Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “He painted his sister’s face with Magic Markers.”

  “He what?”

  “Look!” Kathleen said dramatically as Susan followed her into her daughter’s bedroom.

  Alice was sitting in the middle of her crib, happily smacking a stuffed clown on the head. The toy responded with inane phrases. The little girl’s face was streaked with fluorescent lines and swirls. There was even a third eye drawn rather inexpertly in the middle of her forehead.

  “Alex did that?”

  “Yes. He went to a birthday party Saturday afternoon with a carnival theme. A clown painted some cute flowers and hearts on the kids’ faces. Then the baby-sitter let him watch an old sci-fi movie on TV this afternoon. So while the sitter was fixing the kids a snack, he painted his sister’s face. He said he wanted to make Alice into a Cyclepop. I think he meant Cyclops,” Kathleen explained, picking up her daughter.

  “He didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Susan said. “Probably no one told him not to draw on his sister. And what with Halloween so recent …”

  “I know. I may have over reacted. Alice does need a bath.” She looked at Susan with a silent appeal on her face.

  “Why don’t I do that and you can have a little chat with your son. It’s been years since I washed anyone’s face but my own.”

  “Thanks.” Kathleen handed her daughter over. “This will only take a moment. I’ll probably be in before you have everything scrubbed off.”

  It turned out to be an easy promise to keep. Susan was still scrubbing the chubby child’s face when Kathleen entered the bathroom, her sniffling son at her side. “I think these may be permanent markers,” Susan said gently.

  Kathleen took a deep breath and looked down at Alex. “Honey, where did you get the markers you used to do this?”

  “Cathy gave them to me,” he answered.

  “Do you know if she got them from the box of your art supplies?” his mother asked, taking the washcloth from Susan’s hand and looking at its clean surface.

  Tears began to form again in the corners of the six-year-old boy’s eyes. “I don’t know where she got them. I thought they were ones that I was allowed to use,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt Alice. She liked it,” he added, his sobs increasing to wails.

  Seeing her older brother crying, Alice decided to join in, and soon both children were sobbing in Kathleen’s arms.

  “It’s okay, guys. I know you didn’t mean to do this,” she told her son. “And Cathy is a new sitter. I should have told her about the art box. And Alice doesn’t seem to care about how she looks.…”

  “Did I tell you that I brought presents for Alex and Alice?” Susan said loudly. “I left them by the door. Why don’t I go downstairs and get them?”

  Kathleen nodded over her sobbing children’s shoulders. Susan hurried to the front hall only to hear a loud smack against the door as she arrived. She opened it to find the Hancock Herald on the front step. She bent down to pick it up and saw the banner headline as she did so.

  jed henshaw, it read, accused of breaking the law by neighbor and friend.

  FOURTEEN

  “But what about people who don’t read the article? What about them? They’re going to imagine Jed has done heaven knows what! He could be a serial killer from that headline, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I think if he was a serial killer, the headline would have mentioned that,” Kathleen said, handing Susan a large glass of Burgundy.

  “But all he did was not pick up Clue’s mess—once. The man admits to seeing it only once! Jed hardly ever walks the dog alone!” Susan cried, taking a big gulp from her glass.

  “Susan, no one is going to take this seriously. Your neighbor who was telling the reporter about it said that he was only kidding. That much is clear from the article. Someone just thought that headline would sell more papers.”

  Susan looked down at the paper spread open on her lap. “Well, maybe …” she began.

  “Look, maybe the paper can issue a retraction. But you yourself said that nothing could be done until Jed knows. And since his secretary said that he was going to be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon …”

  “I wonder if I should go home. It’s possible that Anthony Martel will call.”

  “Is your machine on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then drink your wine and let’s talk. The kids will be watching Barney for the next half hour. What does Brett say about the murder?” Kathleen asked, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her on the comfortable couch.

  “Of course, under the circumstances, he can’t say much of anything.”

