. “You’re a great friend—and you were wonderful to give Jed that party—so I’m not going to take advantage of your offer. Women with small children should enjoy what little free time they have. However,” she added, moving toward the door, “I won’t be so nice when Alice and Alex are in high school.”

  Alice, perhaps hearing her name, became bored with her playpen, and Susan said good-bye and saw herself to the door as Kathleen picked up her daughter. Since the women lived only a few minutes apart, she was soon letting herself into her own home. Clue, a typical golden retriever, jumped around joyfully until realizing that her owner had the poor sense to prefer hanging out in the house to taking a nice long walk. With a loud snort, the dog settled down in the corner of the kitchen. Susan sighed, looked longingly at her empty coffeepot, told herself that too much caffeine was bad for her, picked up the list of people who had volunteered to spend the evening before the election calling two dozen people who were thought to be loyal to Anthony Martel. She intended to spend a couple of hours doing this, leaving messages on answering machines if necessary and then getting back to the people she had missed after dinner.

  Dialing the first phone number on the list, she decided that herb tea not only had no caffeine but might actually be good for her, and filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. She was settling back to wait for it to boil, when the first name on her list answered.

  “Hi, Connie. It’s Susan Henshaw. I’m calling about—”

  “Susan! I was just talking about you. What do you know about Ivan Deakin’s murder? Who do you think did it? Do the police think Jed is in any danger?”

  “Jed? Why would Jed be in danger?” Susan focused on the only question that had compelling interest for her.

  “If someone is killing all the people who are running for office … But maybe it’s just the candidates for mayor. I was just talking with Miffy Cahill—you know she and her husband are good friends with the Chadwicks—and she said that Cassandra was on the phone practically all night long trying to hire a bodyguard for Bradley.”

  “You’re kidding.” Susan was amazed. She had always thought that Bradley took himself too seriously, but this was a little extreme. “Bradley has been talking about someone trying to murder him for days. Surely no one thinks that someone is out to kill all the mayoral candidates?” she asked, making herself a cup of tea.

  “Why would you assume that isn’t true?”

  Susan took a deep breath. She couldn’t answer that question. “What about Ivan Deakin’s personal life?”

  “Well, there’s his ex-wife, of course. I understand it was a very messy divorce.”

  “Really?” Susan told herself that she was only interested because of the election.

  “Well, I don’t know all the details, but I understand Ivan had a reputation of being quite a ladies’ man, that he was involved with other women the entire time he was married. Younger women is what I heard.”

  “He wasn’t that old when he died—”

  “And Erika doesn’t strike me as someone who would take insults like that lying down.”

  “Erika is his ex-wife?”

  “Yes. You don’t know her?”

  “Erika Deakin? I don’t think so. I know they didn’t have any kids in the school system, otherwise I would have run across them before this. Is she a member of the Field Club?”

  “I don’t think so. They didn’t have any children and she works full-time. She owns that chic little garden shop downtown. Stems and Twigs. You must have been in there.”

  Susan had. But she didn’t remember any of the healthy-looking saleswomen being old enough to be married to Ivan Deakin. “How long were they married?”

  “Not all that long. I think Erika said just a couple of years once when I was talking with her.”

  “When did they get divorced?”

  “Quite a while ago—years, I think.”

  “And she waited for all this time to poison her husband in a very public place?”

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? That’s probably why everyone is saying that it was a political assassination.”

  Susan doubted that everyone was saying this, so she decided it was time to get back to the task at hand. “Did you get the list in the mail?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “What list?”

  “The one the Martel campaign sent out,” Susan explained, realizing that she wasn’t being very clear. “You agreed to call the people who have committed themselves to voting for Anthony. On the night before the election, remember?”

  “Oh, yes.” Connie seemed to hesitate.

  “I can send you a copy of the information if you’ve lost it,” Susan added quickly. “It was sent out over a week ago in a manila envelope. There’s a sheet of names and phone numbers as well as an instruction sheet. The people on your list live in your neighborhood, so you probably know some of them. I can send out another list,” Susan repeated when Connie didn’t say anything. “Or I could drive over and drop it off at your house.”

  “Susan, I was talking with some people down at the club.…”

  “And?” Susan prompted, curious about what was to come. It was highly unlike Connie to be at a loss for words.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to vote for Tony Martel. I mean, I like him. And you know that I like you and Jed. And certainly I’ll vote for Jed. You don’t have to worry about that for even one second. But …”

  “But you’re not sure you can call twenty-four people the night before the election and urge them to get out there and vote for Anthony Martel.”

