An Anniversary to Die For (4 page)

“There should be a chilled bottle of champagne here somewhere.” Susan looked around.

“When I find it, I’ll pour out a glass and bring it to you. Now go.”

She went. Their bathroom had been tucked under the eaves and contained many pieces of whitewashed wicker, apparently to make up for the lack of headroom. Susan had unpacked all the necessities earlier, and she poured green-tea oil under the less-than-gushing faucet before getting undressed.

She was tired, happy and tired. And the water was warm and soothing—so much so that she fell asleep almost immediately.

She didn’t know how long she dozed, but by the time she woke up, the water had cooled off. She looked around and smiled. No champagne. Jed must have drifted off, too. Well, they weren’t as young as they once were. She got out of the tub and dried off, splashing on her favorite cologne before slipping into a silk kimono. Then she opened the door, prepared to kid Jed about how they had both fallen asleep.

For just a moment, she thought she had walked in on a joke. There was a strange woman asleep in the middle of their bed. Then she realized that the woman wasn’t asleep. And she wasn’t strange.

“Well, at least she’s not a stranger,” Susan said, walking over to her husband. Jed was standing by the bed, his cell phone to his ear. “Who are you calling?”

“Brett. He must not have arrived home yet, though. I left a message on his machine.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes. I held a mirror up under her nose. I think she was poisoned,” he continued.

Susan leaned down to look more closely. A trickle of drool was drying on the dead woman’s chin. “I see what you mean.”

“I thought—” Jed’s phone rang, interrupting his explanation. “Hello? Oh, Brett, thank God. . . . Well, it’s simple. We found Ashley Marks in our bed. . . . Oh, dead. I should have explained that first. . . . Poisoned. At least that’s what we think. . . . Got it.” He pressed the button to hang up and looked over at his wife. “He’s on his way.”

“Did he say what we should do?”

“Don’t tell anybody. Don’t touch anything. . . . He said not to touch anything, hon.”

“I don’t think he was talking about the champagne, Jed. I’m thirsty, and it is our anniversary.” She handed him the bottle. “Would you open it?”

Jed glanced at the dead woman, then did as his wife asked. “I hope no one comes in. It might look as though we were celebrating her death.”

“I suppose someone is,” Susan mused.

“Why do you say that?”

“Someone killed her.”

Susan and Jed hadn’t been married for thirty years without learning the art of silent communion. They had both turned and were looking out the small window to the silent street below, their backs to the bed. “I wonder where Doug is right now,” Susan said, sipping her drink and putting it down on the only available space—the narrow windowsill.

“Good question.”

“Everyone is going to assume that he killed her,” Susan said.

“I don’t see that.”

“Well, Jed, think about it. She tried to kill him.”

“She was acquitted.”

“Yes, although Brett said that was because the district attorney didn’t have much of a case.”

“But Brett didn’t say he believed Ashley was the poisoner.”

“She must be! I mean, who’s in a better position to poison someone than the person who cooks for him?” Susan asked.

“According to the story in the
Hancock Herald
, Ashley’s attorney claimed that Doug did most of the cooking.”

“But Ashley made their cocktails every night. And you know the evidence was that the poison could have been in drinks as well as any other food. I know, you don’t think she’s guilty.”

“I said all along that Ashley is one of the most competent women I know. If she set out to kill someone, they’d be dead.”

“Apparently the same could be said about whoever killed her. . . . Jed, where are you going?”

“To get a glass. I don’t need more champagne, but I’m thirsty.”

“You don’t think the dinner was too salty, do you?” Susan asked, again the concerned hostess.

“Susan, the dinner was wonderful, but I suspect it’s going to be a long night. I wonder if you could go down to the kitchen and get us some coffee. There must be people around. I can’t imagine that the cleanup crew is done already.”

Susan frowned. “I guess I’d better get dressed.”

“You look fine,” Jed said. “I would go down, but then you’d have to be alone with—” He looked over at the bed. “—with her.”

“I’ll get three cups. Brett might want some, too,” Susan said quickly, wrapping her robe tightly around her and heading for the door.