  “The circumstances are unusual in this case, but I don’t think he’ll proceed with the investigation any differently than usual. In fact, if you think about it, it’s all the more reason for him to make sure that everything goes by the book—and that a lot of people know that’s the way things are being done.”

  “True,” Susan mused. The wine was relaxing her enough that she could focus on something other than the horrible headline. “I talked with everyone on the Landmark Commission—except for Erika Eden—and, you know, those are pretty strange people.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the first place they all think of Penelope Thomas as Wonder Woman—except for Lyman Nearing and he gave his vote on the commission away to his wife.”

  “How did he do that?”

  Susan explained the situation. “I think, in fact, that Penelope probably asked Rosemary to be on the commission assuming that’s what would happen.”

  “Sure. Two votes for the price of one,” Kathleen agreed. “From what you’re saying, Penelope could be pretty sure Rosemary would vote the way Penelope thought she should.”

  “Definitely. And I suppose that’s what I’m going to find when I talk with Erika, too.”

  “You mean that she’s on the commission because she’ll go along with Penelope.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, that doesn’t sound like Brett to me,” Kathleen said, taking another sip of her wine.

  “Brett? What does Brett have to do with Erika?”

  “They’re pretty serious from what I’ve heard.” Kathleen looked curiously at her friend. “They’re dating. You didn’t know? I thought that’s why you were talking about this murder being different for Brett.”

  “Because he’s dating a suspect?” Susan cried. “I had absolutely no idea!” She drained her glass. “I thought this case was different because he was going to be employed by one or another of the suspects after the election.”

  “You’re right. I hadn’t realized that,” Kathleen said, refilling Susan’s glass. “I just assumed it was because Brett was dating the murdered man’s ex-wife.”

  Susan was stunned speechless. Brett, handsome, still fairly young, and certainly virile, had dated a number of women in Hancock. Most were divorced; it simply wasn’t a town where many single women could afford to live. But, to Susan at least, his relationships had looked pretty casual.

  “Are you telling me that you really didn’t know? Susan, they were at the Dysans’ party together a few weeks ago.”

  “We didn’t go. There was an exhibit at Chrissy’s school and she had three small sculptures on display.… Brett dates lots of women. Why do you think this relationship is serious?”

  Kathleen shrugged her thin shoulders. “He told me so.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said he thought it was possible that Erika was the woman he had been looking for.”

  “You’re kidding. He really said that?”

  “Exactly that. We were together in the kitchen. Brett had introduced Erika to me earlier in the evening and I said something about how attractive she is—you know how it is, I felt I had to say something nice.”

  “And she isn’t attractive?” Susan interrupted.

  “She’s beautiful! Someone told me that she had done some modeling when she was young and I sure can believ
e it.”

  “So you said something polite about Erika’s appearance and Brett replied that she was the woman he had been looking for.”

  “Yes. I asked if I should start picking out a wedding present and he said that he sure hoped so. And then we joked around about appropriate gifts for a police chief and his new wife.”

  “Nice,” Susan muttered. “What do you know about Erika? All I know is that she was married to Ivan Deakin, was once a model, and now owns a flower shop downtown.”

  Kathleen frowned. “We’ve only spoken a few times. Frankly, she intimidates me.”

  “You! You’re kidding!” That didn’t sound like Kathleen.

  “Well, she’s so smart.”

  “Uses big words? Has a Ph.D. after her name?”

  “Both. She does have a doctorate. I don’t know what she studied, though.”

  “You just know she didn’t go to graduate school to find a smart husband,” Susan said rather sarcastically.

  “Probably not.” Kathleen sounded doubtful. “I would have thought she could just depend on her looks, if a husband was all she wanted.”

  “So she’s smart and beautiful.” Susan bit her lip. “I wonder why I haven’t seen her around town.”

