An Anniversary to Die For (25 page)

Susan sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

“But maybe not,” Erika protested. “Look, Alvena apparently didn’t like Ashley—Ashley doesn’t, for that matter, sound terribly likable even when she was young. So doesn’t it stand to reason that a lot of people might not have liked her and maybe even enough to want to kill her?”

“Everyone says that,” Susan cried. “I thought that same thing!”

“And?”

“I asked her about other suspects. Although, of course, I didn’t call them suspects. Anyway, she tried but she couldn’t come up with anyone else. To be honest, taking Alvena’s judgments at face value just might be a mistake. She seems to have two opinions—perfect or awful. Doug was perfect. Ashley was awful. Thinking about it on the drive home, I began to wonder if sex wasn’t involved. Alvena loves Doug, Peter Konowitz, and Sam Redman. But she hated Ashley. It could be a coincidence. There might be dozens of men she didn’t like and lots of women that she did, but so far it looks like boys are good, girls aren’t.”

“You could go back and ask her about other women,” Kathleen suggested. “You know, to kind of test that theory.”

“No, thank you. It takes Alvena forever to answer a simple question. Besides, she’s probably napping right now. She must have consumed at least six ounces of pure whiskey while I was there. And she was still sitting at that table in the housekeeping room with her glass and an almost half-full bottle by her side when I made my escape.”

“That sweet old lady drinks?” Kathleen asked.

“She sure did today,” Susan assured her.

“I feel terrible,” Erika spoke up.

“Why?”

“Signe was helping out at the store. But being at the inn right before her mother died as well as being around the food . . . Well, it’s just one more reason why she’s a suspect.”

Kathleen picked at a knot that had formed in her yarn. “There are, however, lots of ways poison could have been put in Ashley’s food or drink.”

“Yes, there were! I mean, there was,” Susan cried. “Jed and I found an empty bottle of wine—Italian wine. We gave it to Chief Konowitz!”

“Why?” Erika asked.

“He was going to have it tested for poison. And when I saw him this morning, he didn’t say a thing about it!”

“Perhaps the report isn’t in yet,” Kathleen suggested.

“That might be true. On the other hand, maybe it is.” Susan stood up again. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to give him a call.” She hurried back to the study.

It wasn’t easy getting through to Chief Konowitz. She had to call three times. The first time, the phone was answered by a young woman. Susan had identified herself, asked to speak with Chief Konowitz, and then waited expectantly for him to come on the line, rearranging the bits and pieces on Jed’s desk to occupy her time. She was lining up paper clips when the woman came back on the line to assure Susan that Chief Konowitz was very busy, he had spoken with her already that day, and he could not be bothered to speak with her again. Susan was stunned with the abrupt good-bye followed by the unmistakable click of the receiver being replaced.

Susan dialed again immediately, unwilling to let this go by. This time the young woman refused even to pass on her message.

Susan sat at the desk, furious, trying to figure out what to do. A few minutes later there wasn’t a paper clip capable of clipping anything to anything, but she’d come up with an idea that might work. She reached for the phone and dialed the police station. The same woman answered, but this time, instead of identifying herself, Susan lowered her voice an octave and claimed to be Ingrid Anderson, reporter for a New York City network affiliate.

“I know how busy Chief Konowitz must be, but I just have a few questions to ask him. We go on the air in—” Susan glanced at the grandfather clock Jed had, as it happened, inherited from his own father. It kept perfect time. “—in fifty-seven minutes, and we’re doing a big story on the chief and your police department. If you could just tell him that I’ll take up less than fifteen minutes of his time, I’d appreciate it.”

The phone was picked up in less than fifty-seven seconds. “Chief Peter Konowitz here.”