The hallway was dark, lit only by electrified sconces burning tiny and ineffective flame-shaped bulbs. She ran smack into a large chestnut blanket chest. “Ow!”

“Who’s out there?” The voice seemed to be coming from the room across the hall. Susan decided there was no reason to answer and, rubbing her sore hip, scurried off to the stairs.

The dining room was deserted, already prepared for tomorrow’s buffet breakfast, with tables set, coffeemakers out, and trays in place to hold the doughnuts and pastries for which the inn was famous. Susan stopped a moment, taking in the peaceful, orderly scene. It really had been a wonderful party. . . .

An extraordinarily loud crash brought her back to reality, and she wiggled between the tables toward the kitchen. One shove, and the padded swinging doors opened to reveal bedlam. A radio blaring rock and roll was competing with the roar of the commercial dishwasher as a half dozen young people dealt with mountains of dirty pans and baskets of filthy silverware. As Susan watched, a deafening alarm indicated the end of the wash cycle, and the stainless steel doors were opened. A whoosh of steam filled the room, causing many of the workers to complain of the increasing heat. Cans of soda were lifted in the air and brows wiped of sweat.

“Excuse me.”

No one heard her.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, more loudly this time. “I’m looking for coffee.”

A young man with a scarf tied around his forehead looked up from his mop. “God, lady, breakfast isn’t for hours. Give us a break, okay? We just finished working this huge, fancy-schmancy party and—”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Henshaw?” The head of the kitchen staff, a young woman who had helped Susan plan the party, rushed up to her.

“I . . . we . . . is there any way to get a pot of coffee at this time of the night?”

“That’s no problem at all. I’ll have one sent up to your room in five minutes.”

“I’ll wait for it,” Susan offered quickly. She didn’t want anyone to see what was on the bed or to wonder why the police were visiting the celebrating couple in the middle of the night.

“Whatever you prefer, but there’s no place to sit in here.” Susan got the point. They didn’t want outsiders around, either. “I’ll be outside, in one of those wing chairs by the fireplace.”

“I’ll bring you a full pot and two cups in just a few minutes.”

Susan didn’t have the nerve to ask for another cup—how would she explain?—so she just smiled and left the room.

It wasn’t until she was sitting by the still-flickering fire that the enormity of what had happened hit. And the complexity. Where was Doug? Had he left the inn without his wife? Had he killed his wife and then left the inn? Had he killed his wife, put her in the Henshaws’ room, and then left the inn? Had . . . ?

“Oh, Mrs. Henshaw, is something wrong?”

Susan looked up into the worried face of Alvena Twigg. “I’m just waiting for a pot of coffee. Jed and I always have coffee before we go to sleep,” she lied, realizing she was staring rudely at the elderly woman. Alvena was enveloped in a voluminous nightgown of crisp white cotton, its high neck edged with cotton lace. Matching cotton lace ringed the cotton nightcap perched precariously on her braided red hair. Alvena’s gown was freshly pressed; she had not, Susan realized, been to bed yet, either.

“What an excellent idea. I frequently have trouble sleeping. I’ve never tried coffee.” Alvena’s light blue eyes twinkled, and Susan wondered if she was being laughed at.

“It often works for us,” she insisted, and decided that a change of subject was in order. “The party tonight was wonderful. You and your sister are sensational innkeepers.”

“We do pride ourselves on how well we run the inn. Of course, it’s Constance’s life’s work. I had other interests. I’m retired, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.” Susan was relieved the topic had changed, but she wondered when the coffee was going to appear. Jed would be wondering where she had vanished to. “What did you do?”

“Oh, I ran the district’s high school,” Alvena answered proudly.

“You were the school principal?” Susan had a difficult time imagining this woman controlling that particular age group.

“No. I ran the office. I was school secretary. I worked for six different principals during the fifty years I held the job.”

“Fifty years!”

Alvena smiled. It was obvious she had gotten this reaction before. “I started the summer after I graduated from high school. I was eighteen years old. I retired in June exactly fifty years later. I worked two days more than fifty years, in fact.”

“Amazing!” Susan said sincerely. “You must have enjoyed your work.”

“I was much more important than most people realize. It’s the secretary who runs the office, you know.”

