Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  Brett accepted the glass and dropped wearily on the couch across from Susan. “I guess you’re right. I’m starved. The last meal I remember was an Egg McMuffin sometime around six a.m.” He took a large piece of cauliflower and, drowning it in dip, stuffed it in his mouth.

  Susan, who had been sipping her wine slowly, began to play with the almost full glass, managing to spill most of it in her lap. “Damn!” She leaped up.

  “Let me get you a sponge,” Erika offered, starting for the kitchen.

  “Maybe …” Susan looked around. “Is the bathroom upstairs?”

  “At the top of the stairs to your right,” Brett answered quickly.

  “If you don’t mind …” Susan said to Erika.

  “No, of course not. Go on up. The towels next to the sink are clean.”

  Susan trotted up the stairway, blotting her chest with a napkin as she went.

  She found the bathroom easily and spent what she thought was enough time to dry off her blouse up there, peering out the doorway into the bedroom. The ceiling was slanted with one dormer and three large skylights providing the only light. She noticed French doors on the opposite side of the room from the bathroom; there had been no other exit visible from the driveway. The furniture was simple: a large brass bed, two white-painted chests, and a television on a bookshelf stood on the cheerful rag rug that covered the floor; it was comfortable, simple, and elegant.

  Susan stared at the piles of white pillows and blankets covering the bed while she tried to listen to Brett and Erika’s whispered conversation. Although she couldn’t make out the words, she decided to wait until they had finished speaking to reappear. They needed some time alone. That was why she had spilled her wine—although she hadn’t meant to spill so much.

  She started down the steps when she heard someone start up.

  “Did you find everything you need?” Erika asked.

  “Yes. I just wanted to freshen up.” She wished she had had the sense to flush the toilet. “Brett looks tired. I suppose I should leave the two of you alone so you can serve him some dinner. We could talk some other time. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I may have to go into the city tomorrow,” Erika said, frowning. “For my work.”

  Susan wondered if Erika really needed to make the trip to support one small suburban store.

  “But I might be able to get home early in the afternoon.”

  “I …” Susan didn’t know whether to see Erika then or not.

  “After all, even though Brett might not want to admit it, I must be the major suspect in the case,” Erika continued. “I was married to Ivan as well as being on the Landmark Commission.”

  “Erika!” Brett sounded tired and exasperated.

  “Well, Brett, that’s got to be what everyone is saying. And I’d rather speak with Susan about this than anyone else. Her opinion is respected in Hancock. If people believe that she’s on my side, it will help my reputation—and that means a lot to me.”

  “Look, I only have half an hour or so—I really shouldn’t be taking even that much time for dinner,” Brett began.

  Susan was surprised to hear the desperation in his voice. “Why don’t I go and leave you two alone, then?” she offered. “You can call me about tomorrow,” she suggested to Erika. “I’ll be in all evening.”

  “Excellent idea,” Brett said before Erika could reply. “Why don’t you heat up dinner while I walk Susan to her car?” He led Susan to the door, barely allowing enough time for her to put on her coat.

  “I’ll call!” Erika’s words floated out the doorway as Susan got in her car.

  “She needs some time alone,” Brett said, not really explaining. “She’s fragile. A lot more fragile than she looks,” he added, slamming Susan’s car door, turning, and heading back to the carriage house.

  Susan put the key in the ignition and glanced back through the French doors into the well-lit interior in time to see Brett enfold Erika in his arms. She wondered if Erika had been crying and needed comfort. She steered her car around the circular driveway and down to the road, thinking about the last few minutes.

  Erika was charming, attractive, and well educated. She had original and excellent taste. It was obvious that Brett cared deeply about her. It was also obvious that he was worried about the situation she found herself in. Did that mean that he believed she might be guilty? Did Brett think he had fallen in love with a murderer?

  She thought it over during the short drive home, finally deciding that the only thing she could do was help prove Erika’s innocence—by finding the real murderer.

  The outside lights had gone on automatically at dusk and Susan spied a huge bouquet sitting on the middle of her doorstep as she drove up. She parked out front and followed the walk to her home, wondering if someone had died or what Jed could possibly have done to feel quite this guilty. The bouquet was one of the largest she had ever seen, certainly the largest outside of a church or a funeral parlor. A white envelope was tied to the cellophane surrounding the flowers. Susan removed and opened it.

  Then she chuckled. It was from the neighbor who had been quoted in the newspaper article, apologizing for speaking to the press, assuring her that he had only been joking about Jed and Clue’s droppings.

  She was still chuckling after she had unlocked the door to her house and struggled to get the immense bouquet inside.

  Clue was sleeping on the needlepoint rug in the hallway. The dog opened one eye, saw that Susan’s burden was inedible, and returned to her nap.

  Susan carried the bouquet to the library and checked the answering machine. She was astonished by the number displayed on the black box. Who would have thought there was space for twenty-six messages on that little tape? She flung her jacket on Jed’s desk chair, found a sheet of paper and a pen that worked, and pressed the replay button.