Susan smiled. She wasn’t the only person on this phone line who had lowered her voice. “Hello, Chief, I—”

“Ms. Anderson, I understand you have some questions for me, but I should tell you first that I’m running the investigation into the death of Ashley Marks by myself. Everything goes through my office. I’m frequently in the field collecting information. This is a small town, but this is not the first time we have had a case of poisoning, nor is it the first time I’ve been involved. Years ago, when I was just a fledgling police officer, right out of the state police academy, I was involved in—”

“I just have one question, Chief Konowitz. I understand a wine bottle was turned in by your office to a laboratory to be tested for possible poison content. I need to know if that lab has issued a report and whether it was positive or negative. I mean, if there was poison in the bottle or not,” Susan added after he did not reply immediately. “If you received the report,” she added into the lengthening silence.

“Who the hell? You’re not a reporter. There is no way a reporter could know about that test! Mrs. Henshaw! Do you know anything at all about the laws concerning fraud?” He hung up the phone without giving her an opportunity to reply.

Susan swept the pile of ruined paper clips into a nearby wastebasket and stood up to return to her waiting friends.

“Well? Did they get the results of the tests?” Erika asked as she joined them.

“I don’t know. Chief Konowitz refused to talk to me. And then, when I pretended to be someone else, he caught on before I found out anything.” Susan sat down in the place she had vacated just a few minutes ago. “Is it illegal to tell a police officer that you are someone you’re not?” she asked.

“It’s not a good idea to lie to the police, but it’s not necessarily illegal,” Kathleen replied.

“Good,” Susan said. “So what do we do now?”

“I suppose going back to Oxford Landing in person and asking to see Signe would be a waste of time?” Erika suggested.

“I don’t think Chief Konowitz would let us see her. Maybe Brett . . .” Susan didn’t even want to ask the question.

Erika took a deep breath. “I suppose I could ask Brett if he’d help, but—”

“But your marriage is too important. You shouldn’t have to do that,” Kathleen interrupted. “If we decide to contact Brett, Susan can do it. He’s used to turning her down.”

Susan couldn’t do anything but agree. “I think the only way one of us is going to get to see Signe is to go to law school and volunteer to represent her. Hey, why don’t we hire a lawyer for her?”

Erika spoke up. “I did get an answer from Brett about that. He says not to worry. She’s represented.”

“Is he sure?”

“Yes. He says—has said over and over, in fact—that there is no reason at all to worry about Signe.” She brushed her bangs off her forehead. “That’s why I hate to ask him anything. I think he’s getting tired of hearing the same worried questions. I know I’m tired of the same damn answer.”

“You know, there is another way to approach this,” Kathleen said. “Maybe we should talk to Doug—”

She was interrupted by the phone. Susan got up to answer it, and when she returned to her friends, she had a frown on her face. “That was Doug,” she explained.

“What luck!” Erika said. “And we were just thinking about contacting him!”

“Why did he call?” Kathleen asked.

“You won’t believe this. He asked me to speak at Ashley’s funeral service tomorrow.”

Kathleen leaned forward. “And what did you say?”

“That I was honored and would be proud to speak.” She took a deep breath. “Well, what else could I do?”

“No, you did the right thing,” Kathleen agreed.

“What am I going to say? I didn’t like Ashley.”

“Not many people in town did,” Erika reminded her.

“Then maybe not many people will show up for the funeral.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

I T WAS STANDING-ROOM ONLY AT ASHLEY MARKS’S funeral. Susan, as one of the speakers, had been ushered to a pew at the front of the Hancock First Methodist Church and then seated next to an overweight woman wearing a hideous teal blue polyester suit over an equally unattractive flowered print blouse. She also wore an excessive amount of large jewelry. But she smiled broadly when Susan introduced herself.

“Fanny Hurley. Ashley’s cousin.” She took both of Susan’s hands in her own ring-studded ones. “And how did you know Ashley?”

“We . . . she moved in next door to me last year.”

“Lord in heaven, you must be the woman who is so famous for solving mysteries. And I know you and your husband have a charming big old house as well as a place on an island up in Maine that you go to in the summer. And doesn’t one of your children attend Cornell?”

“I . . . yes, my son is in his third year there,” Susan answered, surprised to hear so much information about her life coming from a stranger. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. This is my first visit to Hancock. I live in Fostoria, Ohio. Have you ever been there?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well, you might not remember us. We’re pretty small, but I like to tell people we have everything you could want. We have a wonderful library, some interesting antique shops, and an absolutely fascinating museum of glass. I’m one of the docents.”

