“So you volunteered to be on the commission?” Susan asked.
“I was a little more devious than that. I’ve had some dealings with Penelope Thomas—she’s always running some function or another and that means she’s always asking for donations for decorations or door prizes—you know the type of thing.”
Susan nodded. She did indeed. She had made the begging rounds of the local merchants more than once. And she also knew how appreciative she was of the businesses that were generous.
“So I created a false overrun of wonderful natural bath products and called her and offered them to her current charity project.”
“She must have been thrilled,” Susan said. Penelope, she was sure, had certainly never had it so easy.
“She was appreciative. Thrilled is not a word I would use for Penelope.”
“And then you volunteered to be on the commission?” Brett asked.
“I wish I could say that, but I can’t. It’s what I intended to happen, but no one ever accused Penelope of not doing her homework. She knew that I had just bought the mill and she didn’t have any trouble figuring out what I was planning to do with it. She offered me a place on the Landmark Commission and, before I could answer her, explained that the members of the commission would have the ability to protect the properties that were special to them. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I said yes almost without thinking.”
“You were protecting something that you had created over the years. Something more important to you than the ordinary business,” Brett said, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder.
“Is that what you would say to one of your officers who took a bribe to pay his mortgage?” Erika asked. “Brett, it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. And I did it. I mean, I tried to justify it. I said that I would give other business owners the same opportunities that I gave Stems and Twigs. But, of course, I didn’t. There was no way I could do that. Penelope offered me a trade. I went along with what she wanted to do on the commission and she let me do what I had planned to do with the gristmill.”
“That’s why you left town?” Brett asked.
“It was so shabby. I didn’t want you to know about it. And when Ivan was killed, I knew it would all come out in your investigations. So I took off for a spa that I’m going to be doing business with. I know how stupid it was. And I know what I’m going to do about it.”
“What?”
“Go to the commission’s meeting tomorrow night, announce my resignation, and tell the whole story.”
“That should cause a sensation,” Brett said, a frown on his face.
Susan also looked sad. She realized that Erika’s decision was the right one, but the meeting, with so many raw nerves exposed, was going to be a sad event.
THIRTY
Fifteen minutes before the meeting of the Landmark Commission, she realized that she had been completely wrong. This meeting was going to be a joy. A long article on the front page of the Sunday edition of the Hancock Herald had guaranteed it.
Unaccustomed to much of an audience, the commission met in one of the smaller meeting rooms in the basement of the library. Susan and a few dozen other women had once attended a “Parenting Teenage Boys” symposium there and it had been crowded then. By the time the commission was called to order, a long line of people anxious to attend was snaking through the hallway.
Tom Davidson, excited, hair standing on end, was rushing through the crowd, toting television monitors and stringing wires in an attempt to broadcast the meeting to the crowd in the hallway. Other reporters, too young to be as bored as they looked, asked questions of various citizens, recording the answers in notebooks and on tiny tape machines. A couple of policemen stood at the bottom of the stairway, keeping an eye on the crowd, but Susan was pretty sure she wasn’t the only person who was aware of Brett’s absence.
Erika Eden had come to the meeting early, taken a seat at the table, removed a notebook from her purse, and sat reading to herself. As other commissioners entered the room and found seats, Erika looked up, smiled, and said nothing. When Penelope Thomas entered the room, Erika repeated the drill; except she didn’t bother to smile.
Penelope, though, had scowled. And not just at Erika. She scowled at everyone in the room, scowled at the chair that was left for her, scowled at the pitcher of ice water in the middle of the table, and positively glared at the front page of the Hancock Herald that was sticking out of a spectator’s handbag. Susan enjoyed every minute of it.
She had gotten very little sleep last night, worrying about this meeting and about whether Erika would be strong enough to do what she felt was necessary. But, of course, the Hancock Herald article meant that Erika wasn’t alone. It turned out that, finally, Penelope Thomas tried to blackmail the wrong person. That person had called some friends who called some friends and the editor of the local paper had seen a wonderful two days before the election-story opportunity. The headline alone, penny thomas accused of offering favors, had kept a smile on Susan’s face since breakfast time.
Now she leaned back against the doorjamb where she was standing and watched as Penelope Thomas tried to call her meeting to order. First she rapped on the desk with her knuckles. Then she banged with an empty water glass. Finally she shrieked, “Shut up!”
The group—many, Susan realized, like her trying to hide their grins—followed her orders. As people out in the hall shushed each other and Tom dashed back to the table to adjust his camera, she glanced at Erika Eden. The young woman was still pale.
“I find myself forced to resign as chairman of the Landmark Commission,” Penelope announced, fury in her voice.
Susan waited for the lies and the justifications that, apparently, were not to come. There was only one more sentence.
“There is no Landmark Commission without me.” The last words were coming out of Penelope’s mouth as she pushed through the crowd and out of the room.
The audience was astounded, but Susan was more interested to note the reactions of the faces of the other commissioners, still sitting at the table.