  “Tony Martel. He wants you to call him Tony, remember.”

  “I remember,” Susan said a little grimly. “I guess I’ll just turn your list over to someone else,” she added, as though there were legions of people just waiting to volunteer for the job.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Susan could hear the relief in Connie’s voice now that this dilemma was resolved for her.

  “And don’t forget to call me when you find out who killed Ivan Deakin,” Connie trilled before hanging up.

  Susan hung the phone up with more force than was necessary. “Sure,” she muttered. “I’ll just fit in a little investigation in my spare time—right after I find someone to make your phone calls.” She reached out for her own calling list and made a slash through Connie’s name. Then she got up, prepared a large pot of coffee, and when she had finished her first steaming mug, got to work and dialed the next name on the list.

  By the time the pot was empty, she had contacted almost half the names on her list. Happily, n
o one else had changed their political convictions and one woman, home with a broken ankle, offered to call another list as well as her own. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that every single person to whom she spoke had heard about Ivan Deakin’s death and those who had heard it was a murder were wondering whether the killer was killing off the candidates one by one. She spent a long time on the phone, and by the time she got off, it occurred to her that if Bradley Chadwick was murdered next, Anthony Martel would win the election and, presumably, Jed, too.

  “And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it, Clue?” she asked the dog, still lying in the corner.

  Clue’s tail thumped on the floor.

  Susan stood up and stretched. “How about a walk?” she asked, although she knew the response she would get.

  Minutes later Susan was closing the front door behind herself and her dog when a police car pulled into her driveway.

  EIGHT

  The car stopped and Brett Fortesque got out. Susan dropped the leash and Clue ran down the drive and threw herself shamelessly at the chief of police.

  The tense look on Brett’s face melted into a smile and he knelt down and scratched Clue’s stomach. Susan joined them and retrieved the retriever’s leash.

  “Hi. I was going to take Clue for a walk. Do you want to go with us?”

  “Sure.”

  “But I have to warn you that as a candidate’s wife, people are forever stopping me and offering their opinions about the election.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Brett said, his grin fading. “As the chief of police, people are forever stopping me and offering their opinions about Hancock’s latest murder.”

  “According to everyone I’ve talked with this morning, the two are inextricably related.”

  “Who have you been talking with?” Brett asked.

  Susan explained her morning’s phone calls as they walked down the street, Brett listened silently, occasionally asking a question; when she finished, he walked silently by her side. “So most people think the murder was politically motivated,” was all he said.

  Susan didn’t think he was interested in a response and she just scuffed through the leaves knowing that he would explain his visit when he wanted to.

  And maybe he would have if the walkie-talkie in his back pocket hadn’t demanded his attention.

  “I’ll be right there,” Brett said to the person who had called. “Guess I’ve got to go,” he said to Susan.

  “I’ll walk you back to your car.”

  “Don’t bother. Go ahead and enjoy this beautiful day. I just have to head back to the station.” He turned around and left Susan standing with her dog near a large pile of brilliant maple leaves.

  “Well, what do you think of that, Clue?” she asked the dog. Clue was more interested in a chipmunk that had inopportunely appeared nearby than anything Susan said. After a lot of tugging they continued their walk.

  Brett’s car had been replaced by a rather beat-up Volvo station wagon when Susan had finally convinced Clue to return home. Theresa Martel was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette, which she tossed on the ground and crushed with her heel as Susan approached.

  “Disgusting habit,” Theresa said, bending down to pick up the butt.

  “Just toss it in the bushes. If you leave it there, Clue might eat it. She loves paper. We have to keep tissues and paper towels away from her or she just chews them up.” Susan jerked Clue away from Theresa, who obviously didn’t find the dog enchanting. “Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee—or maybe some lunch,” she offered. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

  “I guess so. But I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” Susan didn’t know what was in the refrigerator, but she knew her house could live up to the neatness standards of the Martels. “You don’t mind being in the kitchen, do you?”

  “I suppose your dog will be there, too?”

  “No, Clue likes to go out in her run in the backyard when she’s done with a walk,” Susan lied. “She’s digging a huge hole—reminds me of when Chad was little and he was always trying to find China. You just go in through there”—she pointed the way—“and I’ll take her out.”

  When Susan returned to the kitchen, she found Theresa sitting at the kitchen table, looking over the lists of volunteer callers and smoking another cigarette. As an ashtray, she had appropriated a small Italian fish plate that Susan treasured. The size of the purse sitting in front of her on the table gave Susan an idea that maybe she would need a larger ashtray soon.

