Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  Susan thought quickly. Respond meant that she would have the last word, didn’t it? She glanced back down at the script in her hand. In it Jed was condemned as a man who was running for office merely to pad his own pocket. It was an easy decision: she couldn’t let that statement stand unchallenged. “I’ll be here at seven,” she answered.

  “Make it six-thirty so we have time to get you made up.” Tom Davidson was so enthusiastic that Susan began to doubt the wisdom of her decision.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I guess I’d better think about what I’m going to say.”

  “Bring your script along and we’ll put it in the teleprompter,” he suggested, standing up.

  Susan followed suit. She was frowning. “You’ll give me a ride back home?”

  “Sure. We’d better get going. I have a lot of work to do today.”

  Susan had to dash to stay close behind him as he headed back to his car. She got in and barely managed to slam the door on the passenger’s side before he had started the car and was backing out of the space. “How long can my response be?” she asked, taking an old grocery list from her purse and beginning to take notes.

  “As long as you want—within reason. The story runs about four minutes, so your response can be any length up to four minutes.”

  “How do I know how long it will take?”

  “Read what you write and time it. Simple.”

  It was, of course. She frowned and tried to think of a punchy first line. She had promised to visit Erika today, but how long could it take to write a four-minute statement?

  An hour later she was beginning to think the answer to that question was forever. Of course, she had had a lot of distractions. Chad had just been leaving for school as she entered the house and she had managed to pry less than a dozen words out of him about his plans for the evening (he might be home for dinner or he might not) before he ran to the bright red BMW waiting in the street. (If she had noticed the car earlier, she wouldn’t have bothered to concern herself with his plan to return home. Who is the blond girl driving that car and how old is she? were the questions she would have asked.)

  Then, before turning on her answering machine, she had gotten four calls from friends and neighbors about the election and/or the murder. Susan had answered the questions as tersely as possible, realizing that she was doing exactly what she had condemned her husband for trying to do last night. She made a few calls on her own, leaving messages on both Kathleen’s and Erika’s answering machines before turning her own on and sitting down at the kitchen table to think of that elusive punchy first line.

  But, of course, she should be able to wipe down the kitchen counters while she thought, she decided, getting up and doing just that. And then there was her oven, which could use cleaning.…

  She might have had the cleanest kitchen in town and the shortest speech (“Hello, I’m Susan Henshaw” was as far as she’d gotten—but she had crossed that out, deciding it was duller than dull) if she hadn’t heard Brett’s message on her answering machine. He was brief and to the point. He needed to talk with her. Immediately. It was important.

  She called the police station and was put right through. “Brett, it’s Susan.”

  “Susan. Thank goodness. Could you meet me at Erika’s house?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Right away.”

  “But I called and she wasn’t—”

  “She wasn’t there. I know. She’s vanished.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “She dropped a note in my mailbox sometime during the night. Listen, it’s a long story. I can tell it to you while we search her place.”

  Susan had no idea how to respond to that, so she hung up, checked Clue’s water dish, grabbed her coat and purse, and headed for her car.

  EIGHTEEN

  If writing a punchy first line had turned out to be one of Susan’s least favorite activities, she knew that searching through another woman’s private possessions was going to be the opposite.

  It was true there was a murderer around, and concerns about Erika’s safety had filled her mind as she drove over to the carriage house, but Brett’s first words had cleared that matter up.

  “I suppose you may as well read this—it’s the note she dropped off at my house during the night,” he explained.

  Susan accepted the sheet of paper that he offered, taking a moment to appreciate its thickness and unusual appearance.

  “It’s hers,” Brett said.

  “What?” She wondered if he was talking about the elegant handwriting.

  “That’s some of the notepaper she carries in her stores. You seemed to be staring at it,” he explained further.

  Susan decided she would read first and try to determine whether Erika Eden owned a stationery store or a plant shop later. But the note was brief, to the point, and really told her nothing: I’m sorry. But I can’t take this anymore. I’m going on a short vacation. I’ll call you when I return. Much love, Erika.

  Susan handed the note back to Brett. “Erika carries this paper at Stems and Twigs?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I guess. I know she has an extensive line of handmade paper at the store on Madison,” he answered, rereading the note as he spoke.

  “Madison Avenue? Erika has a flower store on Madison Avenue?”

  “Yes. And one down in SoHo. There’s also one opening somewhere in Westchester County next month. Larchmont, I think. That’s why she’s been so busy recently.”

  “Now, wait a second,” Susan said as Brett took a key from his pocket and fit it into the door of the carriage house. “I thought Erika owned Stems and Twigs here in town. I didn’t know there were other stores.”

  “She started with Stems and Twigs here, but wanted to carry other products—things related to plants, of course, but different. Like that paper. So, anyway, she opened a larger store out in East Hampton. The next logical move, as she explains it, was to the city. She opened a small store on Madison Avenue a few years ago, then moved downtown. The store down in SoHo is the largest. It also carries household goods made from natural fibers as well as organic oils, soaps, candles. You know the type of thing.”