Foster Wade, apparently at his sartorial peak in a wrinkled, ill-fitting navy wool blazer and dirty light gray polyester slacks, looked indignant. “What precisely did she mean by that?” he asked no one in particular.
Rosemary Nearing seemed to be near tears, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement.
Lyman was clearly thrilled, and didn’t care who knew it. “That Penny,” he said cheerfully. “Takes herself too seriously. Always did.”
But Erika was still pale, and miserable. Susan started to move toward her through the milling crowd. But Tom Davidson stuck a microphone under Erika’s chin and asked a question.
“I have a statement to make.” Erika’s voice rang out through the electronic system. “Please, I would like you all to listen to me. I became a member of the Landmark Commission to protect my business interests—here in Hancock and elsewhere. I apologize to the community and … and I hope no one will judge the people around me harshly. No one knew what I had done. No one.”
Susan knew Erika was trying to protect Brett, but she realized Tom had other aspects of the story on his mind. “What did Mrs. Thomas offer you to ensure that you would be loyal to her?”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” Erika insisted, but Tom, in the tradition of journalists everywhere, had already moved the microphone on down the table and was questioning Lyman Nearing. The print reporters were pushing and shoving to get into the room when Susan pulled Erika up from the table and nudged her toward the door.
“You’re not going to be a help to anyone now,” Susan said. “Why don’t we get out of here?”
“I don’t want anyone to think that I dodged questions about any of this,” Erika insisted.
“Don’t worry. After the revelations about Penelope Thomas, you really didn’t have to say anything at all today. You don’t notice anyone else running around talking about their involvement with the commission, do you?”
“No, bu
t …” Erika looked around the humming room.
“So let’s get out of here,” Susan insisted. She didn’t know about Erika, but she had more work to do. Knowing that Penelope Thomas was using the Landmark Commission as her own personal power base was only one small piece of the puzzle. Already, she heard one of the reporters in the hallway mentioning Ivan Deakin’s name.
“Where are we going?” Erika asked, following Susan through the crowded halls. “I’m sorry. I already made my statement,” she added to a reporter who stuck a microphone in her face. “I have nothing to add at this time.”
“You sounded very professional,” Susan said when they had reached the street. “Do you spend much time with reporters?”
“None. But I’m a big fan of CNN. In every big hotel in every big city in the world, people are saying just that thing.
“So where are we going?” she repeated.
Susan slowed down. “I have no idea. Now that the questions about the Landmark Commission are settled, I simply can’t imagine where to look for Ivan’s murderer.”
“What was Ivan’s solution to the Landmark Commission problem? What was he going to announce that night at the Women’s Club?” Erika asked.
“Nothing.”
“But his speech …”
“Oh, he had a speech, it just didn’t say anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was some sort of political pablum. He thought Hancock could depend upon the good sense of its citizens to make the correct decisions about their historical buildings. You know the type of thing—it’s on CNN, too, isn’t it?”
Erika smiled at the comment before continuing. “I know the type of thing. But it doesn’t sound like Ivan. The man may have been wrong most of the time, but he was a risk taker, always coming up with a new scheme and always believing that the next scheme was going to work.”
Susan thought about all the restaurants. “Well, you know him better than most people.…”
“And why would he run for office unless he had come up with something? It might help his failing business if he became mayor of Hancock, but that couldn’t be the only reason he ran.”
“But his speech. I read it in Brett’s office. It was silly. It didn’t say anything or offer any new solutions—” Susan stopped and looked at Erika. “It wasn’t his speech. Of course, that explains everything. It wasn’t his speech.”
“You mean someone else wrote it?”
“I mean someone took advantage of the mayhem after Ivan’s death to replace the speech that was on the podium with the innocuous one that the police picked up and that I read down at the station.”
“You really think there was an opportunity for someone to do that? I thought the police were there right away and they usually seal the crime scene.” She looked embarrassed. “I watch cop shows, too,” she admitted.
“One of our country’s most popular exports,” Susan muttered. She was thinking back. Brett had walked in the door of the Women’s Club, glanced at the body, and almost immediately began talking on a cellular phone. Possibly calling Erika? Susan thought it was likely. He knew Ivan Deakin and Erika had been married. He knew better than most that an ex-wife was bound to come under suspicion in a murder case. He would have tried to pin down Erika’s whereabouts immediately. Susan sighed and looked at the other woman. “I think things were handled a little differently after Ivan died.” Less professionally, she thought, but didn’t say aloud.
“So what happened to the original speech?” Erika asked.
“Probably got tossed in a wastebasket—or maybe Long Island Sound. We’ll never find it now.… Unless …”
“ ‘Unless’?”
“Unless what happened to the original script will answer a lot of the questions I’ve been asking all this last week. Unless the script moved from the Women’s Club to the Martels’ house to … to a hole in my backyard.” Susan nodded. “That would explain it. That would explain why she came to visit me and why she was out in the yard visiting an animal that made her more than a little nervous. And it might explain why she’s been drinking ever since the murder.”
