The Fortieth Birthday Body Page 12

  “… and if Mrs. Henshaw tells me about any problems, I will send the people involved to the principal’s office the moment we return to school. She’s going to be taking down names. Understand?”

  The children obviously did, even her son, who (having begged her to be the class mother who went on this trip with them) was glaring at her. She’d better not write down the names of his friends, he seemed to be thinking. Susan considered putting his name down on the paper the teacher had handed her and discarded the idea.

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine now,” she assured the teacher, not believing a word she was saying.

  “Of course they will be,” Mrs. Lambert replied, equally doubtful.

  Susan smiled at Connie Lambert in a manner she hoped was more confident than she felt and, as the bus hit another spine-shattering bump, the teacher bounced back to her seat. Susan started to say something to Chad, but he was huddled in the corner with another boy and studiously avoiding her eye. She gave up and shuffled through the pamphlets from the aquarium, considering her situation. Three weeks ago, when asked to chaperone the fifth grade on their class trip to the New York Aquarium, she had agreed (after the aforementioned pleading on the part of her son who was now wishing she was dead), even thinking that it might be a lot of fun. She’d been on this bus for almost an hour now and the fun was elusive, to say the least.

  Yesterday, she’d almost called and excused herself, but she had decided the trip might be a needed distraction. Well, she thought, as the bus was passed by a very large, very loud truck, she hadn’t thought about Dawn in at least ten minutes and that must be a record for the past four days.

  Another loud blast sounded from behind the bus and she cringed. What was going on? Why was every truck on the road honking at a school bus full of children? She turned around in time to see a full dozen little boys motioning at every trucker on the road to yank their horn cords. She leapt from her seat.

  By the time she had gotten the message that distracting the drivers of large trucks could be dangerous through to the boys, they were entering the parking lot of the aquarium.

  “Now, no one is to move until the bus has come to a full stop and the doors are open. Everyone is to stay with his or her partner. Leave your lunches on your seats and we will collect them at noon and bring them to you. John, put down Kathy’s backpack, and listen to me. We will be going first to the …”

  Susan stopped listening. As the children filed off the bus, even the ones who had just moments before been complaining of motion sickness returned to their favorite preadolescent activity of flirting, pinching, and teasing between the sexes. Susan smiled at the group and wondered what Kathleen was doing.

  II

  “You know you’re not with the department anymore, Mrs. Gordon, and Detective Sardini certainly doesn’t have to share this information with you.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Gordon is aware of that fact, Mitchell,” the detective himself spoke, turning from his filing cabinets. “And she probably also knows that we wouldn’t have agreed to meet with her unless we were planning to let her into our investigation—somewhat,” he qualified his statement.

  “I don’t suppose it will help if I tell you that I believe that neither Jed nor Susan Henshaw had anything to do with the murder,” Kathleen said.

  “It would help if you’d tell me what they’re hiding from us,” was Sardini’s immediate response.

  Kathleen took it without blinking. “They’ve made their statements. If you think they’re lying, why haven’t you questioned them again?”

  “I have to put up with Mitchell; please don’t add to it by acting dumb.”

  Mitchell started to speak but Kathleen preempted him. “I’ve told my friends to be completely honest with the police.”

  Sardini looked at her solemnly. “Let’s hope they listen,” was all he said.

  “You have the autopsy report,” Kathleen changed the subject, looking pointedly at the pile of papers on his desk.

  “Feel free.” Sardini pushed the report toward her.

  Kathleen took it without a word.

  “I can give you all the vital information in a few words,” Mitchell offered. “She was shot through the temple. The bullet entered through the left lobe and exited on the opposite side of the head. She was right- handed and so someone else must have fired the shot. Death was instantaneous. No bullet was found.”

  Kathleen nodded and read the three-page form that she had been handed. “I see there’s no definite ID on the weapon.”

  “No, the gun was held to the head, as you can see by the report on the bruising and tearing of the tissue around the entry point. That’s common in head wounds because the bone supports the skin against the weapon. But the bone was shattered at both entry and exit points so we can’t be sure of exact calibre. It was definitely a handgun—probably a thirty-eight.”

  “She was killed the day before Susan’s party.”

  “Within twenty-four hours of the party probably. Rigor mortis was just beginning to wear off. All the joints had been forcibly flexed. That was necessary to get the body into the seat of a car, of course. But it’s likely that it was done to transport her between wherever she was killed and the car.”

  “The forensic experts list all the various fibers and dirt found on the body and clothing,” Kathleen said, falling back into the impersonal manner of referring to corpses that she had learned during her career.

  “And the interesting thing is that sand and small bits of seaweed and driftwood were found on her clothing and skin and hair on the left side of the body. She may have been killed at the beach or in someone’s beach house because she certainly had contact with that environment at some point before or after her death,” Detective Sardini pointed out.

  “You’ve found nothing like bits of fiber from rugs in the Henshaws’ or anything else that would connect the inside of their home with the body?”

