“Mrs. Henshaw. I was watching the security monitors and thought I recognized you. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’m Lyman Nearing.” He extended his hand and shook hers energetically. “Come into my office. I suppose you’re here about the murder the other night. Shocking, wasn’t it? But you must be more accustomed to this type of thing than I am. Florence, would you please get us some coffee and some of those wonderful orange-apple muffins?” he asked the lovely blond secretary sitting at a desk in the outer office.
“Of course, Mr. Nearing.” She sprang up as Susan was led through the door into the farther office.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Henshaw.”
“Please call me Susan,” she responded, sitting down in one of the plush corduroy-upholstered Lawson chairs that ringed a glass coffee table on one side of the comfortable office.
“Well, Susan, how can I help you? I suppose you’re looking at all the members of the Landmark Commission, hoping to find Ivan Deakin’s murderer.”
The secretary’s return forestalled any response Susan might have made. Coffee and three types of muffins were passed around the table. Susan piled a plate high, suddenly realizing how hungry she was.
Lyman Nearing chuckled at the sight. “I gather you’ve been to see my wife.” Susan must have looked puzzled because he continued: “Everyone leaves her house hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” Susan confessed. “I spoke with your wife.” She paused to take another bit of muffin and swallow it. “Why do you call it her house?”
“Well, my house, too—technically. But my wife and I are separated and I haven’t lived there for years. Of course, I grew up there.”
“You did?” Susan was surprised.
Lyman peered at her through his heavy horn-rim glasses with interest. “I guess you have to find background information about everyone you investigate, don’t you? And you don’t take notes? I would have thought you did.”
“Not usually,” Susan admitted.
“I’m impressed. Have a memory like a sieve myself,” he admitted cheerfully. “Well, let’s see, where should I start? With the Nearing family, I guess. I inherited this business—along with the house I grew up in—when I was barely twenty-one years old. My mother died when I was in my early teens. I don’t remember her very well, but everyone has always told me that she was a very sensible woman. If she had been alive, I suspect she would never have let my father draw up a will giving me so much money and power at such a young age. Of course, he probably thought he would live forever. We all do, I find.” He stopped to take a large bite from his muffin.
“Well, my father died in a plane crash and I discovered myself with a company to run and a house. And to make a long story short, a wife, very soon afterward.”
“Things changed pretty quickly,” Susan commented.
“Well, that happens frequently when a person who doesn’t know what he wants meets someone who knows exactly what she wants.”
“You mean your wife.”
“Exactly. Rosemary has always known what she wanted—and how to get it.” For the first time in their conversation a frown replaced the cheerful expression on his face. “Of course, it’s not so difficult to get what you want if all your wants are simply material.”
“Like the house,” Susan guessed.
“The house. Period.”
“It’s some house.”
“It is now. I grew up there. Well, I told you that already. It was a simple family home then. Old, of course, in fact a little scruffy—sort of worn at the edges, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows at her.
“Comfortable,” was the word Susan suggested.
“Exactly.” He looked at her as though she had just said something profound. “Rosemary saw the house’s potential and she married me for it. Not,” he added quickly, “that I’m accusing her of not loving me. But you know the old saying that it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one? Well, I think Rosemary knew that instinctively. And when she met me, she thought she had fallen in love.” He chuckled and reached for another muffin. “And she had, in fact. She had fallen in love with my money, my house, and what the two of them offered.”
“Remodeling, you mean,” Susan said, knowing all too well how much money it cost to redo older homes.
“I think of it as unremodeling. It costs a lot to modernize an older space. But you would not believe what it costs to return a building to historical accuracy. Amazing.”
“You said you don’t live there,” Susan probed gently.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead spending the night in that place. Uncomfortably authentic and uncomfortably clean. You know, that’s not historically accurate. Things used to be much dirtier than they are in modern times. But try telling that to my wife.”
“You’re still married, then?” Susan wondered if their separation was just a step on the road to a divorce.
“Sure are. Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone is shocked. But, you see, Rosemary brought something to our marriage that’s worth a lot more than that damn house. She had a son by another man—she wasn’t married to him. It happened back in her teens. Her son’s name is Josh and he’s a man now. A good man. I adopted him and raised him and was thrilled when he decided to become a mechanical engineer. He’s going to inherit Nearing Rings someday. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our relationship. So I stay married. I have an apartment near here, and Rosemary and I don’t see much of each other—”
“Except that you’re on the Landmark Commission together,” Susan said.
“True. That was probably a mistake, but Rosemary can be very persuasive.”
“She’s the one who asked you to join?” As far as Susan knew, Penelope Thomas had asked all the other members.
“Yes. Penny … Penny Thomas asked Rosemary. She is a logical choice since Rosemary loves that house and it is going to be left to the local historical society when we’re both dead. I guess Rosemary asked me to join since the house is actually still in my name.” He took a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I went to a few meetings, but it’s not my thing. I tell Rosemary to go ahead and vote for me.”
