A Star-Spangled Murder

  A STAR-SPANGLED MURDER

  A Susan Henshaw Mystery

  Valerie Wolzien

  © Valerie Wolzien 1993

  Valerie Wolzien has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1993 by Ballantine Books.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  ONE

  At four p.m. on July first, Susan Henshaw drove across the bridge to the island.

  The trip to Maine had been typical of a holiday weekend. It started with the gentle crawl of early morning traffic as the sun rose on Connecticut; resisted any impulse to speed in front of the watchful Massachusetts State Police; became impatient at long lines snaking through the New Hampshire toll booth; felt a slight relief as fellow travelers detoured at the outlets in Kittery; ignored the urge to check out L.L. Bean in Freeport; marveled at the beauty of the Maine Turnpike; and then followed gigantic trucks pulling even larger sailboats down the two-lane roads leading to the sea.

  Susan and Kathleen had chatted throughout the drive. They had discussed their children. (Chad and Chrissy Henshaw, sixteen and eighteen respectively, were busy with their own projects—too busy, they had insisted, for a family trip. And Alexander Brandon Colin Gordon, who was two and a half years old and known as Bananas, was spending some quality time with his maternal grandmother.) They had discussed their husbands. (Jed Henshaw and Jerry Gordon worked at the same advertising agency and were currently involved in a project that was preventing them from vacationing with their wives.) They had talked about diets, childbirth, the possibility of future face-lifts, politics, careers versus children, careers and children, the PTA, going to law school (Kathleen), going to a fat farm (Susan), sex, sleeping late, redecorating, cooking with tofu, menopause, and two or three dozen other topics for the eight hours they had been on the road. But much of the day had been peppered with Susan’s memories of summers spent on an island off the coast of Maine.

  From her first visit to her aunt’s summer home when she was seven to her honeymoon with Jed, from Chrissy’s premature birth in the living room of the island’s then only doctor right up to Chad’s accident last summer that required a doctor at the new island medical center to take ten stitches in his scalp, Kathleen had heard tales of Susan’s summer vacations.

  And Kathleen had been a wonderful audience for Susan’s stories. But now she was tired, a little lonely for her son and her husband, and in need of a bathroom for more important things than washing off the day’s accumulated filth.

  “We’re almost there. The road is just around the next curve,” Susan announced, switching on the turn signal. She was tired and looked every one of her forty-three years. “Then just a mile and a half of dirt lane before we get to the house. I can’t wait!”

  “Me neither,” Kathleen, a striking blonde about ten years younger than her friend, agreed honestly. “You said the water would be turned on, didn’t you?”

  “And the heat—in case we need it at night. The man who took care of Aunt Raney’s house moved into a nursing home last winter, but he found and trained his own replacement before he left. So everything will be all right. The people on the island are very reliable.”

  “Watch …” Kathleen began as Susan swung her automobile around a large pile of rocks.

  “It’s fine,” Susan said, glad that Kathleen’s opportunities for backseat driving were soon to end. “I’m used to it. That pile has been there for years, just getting bigger and bigger. Jed plans on building a wall around the garden, and he keeps collecting boulders from the beach and the sandbar. Chad’s collecting now, too, so the pile’s really growing quickly. They draw up elaborate plans every summer, but no one seems too anxious to actually start building.… Damn!”

  The car skidded a few feet and then stopped, its front bumper smacking into the long metal chain draped between two tall white pines. “Are you okay?” Susan checked with her passenger.

  “Fine.” Kathleen peered out the windshield. “Why is that thing across the road?”

  “I don’t know,” Susan answered slowly. “It isn’t supposed to be there.” She opened the door and got out of the car. Kathleen followed suit. “Our house is the only one on this road, so unless we’re here, the barrier is up. My aunt rented out the house for half of every summer, but we haven’t ever done that.” She paused to examine the metal links dangling in front of the car. “It’s probably just the new caretaker—I can’t remember his name. Maybe he didn’t know that we expect the chain to be removed before we get here.…”

  “Where’s the key?” Kathleen asked as Susan left her thought unfinished.

  “Key?”

  “There’s a padlock on this end,” Kathleen elaborated. “It seems to lock the chain to the metal eye embedded in the tree. There must be a key. There’s no way we could pull this thing out of the wood.” She examined the large, rusty eye more closely.

  “Not a chance,” Susan agreed. “Aunt Raney had that put in while workmen were still roofing the house. The tree’s been growing around it for almost half a century. That’s permanent!”

  Kathleen glanced up at the spindly old tree and wondered about the durability of this particular Henshaw tradition, but she wasn’t about to say anything. She had more urgent problems. “You have the key, don’t you?”

  “No,” Susan answered slowly. “It’s in the other car. You see, we usually come up as a family and—”

  There was a time for family tales and a time for trips to the bathroom. “So how are we going to get through?” Kathleen asked impatiently.

  “There’s a key at the house. It’s not far. We’ll just walk down and get it. Then you can look around, and I’ll head back here and retrieve the car.”