  Ten minutes later she sat back and stared at the list she had made. It wasn’t going to be as difficult as she had expected to return the calls. Penelope Thomas, both Nearings, and Foster Wade had all called twice. Lyman Nearing apologized for bothering her. Chad had called saying that he was going to be late and that he would pick up some pizza between school and soccer practice (she should not worry; he was leaving plenty of time for homework; he had even gotten an A on his French test last week). Jed had called because he, too, was going to be late. He also would pick up something to eat before the meeting Anthony Martel had arranged for tonight. Anthony Martel called twice. The first time he was looking for Jed. The second time he was looking for Theresa. Susan probably could have told him where she was: some fourteen calls were from Theresa.

  In the first few calls, Theresa sounded relaxed, almost apologetic for bothering Susan, and not terribly concerned about when Susan called her back. With the fourth or fifth call, she began to sound a little desperate, asking Susan to call her as soon as possible and emphasizing the importance of what she had to say. After the sixth call, the messages were identical: “Susan. This is Theresa Martel again. I’m at 555-1234. Please call me immediately. I will wait here for your call. Please. This is very, very important.” The phrases were punctuated by loud sighs that Susan assumed were the sounds of Theresa exhaling cigarette smoke. This campaign was certainly shortening Theresa’s life, she thought, dialing the number.

  No one answered.

  Susan frowned and tried again.

  Still no answer.

  Susan hung up and stared at the notes she had taken while listening to the messages. Her machine announced the time each call came in (sort of; the owner’s manual had been lost, so the machine was permanently on Daylight Savings Time) and she had noted this on her list. She glanced at her watch. The last call from Theresa had been made less than fifteen minutes ago. Susan frowned and dialed the number again. After all, maybe Theresa had needed to go to the bathroom.

  This time her call was answered—the voice of a young male who apparently thought “Yeah, man,” was an appropriate greeting to offer a stranger.

  “He
llo. I’m looking for Theresa Martel,” Susan said slowly. “Perhaps I dialed the wrong number?”

  “Yo! Anyone here named Terry Martin?” The words were shouted into the receiver, leaving Susan’s ear ringing.

  “No. Theresa Martel.”

  “Terry Martel!” was shouted into the phone again.

  Susan gave up. “Where are you?” she asked the person on the other end of the line a question she assumed he could answer.

  “Here, man. Here at the satellite.”

  Susan wondered if someone who thought she was male could possibly be accurate about his location. “The satellite to what?” she asked, raising her voice an octave.

  “The satellite. The blue satellite. You know, out on the highway.”

  Susan realized that she did know. The Blue Satellite was a sleazy bar and bowling alley that was, indeed, on the highway, where it had been since it was built in the early sixties. It could politely be called a dive. She couldn’t even begin to imagine Theresa Martel being there. “Could you tell me the number of the phone you’re on?” she asked the man on the other end of the line.

  “Do I sound like some sort of faggy waggy secretary?”

  “Please. It’s important,” Susan asked, resisting the urge to hang up on this rude person.

  “Five-five-five-one-two-three-four. And this is a public phone and I think you’ve used up all your time, lady.”

  A loud click told Susan she had been hung up on. Well, at least he had finally gotten her sex correct. She wondered what she should do next.

  The doorbell’s discreet chime answered her question: she should go rescue whoever was at the door from one of Clue’s overly enthusiastic greetings. She hurried to the front of the house, grabbed the dog’s collar, and opened the door.

  “Oh. I’d forgotten about your dog.” The aroma of cigarette smoke preceded Theresa Martel into the hallway.

  “I’ll just put her in the backyard,” Susan said, trying to look casual as she dragged almost a hundred pounds of dog across the floor. “Go on into the living room. It’s that way.” She nodded in the correct direction and continued with her task. She didn’t want to leave Theresa alone for long. The woman looked terrible.

  She pushed the dog into her pen, pausing only long enough to scratch the poor animal behind her ears and promise a long run in the woods when all this was over. Then she hurried back to her guest.

  Theresa was standing in the middle of the living room, flicking cigarette ashes into the fireplace. “You don’t seem to have any ashtrays around,” she stated apologetically.

  “We have some somewhere that we put out for parties,” Susan muttered, pulling out the drawers of the end tables near the couch. She found a stray saucer, which she handed to her guest. “Use this, if you want.”

  “Thanks.” Theresa looked at Susan. “Did you get my phone messages?”

  “Yes. In fact, I had just finished calling you back when you rang. Well, I dialed the number that you left, but you weren’t there.” She looked at Theresa. The woman didn’t look like she had been drinking, but she hadn’t been bowling in that suit she was wearing either and why else go to the Blue Satellite?

  “I couldn’t stand waiting there any longer. I only stopped in to get some cigarettes, but then I decided to call you, and after I had left the number, I thought I should hang around until you called back. But other people wanted to use the phone, so I thought I would just drive over here in case you were home and not answering the phone. You know, if you were sleeping or something.”

  “I was out,” Susan said, not bothering to explain. “Why did you want to talk to me so badly? Does it have to do with that newspaper headline?”