  “Nothing. But just because there’s no evidence that she was killed in their house doesn’t mean that they didn’t take part in the murder. She was definitely found in their garage,” he reminded her.

  “I …” Mitchell started.

  “We’d like some coffee, Mitchell,” his superior interrupted. “And some danish from the bakery in town,” he added, as the man headed for the coffeepot on a counter in the corner of the room. “You wouldn’t mind driving over and getting us a selection, would you?”

  “You don’t think I’d be more valuable here?”

  Kathleen was almost sorry for him, but she was glad he was going.

  And going he was. “We’d really like that danish,” Sardini insisted, ignoring him before he was out the door.

  “What he was probably going to tell you is that we also took samples from the hotel suite in the city where she has been staying and we think it’s unlikely that she was killed there. There were fibers from a synthetic rug in her hair—it’s possible that she was pulled across a rug, most likely after she was dead, and they don’t match anything we’ve found. They’re not the same as the rug in the Henshaws’ new car either. Of course, we really don’t know where to look. We don’t have a picture of where she was the last few days of her life. Not yet.”

  “No evidence of sexual activity in the few days before her death,” Kathleen commented.

  “None. Sounds like that was unusual in her life,” he added, after a pause.

  “Really?” Her voice was noncommittal.

  “You’re wasting my time.” The statement was abrupt and his voice more cold than angry.

  “Look, I’m not investigating this case because it’s my job. I’m doing it because my friends are involved, are suspected of murder.”

  “And you’re convinced they didn’t have anything to do with the murder?” The question was asked calmly.

  “Of course.”

  “Because you know them well enough to know that neither of them would ever murder anyone? Even considering the things you saw during your years as a police off
icer?”

  “Unlikely people have committed crimes. I know that. Even horrible crimes,” Kathleen agreed quietly. “But not the Henshaws. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

  “You left the force. It’s not your reputation that we’re dealing with here,” Sardini reminded her. “And, if you’re so convinced of their innocence, why aren’t you willing to help us get at the truth? If they’re innocent, it couldn’t hurt them, could it?”

  “In an investigation a lot of things are turned up, not all of them having a direct bearing on the murder. And some of those things can hurt other people,” Kathleen answered.

  “Okay, I understand. And I don’t suppose you’ll break any confidences,” Sardini said, picking up an elastic band on his desk and wrapping it around a pencil aimlessly before continuing. “You’ve reminded your friends that they shouldn’t lie to the police. And you don’t know me very well, but I can give you my word that all I want is the truth and that I will spare anyone any pain that I can if only they will help me find that truth. But …” He broke his pencil as if to emphasize his point. “But I will find it!”

  “I’m sure it’s not just the Henshaws that you’re interested in,” she reminded him.

  “Certainly not. And I don’t think that the Henshaws are the only members of this illustrious community that are lying—or might be lying,” he corrected himself quickly.

  Kathleen put down the autopsy report that she was still holding in her hand. “I know most of the guests at the party. I haven’t lived in Hancock very long, but I was accepted quickly because my husband has lived here for years, and because Susan Henshaw and I are friends. This is a very nice community, Detective Sardini. A little conservative, a little, well, a little WASP, a little closed to outsiders sometimes, but a nice place to live. The people here aren’t used to crimes like this. Oh, the men and some of the women commute to the city and they have contact with people who’ve been mugged or run into that type of violent crime themselves, but not here in Hancock. In Hancock, the biggest problem is theft: burglaries and, rarely, robberies. Last year there were two murders in Hancock, but they involved a small group of women and a relatively closed situation. You know enough about Dawn Elliot now to know that she was intimately involved in the lives of more than a few couples in this town. Her murder has dredged up feelings that a lot of people are having a hard time dealing with, but only one person murdered her …”

  “Probably,” he interrupted to suggest.

  “Okay, but no matter how many people were involved in killing Dawn, more than one person is very upset about it,” Kathleen finished.

  Sardini shrugged. “So you’re saying that—”

  “That this isn’t an easy murder to investigate, and one it would be easy to jump to conclusions about.”

  “And that’s what you think I’m doing in the case of your friends? Well, I’m not. If I thought they were guilty, I’d have them in here right now instead of spending the time with you. I think they’re lying to me about something and I know that the more lies told the harder it’s going to be to get at the truth. I know the people here are upset and I know that you’re in a unique position: You belong to this world and you belong to my world. And I have no reason to believe that your husband has ever been involved with Dawn Elliot, and that’s not something I can say about many men in his group. You have access to information that I don’t have. You don’t want to violate the confidences of your friends. That’s fine. You keep whatever information you have to yourself. But if you have more information than I do, then you damn well better find out who our killer is!” He slammed his hand on the desk and looked up angrily as the office door opened.

  “They had danish in the reception area,” Mitchell explained his quick return.

  “And it took you that long to find the way to the reception center in the same building we’re in?” his superior replied angrily, seeming to forget that the point of the errand had been to keep this man out of the way as long as possible.

  “I have a lunch appointment,” Kathleen said, rising from her chair. “I really don’t need anything to eat and I should be going or I’ll be late. Thank you for showing me the report,” she added.