  Kathleen hurriedly followed Susan around the barrier and they set off. They couldn’t see any buildings. The one-lane dirt road ran through thick forest. Spruce, balsam, birch, and poplar rose in the air around them, competing for sunlight. The ground was covered with moss and ferns, and here and there pink granite pushed through the lush growth.

  “You’re pretty isolated up here, aren’t you?” Kathleen commented when they had hiked for a few minutes.

  “Not really. It’s just that no one else uses this road. We have neighbors on either side of us—and, of course, across the cove. The coast of Maine is pretty developed—in a nice way.”

  They had arrived at a large field filled with white blossoms and patches of tall purple lupine. “We’re almost there. You can see the house down by the water. That’s the boathouse.” Susan had described the area more than once during the trip, and Kathleen wasn’t surprised by the charm of the four-bedroom shingled cottage that Susan had inherited from her aunt.

  “What’s wrong?” Kathleen asked as Susan stopped suddenly.

  “The shutters aren’t off the windows.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s not easy from here. Only the side of the building that faces the water is shuttered all winter, but they swing around that far corner.” Susan pointed. “They’re usually down before Memorial Day.”

  “Well, you usually get up here earlier in the year. And with a new caretaker and all …”

  “Hmmm. The markers for the driveway haven’t been pul
led up either,” Susan said. “But the grass has been mowed and the paths raked. You’re probably right. The new man just doesn’t know the routine yet. Why don’t I run ahead and get the key? It’s hanging right inside the door, and then I can go back and get the car while you look around. Maybe you could put on some water and we can have a cup of tea?” They walked between tall white lupine and up the porch to the back door of the cottage.

  “Great.”

  Susan unlocked the door and grabbed for a bunch of keys on a nearby hook. “I’ll hurry back. Look around. The bedrooms are upstairs; the kitchen is down the hall.”

  “Susan, it’s wonderful!” Kathleen stepped into the house and admired the bright rag rugs laid on the pegged pine floor. Checked cotton curtains hung at the many windows, and white walls and simple pine furniture completed the pleasant picture. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get that tea you mentioned.” Right after I find the bathroom, she added to herself as the door closed behind her friend.

  When Susan reentered the house fifteen minutes later, there was a pot of tea brewing on the large trunk that served as a coffee table in the middle of the old-fashioned living room. Kathleen had returned to the kitchen, searching for glasses to go with the bottle of wine she had unearthed in an antique pine chest.

  “You didn’t start to empty the car by yourself, did you? There’s no reason. You must be exhausted after all that driving. Why don’t we have a cup of tea or some wine before we start? This is a vacation, after all, and … Susan? Are you listening?”

  “No.” She absently sipped the mug of Earl Grey tea that Kathleen had handed her. “I couldn’t drive the car here. Someone changed the lock. The key doesn’t fit.”

  “Maybe the new caretaker?”

  “Of course. Something must have happened to the old lock and he changed it—and probably no one told him where we hang the key.”

  “Too bad we can’t find this man.”

  “But we can. I’ll call Jed at his office and he’ll have the phone number. Jed’ll be waiting for me to call anyway. I told him that I would as soon as we arrived. Don’t worry. We’ll be settled in before you know it. The phone’s in the kitchen.”

  She hurried off, and Kathleen picked up one of the heavy wool blankets that covered the furniture in the living room, revealing a comfortable Lawson chair underneath. She folded the blanket, tossing it onto another piece of furniture. Apparently the new caretaker hadn’t done much inside the house either. She glanced at the windows that lined one side of the room; wide boards eliminated the view that she had seen earlier when …

  Kathleen hopped up and headed back to the upstairs bathroom.

  Five minutes later, the two women met again in the living room, puzzled expressions on both their faces. Susan spoke first.

  “Jed says he talked with the new man last week and that Burt—Burt Jamison is his name, I should have remembered—assured Jed that the shutters had been taken down and the house was set up for the summer.” She looked around the room, beginning to feel angry. After all, what did Burt Jamison think they were paying him to do? “Including taking the covers off the furniture and ha—”

  “Hanging the pictures.” Kathleen finished Susan’s sentence.

  “Yes.” Susan was puzzled until, looking around, she realized that the walls were covered with unadorned hooks.

  “I love that watercolor you have in the bathroom upstairs,” Kathleen said.

  Susan, a surprised expression on her face, reached out for the cooling tea. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Jed bought it just last summer. The artist lives on the island and …” She put down her mug and stared at her friend.

  Kathleen nodded. “Everything is set up on the second floor. The pictures are hanging on the walls, the shutters are down, and the sun is streaming in the windows. Even the beds are made up with fresh white cotton sheets.”

  Susan wasn’t waiting to hear more. She was on her feet and running up the stairs. Kathleen joined her a few minutes later in the middle of the central hallway, where they could peer through open doorways into all four bedrooms, the bathroom, a large linen closet, and a door to stairs leading up to the attic.