  “Do you mind?” Theresa asked, glancing at the cigarette.

  “No.” Why was this woman making her lie so much? “I didn’t notice you smoking yesterday,” she added.

  “I wasn’t. I stopped and bought my first pack of Marlboros in seven years last night on the way home.” Theresa sighed and stared down at the gleaming cigarette. “It was hell to stop.”

  Susan started opening cupboards and thinking about what to have for lunch. “There’s lots of soup. And maybe a salad, cheese, and crackers?”

  “Sounds good,” Theresa said in a less-than-enthusiastic-sounding voice.

  Susan opened a can of black-bean soup and dumped it into a pot. After turning up the heat, she pulled a box of water crackers from the cabinet, then turned to the cheese drawer in her refrigerator. Brie, Port Salut, and a nice chunk of Gorgonzola were sitting beside a crock of duck-liver pâté. A lot of people had been dropping in recently and she was well prepared. She set the table and arranged the food in the center of it, added a generous dash of sherry to the bubbling soup, and turned off the heat. She pulled two pottery bowls from the cupboard and filled them with steaming soup, placing a dollop of sour cream on each before setting them on the table and sitting down herself. During all this time Theresa smoked silently.

  Susan picked up her spoon and then put it down. “I forgot to get something to drink. What would you like? Tea?”

  “Tea sounds good,” Theresa said.

  Susan got up, boiled the water, heated the pot, made the tea, and put it and two mugs down on the table. Then she decided to throw good manners to the wind and blurted, “Why are you here?”

  “You must be thinking I’m the rudest person in the world.”

  Susan frowned. “You didn’t answer my question,” she reminded her gently. She picked up her spoon again and began to eat, thinking that Theresa would answer eventually.

  But Theresa seemed to be making up for lost time. She sat and lit one cigarette off the butt of another. Once in a while she sighed. Susan had finished her soup and was starting in on the cheese and crackers when Theresa sighed extra loudly and began to talk. She started off with a small bombshell.

  “I’m afraid Anthony might have murdered Ivan Deakin.” She inhaled deeply.

  “Why?” What else was there to ask?

  “He hated him. He wanted to win. I don’t actually know.” Smoke swirled around Theresa’s head as she spoke.

  “I meant, why do you think that? What makes you think it? Did he say something? Or maybe you saw something?”

  “Maybe I should begin at the beginning.”

  “Yes. I think that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I left the Women’s Club last night and I was on my way home when I heard the announcement of Ivan’s death on the radio. They didn’t say it was murder in the first report. They didn’t actually say much of anything, but I knew something terrible had happened. I stopped at that bar down by the railroad tracks.” She paused for a moment, seeming to remember. “I bought a pack of cigarettes there and then went home to listen to the radio. I was there when your husband came over.”

  Susan remembered that Jed had gone to the Martel home to alert his running mate to the facts of Ivan’s death. But Theresa implied that she had been alone when he arrived. She asked the other woman about that.

  “Anthony didn’t get home until almost four this morning. I … I didn’t ask where he
had been and he didn’t offer to tell me.”

  Susan thought that was strange, but let it pass for the moment. “But when Jed told you that the death hadn’t been accidental …” she prompted.

  “Poison. He said Ivan had been poisoned. And all I could think of was that Anthony had done it.” She stopped to light another cigarette.

  “Because of the books on your bathroom floor?”

  Theresa looked surprised. “How do you know what is in my bathroom?”

  “I was at your house, remember? Addressing envelopes.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It seems like such a long time ago.”

  She paused and Susan realized that she had heard that comment made after murders before—usually by someone closely connected to the victim. “So because your husband was reading books about poisons”—did people actually just read books about poisons?—“and then Ivan Deakin was poisoned, you believe that your husband killed him?”

  “No. Those books have nothing to do with it. They’re mine, not his. I was doing research. I want to write mystery novels. I’ve actually started a manuscript. But I needed a way to kill off my primary suspect, and I was looking for something quick, odorless, and tasteless, something that has never been used before.” She grimaced. “Needless to say, I didn’t find it.”

  “Probably doesn’t exist.” Brett had once regaled her with a detailed critique of a best-selling mystery novel and its tenuous relationship to reality. Susan had ignored him; the reason she read mysteries was because they were not real life. “But Anthony could have looked over your books while he … while he was in the bathroom,” she ended primly.

  “Possibly. But that isn’t why I think he did it. You see, I think my husband is having some sort of breakdown. Normally, of course, he wouldn’t even think of killing anyone. My husband is a very gentle man, but this election has driven him over the edge.”