  Susan did. And if Erika was a good businesswoman and had gotten in at the beginning of the natural-products boom, she might be a very wealthy woman.

  “She does a lot of her own importing,” Brett continued. “She was supposed to be going on a buying trip to China next week. But I was trying to talk her into hanging around here until we knew who murdered her ex-husband.”

  “Couldn’t you have insisted that she stay around?” Susan asked, following him into the room. “After all, you could consider her a suspect. Not that I think you would. Or that she did,” she added quickly, seeing the stricken look on Brett’s face. “I mean, I don’t think she murdered Ivan Deakin. Why would she?”

  Rather than answer, Brett took off his heavy jacket and hung it on one of four hooks that were mounted on the wall beside the circular stairway.

  The other hooks were full, Susan noticed. She pulled off her jacket and draped it over the banister.

  “Erika always says that this place was designed for one person only,” Brett said, a sad smile on his handsome face.

  Susan decided not to pursue that fertile subject. “Why did you want me to come here?” she asked. It impressed her as much today as it had yesterday. But she didn’t say anything more, noticing that Brett was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the wall of books. She leaned back against the banister and waited for him to answer her question.

  Brett turned around. “I needed a witness—and I wanted one who was likely to be sympathetic.”

  To whom? was what she wanted to ask. “What are we supposed to be looking for?” was what she did ask.

  “I’m hoping to find something that will tell me where she’s gone.” He looked into Susan’s eyes. “And I’m hoping that I won’t find anything that will incriminate her in Ivan Deakin’s murder.”

  “
Then this is an official search.”

  Brett nodded. “I have a search warrant. This is irregular, but legal.”

  The answering machine on the counter was flashing the number “2” and Brett pressed the play button. The first message was from someone named Barbara, complaining about a supplier who had promised delivery a week ago. Maybe a call from Erika herself might jog the order loose. Brett frowned and reset the machine.

  “So where do you want to start?” Susan asked.

  Brett turned and looked around. “How about the kitchen?”

  Susan had been dying to get a closer look at that green Garland stove. She hurried behind the bar that separated the cooking area from the rest of the room. The stove dominated the space, leaving room only for a tiny refrigerator-freezer, a single sink, and a cupboard. The back of the bar was made up of open shelves, covered with glasses, china, crockery, and a surprisingly extensive collection of pans.

  “There’s no place to store food,” Susan muttered, bending down and looking in the oven. It was full of baking equipment.

  “Erika spent two years in Denmark. She learned to cook there—and she says that she became accustomed to shopping every day. She’s a wonderful baker,” Brett said wistfully.

  Susan had been examining the batterie de cuisine and didn’t find his statement surprising. She looked at all the food in the refrigerator and cupboard and at the small collection of cleaning supplies under the sink, but there weren’t any bottles marked “poison” or receipts for airplane tickets issued that day. “I don’t think there’s anything here that might tell us more than that she is a fine cook,” she commented, moving around the counter.

  “Well, then let’s look in here,” Brett said, glancing around the rest of the room. “The bookshelf is the logical place to start.”

  The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were built into the entire far wall of the room. Small objets d’art and dozens of tiny boxes separated the books. “Why don’t I sit on the floor and go through the bottom shelves and you grab a stool and start at the top,” she said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Brett agreed.

  It took over an hour, but when they were done, they were fairly sure they hadn’t missed anything. Early in the search, Susan had discovered an extensive collection of travel guides, language books, and maps. Hidden behind them were dozens of envelopes. She had excitedly looked in each and every one and found neat packets of foreign currency, sorted and accompanied by fairly current sheets noting the rate of exchange. Such organization turned out to be typical of Erika, who had sorted her books according to subject. Susan hoped if she ever had a long illness she would be allowed to recuperate here. The collection of English women’s fiction alone would keep her happy for months. And the books about plants were extraordinary. There were also books in French and Italian.

  After discovering that one of the couches was a sofa bed, Susan followed Brett up the circular stairway to the second floor and to a bedroom that was as orderly as the living room. Susan was surprised. When she left on a trip, her bedroom usually looked like the aftermath of a maelstrom.

  Instead of getting to work and searching, Brett walked over to the window and was staring out.

  “Why don’t I start in the bathroom?” she suggested, thinking he needed some privacy.

  “Fine,” he muttered, preoccupied and distracted, it seemed.

  Susan turned and entered the bathroom. Late one night at a party, she had got involved in a rather silly discussion about how most people could be divided into two groups, those who peeked in medicine cabinets in other people’s homes and those who didn’t. Susan fell into the latter category, but after listening to the confessions of her friends and neighbors, she had gone home and looked at what she had stashed in the metal box above the sink with a new eye. What did all this say about her? she had wondered, thinking the jar of cream that promised firm thighs if rubbed in nightly probably belonged in her dresser drawer. Now she pulled back the mirror over Erika’s sink, wondering what she would find there.