  “What news …” A look of understanding appeared on Theresa’s face. “Oh, you mean the thing about Jed and the dog poop?” She began what Susan thought was going to turn into a chuckle, but chuckling and inhaling are difficult to accomplish simultaneously and she began to choke.

  Susan dashed over and slapped her on the back. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously. “Can I get you something to drink? Some water?”

  “No. I … I just need someone to talk with.” Theresa looked up and Susan couldn’t tell if the tears in her eyes were from choking or strong emotion. “You see, I was in love with Ivan Deakin.”

  SIXTEEN

  Susan was sitting on the corner of Jed’s desk trying to get his attention while he peered into the screen of his laptop. “She was really upset, Jed. After making this ridiculous confession—after all, they hadn’t had an affair or anything—and smoking up a storm, she even asked if she could go see Clue in the dog run—and she hates dogs! And I think what she’s afraid of the most is that the wrong person will find out about this crush,” she was saying, wondering if her husband was listening to her.

  “Uh-huh.” He typed a few words.

  “It’s that she thinks Tom Davidson may suspect,” Susan continued. “She’s afraid he’ll report it on television. But I don’t think he will, do you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Because he seems to have some principles and I think if you approach him correctly, he’ll just have to understand that this has nothing to do with the murder and—”

  “If I approach who correctly?”

  “Tom Davidson.” Susan looked at her husband. “You said you could write and listen to me at the same time.”

  “I thought I could.”

  “Jed! You can’t even think and talk at the same time!”

  “I’m sorry.” Jed yawned, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  Susan immediately felt guilty. “You’re exhausted!” she cried. “Listen, there is no reason to make yourself ill over your work. There’s nothing that can’t wait.”

  “It’s not my work. I’m so far behind at work that I don’t even worry about getting caught up—it’s impossible.” He opened one eye and offered his wife a wry half smile.

  “So what are you doing sitting in front of your computer at midnight?”

  “Rewriting my speech for tomorrow night. But it actually is Friday already, isn’t it? The debate is tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours away. But why are you worrying about this? I thought the debate was between the three mayoral candidates, not the people running for town council.”

  “I’m filler,” Jed said.

  “What?”

  “Or maybe a pinch hitter. I don’t know. It’s too late to think. The problem is that with Ivan Deakin dead, there was a feeling that the debate might be a little … well, a little …”

  “Dull is the word you’re looking for.”

  “Yes. And, in fact, it’s a very good idea for all the candidates for town council to get exposure. People should have the opportunity to find out who they’re voting for.”

  Susan thought there had been ample opportunity for that. Interviews had been running in the local paper for weeks and weeks. Every candidate had spoken to every civic group in town—in some cases two or three times. She didn’t know about everyone else, but she was pretty sick of the candidates—except for Jed, of course. She smiled at her husband. “So why do you have to write out something? It’s a debate, isn’t it? Isn’t there a moderator to ask questions?”

  “The point,” Jed informed her seriously, “is to make the points that I think are important.”

  And to avoid answering the questions at all costs, Susan thought. It was an election year; she had been listening to people not answer questions for months and months. “You probably should go to bed. You just used the word ‘point’ twice in one sentence.”

  “I need—”

  “I could read your speech and maybe make some suggestions and you could work on it on the train ride into the city.”

  Jed stood up. “I’m going to drive in tomorrow. I’ll set the alarm a few minutes early and go over it before I leave. You’re sure you don’t mind doing this for me?”

  “Of course not.” Actually, she was curious to see wh
at he had written.

  “This is just a first draft,” Jed reminded her after explaining where she would find the file his speech was listed under. “It needs work. I know that—”

  “Go to bed. You’re exhausted. It’s probably better than you think it is.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Jed said. “But you’ll wake me up if it needs any major work? I won’t have all that much time in the morning.”

  “I will. Now go.” Susan dropped into his chair before he could sit down again and flicked the computer back on. Trying to find the appropriate spot to peer through her bifocals, she squinted at the screen and started to read.

  Five minutes later she got up and began to pace the room. Jed’s speech was dreadful. Unlike his simple statement on television a few days ago, it was rambling, pompous, and pedantic. In only a few months he seemed to have picked up the oratorical style of both mayoral candidates. Susan frowned. The only solution was to rewrite it from the beginning. She would take his points and rewrite around them. She knew there was a way to split the screen so that she could—

  Shit! The screen went blank. Or blue rather.

  Susan pressed another key. Then another. Then she tried out various combinations. The blue square remained … one vast blue field that might remind a poet of spring … life renewed … infinity. It reminded Susan of how tired she was. People who were depressed were often said to be blue, and staring at the empty screen, she could understand why. Fortunately, Jed was probably too weak from fatigue to kill her. Besides, being a murderer wasn’t exactly a qualification for political office. So if she could just prove that Bradley Chadwick had murdered Ivan Deakin, there would be nothing to worry about. It would be a landslide for the Martel ticket, no matter what happened during the debate.

  Unless, of course, Anthony Martel had discovered that his wife was in love with Ivan Deakin and killed him. It didn’t make a lot of sense. She turned off the monitor and thought over what Theresa had told her this evening.