That was interesting. “How do you feel about the decision of the Landmark Commission to grant landmark status to every building built before 1939?”
“Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but I didn’t think it would ever happen. I thought this election would take care of all that. I had put my faith in Anthony Martel and his ticket. I was sure they were going to win the election. Until recently, that is.”
“What happened recently?”
“Ivan Deakin.”
“You think he would have won the election?”
Lyman frowned. “I don’t know. But I think he could have taken votes away from Martel and caused Brad to win. Don’t you?”
Susan remained silent.
“So what do you think? Do you have any clues yet?”
“I’m still asking questions. You know, gathering facts.” Susan hesitated and then plunged in. She hated to risk insulting this nice man, but he was the only person she had spoken with so far who had actually been at the Women’s Club last night. “What did you think when you saw Ivan Deakin hide behind the podium the other night?”
“I didn’t think anything. I didn’t see anything. And I wasn’t there when he died.”
“You weren’t? But your wife told me …”
Lyman began to chuckle. “Rosemary told you that I went to the meeting, didn’t she? I guess this is one of those examples of ‘what a tangled web we weave,’ etcetera, etcetera.”
“You lied to her about going,” Susan guessed.
“True. I’m ashamed to admit it, but telling little white lies is something of a habit with me. Only to my wife, mind you. But it makes it much easier to get along with her if I claim to be doing things that she approves of.”
“Like going to the meeting at the Women’s Club.”
“Exactly.”
“Or acceptin
g a spot on the Landmark Commission and voting in accordance with your wife’s wishes.”
“Don’t misunderstand me about that. I agreed to be on the commission before I had any idea that they were going to do anything serious. I thought it had been created for the sole purpose of getting historical fanatics like my wife off the necks of the members of the town council. Who would have thought that anyone would actually give them any serious control over the lives of about half the people in town?”
“But the other commissions …” Susan began her protest.
“The other commissions were set up with very stringent guidelines and their members haven’t violated them. Believe me, I know.”
“How?”
“Nearing Rings encourages its employees to work in their communities. They’re allowed to use the facilities here to do volunteer work. They can leave early to go to meetings. I’ve never heard of something like this 1939 thing being done before.”
“But a lot of communities have dates that they consider important and they declare landmark status based on them—at least that’s what my husband, Jed, said.”
“But they don’t make laws that affect the present owners—just people who buy after the law is passed. Otherwise the Ecological Commission could decide that all the backyards on Long Island Sound should be returned to their wetland status. And that’s not saying anything about how ridiculous the date 1939 is in a community where the earliest homes were built almost two centuries earlier.”
“Does your wife agree with you?”
“Not on your life. She’ll agree with anything that Penny Thomas says. She ignores me.”
“You must know Penelope very well,” Susan said.
Lyman chuckled. “Because I call her Penny and no one else in town would dare? Yes, I know her. We grew up together. I remember when she was the terror of the Hancock Episcopalian Church Sunday School—and that was in first grade, before she had properly developed her dictatorial skills. Of course, I also remember when she wet her pants on a kindergarten class trip to the Bronx Zoo. That type of knowledge gives a person a certain amount of power.”
“So she doesn’t mind that you call her Penny?”
“She hates it. That’s the main reason I do it. It’s so easy to irritate her.”
Susan was impressed. “I didn’t think she would let people, uh, treat her like you do.”
“She wants my house. It is the last remaining Colonial home in absolutely pristine condition in Hancock. It’s in my will that it will go to the historical society, but I could change all that at any time. So she puts up with my little foibles.”
“And the Landmark Commission …”
“Is going to be the controlling influence over the historical society. That is, at least, if Brad Chadwick wins the election.”
“Which he has a better chance of doing today than he had before Ivan was murdered.”
She paused while munching on another muffin. “You know, there is something else.”
“What?”
“This whole thing depends on what Ivan Deakin was going to say, doesn’t it?”
“Good point. I wonder what happened to his speech.”
Susan looked at Lyman curiously. “He didn’t get a chance to make it,” she explained. “He died before he could say anything.”
“But he probably wrote it down, didn’t he? At least I don’t know many speakers who talk without some notes.… What are you thinking about?”
“I was just wondering if I saw him take some papers out of his pocket and put them on the podium—or if I could be imagining it now that you mention it.” She frowned. “You know, I think I did see it.”
“Then all you have to do is find out who picked them up after the murder. Right?”
Susan nodded. She wondered if it could possibly be so easy.
TWELVE
Susan drove over to police headquarters thinking about the Nearings. She had, of course, liked Lyman and disliked Rosemary almost immediately upon meeting them. On the other hand, she was well aware of the fact that she had, more than once, liked a murderer before knowing everything there was to know about the case. It was interesting that neither Lyman nor Rosemary admitted to being at the Women’s Club the night Ivan Deakin was murdered. Not that murderers told the truth, but smart murderers didn’t tell lies that could be checked out easily, and in that crowd it should be easy to discover someone who might have seen Lyman or his wife. So, if either of them was lying, it was a pretty stupid lie. Susan was beginning to feel an idea forming in the back of her mind as she arrived at the municipal center.