  “Fine.” Sardini waved his hand, dismissing her from the room and, seemingly, his mind.

  Kathleen smiled her good-bye to Mitchell. As she stopped just inside the door to put on her down coat, she was aware of just how uncomfortable this interview had made her: The man was furious at her and she really couldn’t blame him one bit.

  III

  “I adore sushi, don’t you?” Kathleen said, following the Japanese waiter to their table.

  “I think I’ll have something cooked,” Martha Hallard replied.

  “You don’t like … ?”

  “Never eat it. I was at an ob/gyn convention in San Francisco about ten years ago, before raw fish became popular, and spent an evening in a Japanese restaurant listening to a doctor who had lived in Japan talk about people getting worms from eating raw fish and meat. Great big long worms that filled their intestines and all sorts of horrible things. Of course sushi wasn’t around much then, but I still never touch the stuff.”

  “But, Martha, didn’t Susan tell me that the first sushi she ever ate was at your house? Thank you,” she added to the waiter who pulled out her chair.

  “Thanks,” Martha acknowledged the same service. “It may have been. That was years and years ago and the caterer assured me it was the latest thing, so I served it.” She shrugged. “But I don’t eat it.”

  “Well.” Kathleen paused a moment to think about a hostess who would expose her guests to risks that she was unwilling to take.

  “I don’t smoke either, but I do put out cigarettes at my parties,” Martha said, reading her thoughts. “Besides,” she continued, “now that sushi’s so popular, I don’t serve it anymore.” She picked up her menu and studied it.

  Kathleen did the same. She was glad for the time to think. She had been to one of Martha’s parties and had been highly impressed, knowing the kind of dedication that it took to put on such an affair. And speaking of affairs … now that she had gotten Martha to agree to meet for lunch, how was she going to bring up tactfully Dan’s affair with Dawn? It really was much easier to be a policewoman; then everyone expected you to be blunt.

  “Would you like a drink from the bar?” A young Japanese woman wearing a kimono appeared at their table.

  “No, just some hot tea for me,” Martha replied.

  “The same for me,” Kathleen agreed, the vision she’d been having of a cold Kirin beer with sushi vanishing. “And could we order now?”

  The waitress agreed, and they placed their orders quickly and watched her rush off to the kitchen. Kathleen considered how to begin. “I didn’t know you traveled to conventions with Dan,” she started, thinking that at least they were talking about him and their relationship.

  “No.” Martha poured out the tea that had been placed before them immediately. “I find it hard to run a business and travel around the country at the same time. When we were first married, I did go with him more. I didn’t have the agency then, of course. And he traveled less. That was before he was in a partnership and had other doctors to take care of his patients while he was out of town. And the kids were little then. It was great to hire a sitter to stay with them and get away. But now the two older kids are living away from home and Charlie’s in school all day and I have a full-time job running the real estate office; I just don’t have the time for it.

  “And, frankly, I don’t love a convention atmosphere: people getting together for drinks and dinner in mediocre restaurants or, even worse, the official banquets with speakers or awards given out. You cannot imagine how boring most doctors are when it comes to giving speeches. Of course, I never attended the meetings where the doctors give their papers. I’d probably have died of boredom.”

  Kathleen was sipping tea and thinking that she should ask after the older Hallard children. She didn’t
know very much about them. The son was in medical school somewhere in the Caribbean, she knew, and she seemed to remember that the daughter had announced her engagement at Christmas. “How are plans for the wedding going?”

  “What wedding? Oh, I know what you’re talking about,” Martha said, seeing the look on Kathleen’s face. “It’s just that I’m not giving the wedding. My perfect Phi Beta Kappa daughter, my full scholarship to Yale for graduate work daughter, has decided that she is going to give the wedding herself. ‘Just something small in the park,’ she says. If she’s so smart, how come she doesn’t know that type of thing’s been out of style since the sixties? I could kill her! Do you know that when she was born—that very day—I thought about the kind of wedding I would give her: outside on a warm spring day with daffodils in the flower beds and the magnolia trees blooming. We could have forced pots of lily of the valley for the tables. And used miniature narcissi to decorate the cake. In fact, one of the reasons we bought the house we did was because it has a perfect backyard for entertaining. And I planted those magnolia trees the week we moved in. Today they’re just the right size. But she’s going to get married in some park in New Haven with rusting beer cans on the ground and used condoms in the bushes! Disgusting!”

  The arrival of their food stopped the tirade and gave Kathleen an opportunity to figure out how to turn the conversation around. She needn’t have worried.

  “You’re interested in Dan’s affair with Dawn, aren’t you?” Martha asked, her mouth full of steaming noodles.

  Now as much as Kathleen enjoyed sushi and, in fact, most oriental food, she had never developed much skill with chopsticks. Her takamaki dropped into her lap. She ignored it. “You’re right. I’m worried about Susan or Jed being accused of killing Dawn. I’m not accusing anyone else. I just want all the information I can get in case either of them is arrested. You understand.”