“It sounds charming,” Susan said, still a bit confused.

“It is. But I don’t want you to think we’re country bumpkins. I’ve been on-line for years and years. Ashley and I used to e-mail each other all the time.” Her wide smile faded. “I’ll miss hearing from her.”

“Really?” Susan blurted out and then hoped she didn’t sound too surprised.

“Yes. Ashley kept me up-to-date on her life, and she told me all about your lovely town. I know she was unhappy when Doug decided it was time to retire and come back to the States, but I think your charming community had helped make up for the loss of their exciting life overseas. She wrote me about such fun goings-on—parties at the Hancock Field Club, shopping trips to those luxury stores in New York City. I can tell you, sometimes when I was reading those messages, I just wanted to hop in my car and come out and visit.”

“You should have,” Susan said sincerely.

“My cousin kept putting me off. You know Ashley. She wanted everything to be perfect before I saw the house. And now she’s dead and the first time I’ll be seeing the things I’ve heard so much about, I’ll be alone.” A tear slid down the woman’s cheek.

Susan reached out and squeezed Ashley’s cousin’s hand. “I’m sure Doug is pleased you’re here,” she whispered.

“I suppose you’re right. But it’s so difficult to know what that man is thinking. He seems sad, but . . . Oh, dear, here’s the minister. We’d better be quiet. We’ll have an opportunity to talk back at the house after the service.”

You bet we will, Susan thought as the organist slammed out three loud chords and the congregation struggled to their feet.

A tall young man dressed as a minister jogged up the steps leading to the pulpit, grasped the sides of the lectern with red, beefy hands, and stared down at his congregation. “We are gathered together to celebrate the life of a wife, a mother, and a friend. A woman whose impact on her community can perhaps best be demonstrated by the immense number of mourners here today, joined in our grief to find comfort and solace in reflecting on her life and remembering the unique part she played in each of our lives.

“The Markses—Doug and Annette—moved to Hancock only recently. Too recently, alas, for me to have been given the opportunity to become personally acquainted with them. But, in the few days that have passed since her untimely death, I’ve spoken with Ann’s family and friends, and I’ve learned just how important a place Annie had—in a short time—found in the hearts of many in Hancock. Known for her generous and giving spirit, she had been involved in various community affairs . . .”

If it hadn’t been most unlikely in this solemn place, Susan would have thought the sound she heard coming from the pews behind her was laughter. A neighbor she barely knew, sitting by her side, leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Are you sure we’re at the right funeral?”

Susan nodded, suppressing a nervous giggle as the minister continued, enumerating a remarkably long list of Ashley’s imagined virtues.

Taking a deep breath, he changed the subject—and, once again, Ashley’s name. “It would be remiss of me to ignore the recent tragic event in Abby’s life, but despite the unfortunate mistake made by some local officials . . .”

Susan looked over her shoulder and saw that Brett and Erika were seated right beside Peter Konowitz. Peter was smiling. Brett was not.

“Angie’s husband reported her to be in good spirits the day of her death, happy to be celebrating the anniversary of a dear friend’s nuptials.”

Susan was aware of the curious glances of those seated nearby.

“Is it really surprising to those of us—of you, who knew the dear departed more intimately than I—that she chose to celebrate with friends rather than mull over the injustices of her life away from the prying eyes of . . . uh . . .” Apparently realizing that many of the people to whom those prying eyes belonged were now seated before him, the minister struggled to continue. “. . . uh, of the justifiably curious. No, of course not!” He finished that thought with a flourish before going on.

“Just this morning, speaking with a member of Annie’s family, a woman who had flown many, many miles to be here for this occasion, I learned a bit about Ann’s youth. She grew up not far from here, as the crow flies, in the same town where her future husband was born. Now that’s a rare thing in these mobile days, and they were a rare couple, traveling the world together because Abby chose to follow her husband to whereever his job took him. And besides wifely support, she brought along style and taste, maintaining standards that can be missing in the less developed parts of our world. Ann . . . Abby . . . A . . .”