“Theresa Martel? You think Theresa Martel stole Ivan’s speech?”
“I don’t know why she did it or why she didn’t just toss it in her garbage can right before the scheduled pickup, but I’ll bet she did.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Drive to my house and dig a hole in my backyard,” Susan said. “Then, if I find what I think I’m going to find, head over to the Martel house and check it out,” Susan insisted. “Would you like to come with me?”
“I don’t think—”
“I wish you would. I might need help.” If Theresa’s guilty and I need someone to call the police, was what she didn’t say.
“Fine. Why don’t I drive?” They had arrived at the tiny Miata.
“Okay.”
“And why don’t we get going before that man with the video camera catches up with us.” Erika unlocked her door and slipped into the driver’s seat as she spoke.
Susan was in complete agreement, and they headed down the road, leaving the press in their wake.
No one was home at Susan’s house, except for the dog, who would never, ever understand why Susan chose to get a shovel and flashlight from the garage and dig a hole in the one place the entire household agreed belonged to the dog alone—so, to spare her sensitive nature, Susan left Clue in the house while she set about this task.
“Is that the speech?” Erika asked a few minutes later, beaming her flashlight down into the hole.
Susan frowned. “Well, it’s what a speech looks like after a dog has dug it up, chewed on it, and reburied it at least once.” Susan stared down at the mess in her hands. “Probably more than once.”
“Impossible to read.”
“Exactly.” Susan nodded.
“So what do we do now?”
“Go over and see the Martels. Theresa must have buried this here and I think we can assume whoever buried it, read it—”
“And killed Ivan,” Erika concluded.
“I think it’s possible.”
“So that her husband would win the election. Sort of a modern Lady Macbeth.”
“I suppose so,” Susan said. The only problem was that she didn’t see Theresa Martel in that role. And what about Theresa’s confession of love for Ivan—how did that fit into this story?
“Or do you think Anthony Martel is behind the murder?” Erika asked.
Susan remembered the books about poison in the Martels’ master bath. “It’s possible.”
“What are you going to do? Just ask her if she buried the manuscript in your dog’s cage?”
“It’s a run.”
“What?”
“It’s a dog run,” Susan repeated.
“What’s the difference?”
“Probably a couple of hundred dollars,” Susan said. “Park over there.” She pointed to the street. “We don’t want to get stuck in the driveway if someone arrives after we do.”
“You don’t think we’re in any danger, do you?”
“No. But mainly because I cannot imagine either Theresa or her husband as the murderer. Anthony seems to be a rather dull, idealistic man who wanted to be mayor in order to do what he thought was good for the community.”
“And what about Theresa?”
“Well, it’s not what I would have said a few weeks ago, but the woman seems to be a garden-variety out-of-control drinker.”
“So maybe she killed Ivan while she was out of control.”
“It’s possible.”
“And then switched the speeches, hid the old one for a couple of days, then buried it in your dog run. Does that seem like something a drunk would do?” Erika suggested.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would do that,” Susan said. “It seems to me that it’s a better way for a murderer to draw attention to herself than to hide.”
THIRTY-ONE
Anthony Martel
opened the door at Susan’s knock. “Susan, hello … Is Jed with you?” He peered out into the darkness.
“No, this is Erika Eden,” Susan said, introducing her companion. “We came to talk to Theresa. Is she home?”
“Yes, but she may be napping.”
“I’m here and I’m not napping.” They looked up as Theresa wound her way down her cluttered stairway. “And I’m not hungover,” she added.
“My wife hasn’t been feeling very well,” Anthony jumped in quickly.
“His wife has been drinking herself into a state of numbness by midafternoon each day. Most nights I’ve been flat-out drunk. And I have started each day with a hangover. Each day since Ivan was killed. Until today,” she added. “Today I’m off to a new start. And my good husband is not going to have to make excuses for me. You,” she added, looking at Erika, “you are Ivan Deakin’s ex-wife, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Anthony, I would like to speak to Susan and Erika alone.”
“But, dear—”
“It’s important,” Theresa added firmly. “Why don’t you go work on your acceptance speech?”
“I might, my dear, lose the election.”
Theresa nodded. “You might, but no one ever listens to concession speeches, so there’s no need to spend any time on that one. We will go to the kitchen. I think it’s time I began cooking meals again.”
Susan, thrilled to see that the sensible Theresa Martel was back, followed the other two women to the kitchen.
“Have a seat. We’ll have some tea,” Theresa stated. “You will have to move stuff off the chairs. I’m a rotten housekeeper—even when I’m not drinking.”
Susan and Erika sat down and Theresa fussed around with water, kettles, mugs, and tea bags.
“Did you know my husband?” Erika asked politely.
“Yes. He made me love him, in fact,” Theresa replied. She was busy at the stove, her back to the room.
Erika seemed startled, but Susan appreciated the fact that she quickly recovered herself and continued the conversation. “Did you have an affair?” she asked, as though it were an every-day occurrence. Which indeed, Susan thought, it had been much of the time.
Elected for Death Page 23