  “Come on,” Susan urged, choosing the stairs.

  Kathleen followed until she was standing upright in a large, rectangular room with windows looking out in all four directions. She started to examine the views, but Susan had other plans. “Look at this!” she insisted, waving her arms around the room.

  Kathleen glanced about and saw nothing unusual. Old chests stood against one wall, drawers tightly closed. Boxes were piled against walls. Three steamer trunks stood upright, and unusual U-shaped clips hung from one wall, awaiting an unknown burden. A neat pile of army blankets sat under a window, and there was a large stack of painted plywood in one corner. “Everything looks fine to me,” Kathleen said, shrugging. “In fact, it’s the cleanest attic I’ve ever been in.”

  “It’s all wrong. Like those blankets. They’re used to wrap up the pictures. Then the wrapped pictures are placed in one of the trunks—in case mice find a way into the house during the winter.”

  “There are pictures on the walls on the second floor,” Kathleen reminded her.

  “Yes. But what about the first floor? And look at the shutters.” She pointed to the lumber that Kathleen hadn’t identified. “Why are the second-floor shutters down and put away up here, and the first-floor left up?”

  “Maybe the new caretaker didn’t understand what he was supposed to do.”

  “I don’t think so. We hired him to set up, and Burt told Jed that everything was done. I can understand that he wouldn’t know that we pull out the markers for the snowplows in the summer, but no one would open half a house. Damn! Just what I need to do—find a new caretaker.” She ran both hands through her long, light brown hair.

  “So what next?” Kathleen asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Let’s open that bottle of wine you found.” Susan started down the stairs, Kathleen close behind. It had been a long day; she was tired and confused. And that was before they found the dead man.

  TWO

  Kathleen poured Pinot Noir into two green-stemmed goblets while Susan dialed the phone number of the new caretaker. She passed Susan a glass, and they toasted each other and their vacation as the phone rang.

  “Hi. This is Susan Henshaw and I’d like to speak to Mr. Jamison, please. Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Not until after the Fourth? Well, is there any way I can reach him? … No, it’s not an emergency. I just had some questions, but really, they can wait.… Of course, everything looks wonderful here, and I wanted to let your husband know how much I appreciate his work,” she lied. “Thanks, I’ll call after the holiday. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice weekend. Of course.” She smiled at the receiver and hung up.

  “ ‘Of course’?”

  “I agreed that we would probably meet each other at the parade on July Fourth—or the dinner on the town pier,” Susan explained.

  “And will we?” Kathleen asked.

  “Probably. The entire island goes both places. Summer people and the islanders.”

  “But I gather Burt Jamison won’t be there.”

  “No. He left this morning to take some people rafting up in Canada. He apparently works part time as a wilderness guide. That was his wife. She said that he can’t be reached even in an emergency. Apparently the group he goes with flies into remote areas of Canada and then immediately starts downriver. They’re picked up a couple of weeks later at the end of their journey.”

  “So we’ll open the house ourselves.”

  “I guess so. Since the shutters are off the second floor, it won’t be difficult to finish the job. But I vote we go out to dinner first and maybe stop and do some grocery shopping on the way home. There’s not much in the house.”

  “I found two more bottles of wine and a box of tea bags, but not enough for a meal. And I’m starving.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” Susan said. “But I’d
like to wash my face and hands first. Why don’t you go upstairs and pick out your bedroom? Jed and I share the room at the front of the house—the one with the green and white quilt on the bed. Take any of the others.”

  “I already know which room I want,” Kathleen insisted, starting up the stairs. “What usually hangs on all these?” she asked, pointing toward the thirty or forty assorted picture hooks, nails, and tiny screws scattered on the walls lining the stairwell.

  “Photographs. They’re probably still up in the attic. They’re interesting—it’s sort of a history of the house. There’s even a picture of it being built, and supposedly one of each person who ever slept in the house, but they’re mostly family photos.” She reached out and touched a brass nail. “And they’re practically the only thing left in the house that belonged to my aunt.”

  “You’ve changed a lot?”

  “Yes. The rest of the family inherited everything of worth—there were some wonderful old oil paintings and a few antiques. Aunt Raney thought it was only fair that my cousins should get them as the house and land were coming to me. What was left in the house was pretty ugly, and Jed and I replaced as much as we could as quickly as possible. The first year, we bought new mattresses and sprayed the furniture with white enamel. For the past ten years, we’ve been replacing everything else as we could afford to. We started out shopping at flea markets, auctions, and garage sales. Recently we’ve been buying things in antique shops and art galleries. There’s a hodgepodge here, but almost everything comes from Maine.”

  They were on the second floor, and Susan headed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned to find Kathleen standing in the smallest of the three unclaimed rooms.

  Susan beamed her approval. “My favorite! This is the room where I used to sleep when I was little. I helped my aunt piece that quilt,” she added, pointing to the bed. Then her attention wandered to the window.

  “What are you looking at?” Kathleen asked.