But it would have to wait. Brett was standing by the police cruiser in the parking lot next to the police-department building. Susan steered over to him, stopped her car, and got out, a smile on her face.
A smile that wasn’t returned.
“Susan. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” she answered. “I was wondering what happened to the speech last night.”
“You were there. You know Deakin was killed before he could deliver it,” he answered irritably.
Susan remembered what Jed had said and reminded herself that Brett had a right to be cranky. After all, his job was on the line here. “I was talking about the sheet of paper that Ivan had written his speech on. I’ve thought about it and thought about it. I’m almost sure I saw him take a folded page—or pages—from his jacket pocket and place them on the podium. I was just wondering who picked them up after he was murdered.”
Brett seemed to perk up at the thought. “Good thinking. Good question.” He nodded to himself a few times. “Really good thinking,” he repeated.
“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Brett said, ignoring her and hurrying up the sidewalk toward the building.
Susan fled after him, barely avoiding getting smacked in the face by the building’s heavy door as it closed behind him. “Brett! I—”
“I can’t talk now, Susan. I have to check up on that script,” he told her as swinging glass doors closed behind him, leaving her standing in the small lobby.
Susan smacked her hand against the door, stunned when it didn’t budge. She heard a sound and turned around to see a uniformed police officer sitting at the reception desk. He pointed over her head. She glanced up. A large sign read official police business only: speak to officer behind desk for admission.
Susan smiled and approached the said officer. “I need to see Brett, please,” she explained politely.
“It looked to me like Chief Fortesque was busy,” he answered. “But I’ll check. What name shall I give?”
“Susan Henshaw.”
Everyone else today had recognized her name, but apparently not this young officer. “Mrs. or Miss?”
“Mrs.” She decided it was foolish to be flattered. He certainly wasn’t interested in asking her for a date.
He snapped the glass panel shut and spoke into a small microphone on the desk before him. After waiting for a reply, he looked up at her. “Chief Fortesque is busy,” he said, an implied “I told you so” in his voice.
Susan began to reminisce mentally about the friendly dispatcher who was usually here. “What happened to—” she began.
“Budget cuts,” he interrupted.
“You didn’t even know what I was going to ask,” she protested.
“No matter what the question, the answer is the same. Lots of rich people live in Hancock, but they don’t like paying taxes any more than the rest of us. The last election required lots of budget cuts and now everyone wants to know why things aren’t the same.”
Susan decided not to pursue the subject. “I’d like to leave a message for Brett.”
“Fine.” He picked up a yellow pencil and a scrap of paper. “Your name again?”
Susan repeated the information, asked Brett to call her at home as soon as possible, and left. She still had two members of the Landmark Commission to see, and while the muffi
ns she had eaten would suffice for lunch, she was going to have to shop for dinner if her family was to eat tonight.
She got back in her car and picked up the list of Landmark Commission members. Erika Eden was the only remaining name other than the chairperson. Susan knew she was avoiding the unavoidable, but she decided to visit this Erika first. The address was unfamiliar to her, but when a police officer who knew her drove up, she was able to obtain complete directions to Erika’s home. The broad smile on his face as she left was a marked contrast to the reception Brett had given her. If she hadn’t had such a difficult time finding the street number she was searching for, she might have given it more thought.
Erika Eden, she discovered eventually, was living in a converted carriage house behind a large Victorian in the hillier part of town. The carriage house, a tiny white board-and-batten two-story affair with a minuscule deck across the front of the ground floor, intrigued Susan, but no one answered her knock and she had to be content to peek through the French doors. The interior seemed as interesting as the outside, but a more thorough inspection would have to wait. She walked back down the long driveway and got in her car. She couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to talk with Penelope Thomas.
Of the three people on the commission she had spoken with, only Lyman Nearing seemed to have shared her feelings for Penelope Thomas. He didn’t seem to like her very much. But he wasn’t afraid of her.
Well, Susan chided herself, it wasn’t that she herself was actually afraid of Penelope Thomas. After all, what could the woman actually do to her? she asked herself, driving between the two raven-topped pillars that bracketed the entrance to the Thomas driveway. Weren’t ravens, she wondered, glancing back into her rearview mirror, scavengers?
Trying not to imagine herself as well-dressed carrion, she parked her Jeep behind the Mercedes 250 coupe that bore a license plate proclaiming it an antique—if anyone was unsophisticated enough to miss that particular fact.
Penelope Thomas’s house was as distinguished as her automobile. The Thomases didn’t have to wait for a local Landmark Commission to validate the significance of their abode. It was already listed in the National Registry of Historic Places. It deserved to be. It was a castle.
Elected for Death Page 9