“Of course. And you must have seen most of the people in this town go through that school.”

“Exactly!” The smile on Alvena’s face had become distinctly smug. “I could tell you the most amazing things about some of them. Of course, I don’t. I consider my position to have been one of trust, and I do not betray that trust.”

“That’s very good of you,” Susan said.

“You’d be amazed how many of my students—I call them all my students although I never actually taught them, of course—have died recently,” Alvena continued without acknowledging her comment.

Luckily a young man bearing a tray with coffee, milk, sugar, and two cups and saucers appeared then, for Susan had absolutely no idea how to respond.

FIVE

SUSAN SAID GOOD NIGHT, PICKED UP THE TRAY, AND HURRIED toward the stairway. She glanced back over her shoulder. Alvena was staring down into the fire, a smile on her face.

Susan ran into Brett at the top of the stairs.

“Susan, where have you been?” He took the tray from her. “Jed was starting to worry about you.”

“Never mind about me. How did you get back so quickly?”

“Nothing like a police cruiser with flashing lights. We’re not all that far from Hancock—not if you don’t have to stop for traffic lights or obey the speed limit.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you.”

“I don’t know how much help I can be. This isn’t Hancock. In fact, the local police should be arriving any minute now.”

“The local police! How do they know about this?”

“I called them. Susan, I had to,” he added seeing the dubious expression on her face. “They’ll understand why you called me first. After all, I’m a personal friend of yours. But they would not understand if I didn’t call them as soon as I knew about the body. According to Jed, it’s pretty obvious there’s been a murder here.”

“I suppose.” Something rustled nearby, and Susan realized someone was moving around behind the door they were passing. “Shhh. We . . . we don’t want to wake anyone.”

“Susan . . .” Brett looked down at her and didn’t finish whatever he was planning to say. Instead, he balanced the coffee tray on one shoulder, reached out with his free hand, and opened the door to the room she and Jed were not going to get a chance to sleep in.

Jed was sitting in the wing chair, his head thrown back, eyes closed. He looked pale, exhausted—even old, Susan realized suddenly.

“Jed? Are you all right?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, smiling as he had smiled for over thirty years. “Fine. Just a bit worried about you. Where have you been?”

“I was getting coffee. Downstairs. Then I ran into Alvena Twigg, and we had this weird conversation—”

“Never tell that woman anything. Just about the time everyone else in town has forgotten whatever it is, Alvena Twigg hauls it out and you’re embarrassed all over again.”

Brett, Susan, and Jed turned and faced the uniformed officer standing in the open doorway.

“Son of a gun! Pete! I heard you’d come back to Connecticut!”

Brett and the officer greeted each other cordially. “Just started here a few weeks ago,” the handsome younger officer replied.

“Then this will be your first case?” Brett glanced over at the body on the bed.

“Not counting the kids who broke into the Episcopalian church to throw water balloons from the steeple, and a speeder or two.”

“How do you know about Alvena Twigg?” Susan asked.

“I grew up here and, more importantly, went to school here. Miss Twigg was the high school principal’s secretary. Everyone knew her.”

“She must have been a memorable person,” Susan said absently, looking over at Ashley’s body.

“Frankly, I’d forgotten all about her. It’s Miss Twigg who remembered me. And who decided to reminisce in front of a room full of men I’m supposed to be leading.”

“How embarrassing!” Susan exclaimed.

“That’s one word for it. But we’re not here to talk about me. Who found the body?”

“Perhaps I should introduce Peter Konowitz, Chief Konowitz of the Oxford Landing Police Department,” Brett said. “Peter used to work for us in Hancock, but I don’t remember if you’ve all met. This is Mr. and Mrs. Henshaw. Jed and Susan.”

“I thought I knew most of the men and women on the force,” Susan commented, squinting at him.

“I was only around for a summer, and I believe my tenure was during the time you were investigating a murder in Maine, Mrs. Henshaw,” Peter answered, walking over to the bed and staring down at the body. “You both found her?” He asked the question without turning around.

“I found her,” Jed spoke up.

“I was taking a bath at the time,” Susan explained.