  “You know, I’m not sure. She travels a fair amount. At least she was going out of town the day after the Dysan party, and Brett said something about missing her when I ran into him last weekend at the inn—and I saw them together in between times. We all stood in line at the movies downtown a week ago,” Kathleen said, getting up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I thought I heard a scream. I’ll just go check on the kids.” Kathleen left the room without saying another word.

  Susan stared at her glass. She knew it was foolish, but to tell the truth, she was feeling a bit jealous of this Erika Eden. She sounded like the luckiest woman in the world. She had looks, brains, education—and Brett. Susan frowned. It wasn’t like she had a crush on Brett, for heaven’s sake. She was married. He was just a good friend. But if he was such a good friend, why hadn’t he told her about Erika? She was relieved when Kathleen returned and she wasn’t forced to examine her feelings further.

  “They’re fine,” Kathleen said. “Just getting hungry. Why don’t we talk in the kitchen? I know I should be fixing something green and nourishing, but I think it’s the orange meal—boxed macaroni and cheese and carrot sticks—again tonight. Jerry’s working late.”

  “Your kids are thriving,” Susan assured her. “And I should get going. Maybe I’ll check and see if Erika is back on my way home.”

  “Good idea. I think you’ll like her. Frankly, it’s hard to imagine anyone not liking Erika.”

  “She sounds amazing,” Susan commented, wondering if Kathleen noticed the sarcasm in her voice. She stood up. “Why don’t I see myself out and you can get busy feeding your kids?”

  Kathleen glanced at her gratefully. “Thanks. Call after you see Erika. I’m anxious to hear what you think.”

  Susan spent the entire drive back to the carriage house giving herself a lecture that any mother would have been proud to deliver. Selecting the foolishness of jealousy as her theme, she embellished it with examples from her past and the pasts of friends. By the time her car was turning into the driveway, she was fairly sure that she could meet Erika without any foolish, inappropriate feelings messing up the moment. Until she pulled up to the carriage house and parked behind a tiny yellow Miata convertible.

  It was an adorable car. A car she had imagined herself driving in her fantasy life. Not that her fantasies were so very unusual or exotic; in them, she was beautiful, single, childless, and ever so slightly stressed by a successful career. (She wasn’t sure what she did, but she was sure it paid very well and caused her to spend a lot of time living in expensive international hotels.) She got out of her Cherokee, glancing down at her wool slacks and matching turtleneck as she did so. In her dreams, she didn’t wear clothing like this. She wore handwoven sweeping skirts and glamorous silk tunics. Clothes that she never seemed to be able to find in stores. Clothes sort of like the ones the woman coming toward her was wearing.

  Susan reminded herself of all the good points she had made during her lecture on the way over here, put a smile on her face, and walked over to meet her.

  Erika Eden was adorable; tiny and thin. The first thing Susan noticed was her astounding light blue eyes. Then she took the time to take in the short, curly black hair, the ivory skin that flushed slightly across the cheeks as she extended her hand in a welcoming gesture. “You must be Susan Henshaw. You’re exactly the way Brett described you.”

  Middle-aged? Frumpy? Susan pushed the words from her mind and greeted Erika. “Then he told you that I wanted to talk with you?”

  “He said that he thought you would be speaking with everyone on the Landmark Commission. He didn’t think you would be able to resist investigating Ivan Deakin’s murder—because your husband is involved,” she added quickly.

  Susan wondered if there was a frown on her face. Had Brett been complaining about her sleuthing? She had always assumed he appreciated her help. “Yes, this murder is different from others that I’ve been involved in,” she admitted, deciding to keep those questions to herself.

  “Would you like to come in and have a drink?” Erika offered. “Brett is supposed to be over for dinner, but I’m expecting him to be late. He usually is these days,” she added with a smile. “So we probably have a lot of time.”

  “Great,” Susan said, feeling a little guilty about her family’s dinner. “Could I use your phone, though? I need to let my son know I’m going to be late.”