  And was not at all surprised when what she found was orderly, elegant, and organic—except for a can of Gillette shaving cream, a used razor, and a bright blue toothbrush. It wasn’t hard to figure out that these items were Brett’s contribution. Susan reached up to the top shelf and examined the labels on the little amber prescription bottles. Apparently the extensive supply of vitamins that accompanied them kept Erika healthy. Except for a prescription cold medication, the other bottles contained common antibiotics and a painkiller prescribed by her dentist a year ago.

  There was a wonderful collection of makeup, sponges, wooden combs, and natural-bristle brushes. Little ceramic pots and tiny crystal jars were filled with creams and perfumes. Susan opened a corked glass vial and peered in, wondering if the white powder was an illegal drug, and decided probably not, unless cocaine smelled like violets. She closed the cabinet and examined the glass shelves built into the white tiled walls. Large bottles of herbal salts showed Erika to be a woman who enjoyed her baths, as did the thick beige unbleached cotton towels that hung on towel bars and filled the minuscule linen closet. Susan dutifully unfolded each and every one, succeeding only in spilling bundles of lavender on the floor. When she returned to the bedroom, Brett was still staring out the window.

  “Nothing significant in there,” she announced.

  “Well, let’s get to work in here.”

  The bedroom turned out to be where Erika kept her personal papers. Like the rest of the house, it was neat, organized—and dense. Closets were built into each wall. Drawers pulled out from under the bed. Books stood behind books on the deep shelves. They spent hours there, going through clothing, linens, and each and every notebook, pamphlet, and receipt in her desk and in the elegant wicker baskets on her shelves. It was a fascinating way to get to know a person.

  And searching with Brett was a fascinating way to get a closer look at his relationship with Erika. For instance, he had been astounded to find a letter from Erika’s accountant informing her of another offer to buy her stores and her name. The offer was, in the accountant’s opinion, a little low: only eleven million dollars.

  “Who would have thought there was so much money to be made from plants?” Susan commented, feeling that she had to say something.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Brett agreed slowly. “Erika told me that she began her business on a shoestring—I think she took out a bank loan for a little more than ten thousand dollars.”

  “Wow.” Susan had always thought about beginning a small business … maybe something to do with food. Ten thousand dollars …

  “Of course, she’s worked night and day for the past ten years. She deserves every bit of her success,” Brett continued.

  But he sounded uncomfortable and Susan wondered how he felt about discovering that the woman he loved was so much wealthier than he. Then she realized that perhaps he was thinking that Erika could well afford to stay away for a long time. She shuffled through the rest of the papers as quickly as possible.

  “What are you looking for?” Brett asked.

  “I just wondered if she was thinking of selling her business.”

  “And using the money to move to Brazil?”

  “I really don’t think she killed Ivan,” Susan protested quickly.

  “And if you did, you would still say that to me. I know, you’re a good friend,” Brett insisted.

  Susan took a deep breath. “Maybe we should talk about it. Do you think there’s a chance that she killed him?” she asked quietly.

  Brett sat down on the edge of the bed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I know that she didn’t like him much. And I know that she’s a very passionate woman. But a murderer? I can’t see her murdering anyone. But, of course, I love her.”

  “I know,” Susan said, sitting down next to him. “Why did she dislike Ivan? They haven’t been married for years. They don’t have any children. They just happen to live in the same town.” Susan wanted to hear the story. �
�I understood that they were married when they were young.”

  “That’s true. In college, in fact.”

  “And married for how long?”

  “For five years. But that figure is really deceiving. They lived together only a little more than two years.”

  “What did she tell you about the marriage?” Susan hoped that he would keep talking.

  “That it was a mistake from the beginning. That they were both too young. They moved from their dorms into married student housing and fought for two years until she moved out.”

  “Why did it take so long to get divorced if there weren’t any children?” Susan asked.

  “Ivan refused to get a no-fault divorce—which had just become possible in the state they were living in. She also didn’t have any grounds for divorce—remember, years ago these things were more difficult.”

  “So what did she do?”

  “She said she just waited. She assumed that there would come a time when Ivan wanted his freedom.”

  “And he did.”

  “Yes. Apparently he started seeing a woman who refused to date a married man. So he agreed to get a no-fault divorce. They filed the papers and then had to wait a year for it to go through.”

  “Which accounts for the final three years of their marriage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they see a lot of each other during those three years?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brett answered slowly. “I know Ivan changed colleges—but I think they were still in the same state. In fact, I’m sure of it. She once said that she had to wait until the divorce went through to move out of state to do her graduate work.”

  Susan wondered what Erika’s field had been, but there were more important questions to ask.

  “But Ivan is known as a philanderer—or whatever you call a man who is involved with many women. Wasn’t he behaving like that when they were married?”

  “You know, Erika did mention that once. She says she must have been one of the most naive people in the world because she had no idea he was like that back then. Evidently she met an old classmate a couple of years ago and the other woman confessed to having an affair with Ivan while he and Erika were still together.”