  “Of course. Come on in.” Erika walked up three stone steps and opened the door for Susan.

  The cottage was as tiny and adorable as Erika herself. Large quarry tiles covered the floor and the front wall was made up of five French doors leading to a small deck. Inside, white walls were hung with bright abstract art, a dramatic contrast to the two couches covered in raw silk. A coffee table, a wall of books, and a couple of floor lamps were the only other furniture. A bar surrounded by bright red stools divided the room in half. A green Garland stove dominated the kitchen area. Next to the door, a circular stairway led up to what Susan assumed was the bedroom.

  At the end of the bar, a tray bearing glasses and a bottle of pinot grigio waited. “Why don’t you use the phone while I get some things from the refrigerator,” Erika suggested.

  Susan called her own number and left a message on her answering machine for whoever arrived first. She peeked over her shoulder at Erika, who was busy pulling bags of vegetables and Tupperware containers from the smallest refrigerator Susan had ever seen.

  Erika smiled and waved to the couch. “Have a seat. Brett’s worried about cholesterol, so we’re into vegetables. I make these up in the evening in case I get home from work late.”

  “I don’t want to eat your food,” Susan said. Actually, she did. She was hoping it would keep her from getting giggly. She had already had more than enough wine, she realized as she accepted another full glass.

  Erika put a tray of crudités and a bowl of dip on the coffee table, and perched on the other end of the couch where Susan sat. “So”—she took a sip from her glass—“do you usually start by asking the important questions or do you sort of soften up your subject by asking innocuous questions? Where they work and their background … things like that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I graduated from the University of Wisconsin and did my graduate work at Harvard and UC Berkeley. I was in great danger of becoming a professional student until I discovered that I loved green things as much as I loved accumulating degrees.” She grinned and lowered her eyes, giving Susan a good view of amazingly long lashes. “But you’re probably more interested in my marriage to Ivan.” She shrugged, a grin appearing on her face. “What can I say? I was only twenty-one, an idiot. It was a stupid thing to do. Of course, we were both so involved in school that we didn’t s
ee all that much of each other. That could be it. It’s easy to be married to someone you don’t see much. And it was lucky that we didn’t have any children.”

  “You—”

  “You’re probably wondering why I don’t seem terribly upset by his death. I suppose that could make me a major suspect, couldn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “Of course, we did have a somewhat amicable divorce—because we saw each other less than we did when we were married. We weren’t even particular friends. More like old acquaintances who just happened to be living in the same town.”

  “Have you always lived in Hancock?” Susan finally managed to get a question asked.

  “Heavens no. I moved here about three years ago. I was living in New York City and one day I just decided that I couldn’t take it anymore. I talked with my boss and he agreed that I would work at home for two days a week, so I put my condo on the market and started looking for a new home. I was interested in Westport or Greenwich, but an old friend had just moved to Hancock and had bought the large Victorian by the street. She offered me this carriage house for a song and here I am.”

  “So—”

  “I had to do a lot of remodeling, of course. But I love this place and would hate to have to give it up. So I didn’t even think about leaving when I discovered that Ivan Deakin was living here, too.”

  “So you didn’t know that he was living here when you moved in?” Susan took advantage of a moment when Erika put a large mushroom covered with dip in her mouth to ask another question.

  “I hope you’re not browbeating Erika, Susan. I thought you were a better judge of character than that.” Brett Fortesque was standing in the doorway.

  FIFTEEN

  He wasn’t smiling.

  Susan opened her mouth to defend herself. She had not, after all, been doing anything that remotely resembled browbeating. But, once again, Erika beat her to the punch, jumping up and hurrying to Brett’s side.

  “Brett, how can you say that? Susan has been wonderful. I feel like we’ve been friends for years.” She poured another glass of wine and handed it to him. “Come. Sit down and have some vegetables. I’ll bet you’ve been existing on fried takeout ever since Ivan’s murder.”