All Hallows Evil Page 7

  “Hey! Are you all right?” a tall scarecrow called from the street.

  “She’s fine. She’s getting up,” his female companion assured him. “Don’t embarrass her. People her age don’t like to have attention drawn to their frailties. There was an article about it in People magazine.”

  They were joined by a noisy group of friends, and Susan was spared further pearls of wisdom from the celebrity press. She picked a dead leaf off her sleeve and grabbed the overnight case she had dropped as she fell. Her car keys she had, from habit, stuffed in the pocket of the suede jacket she wore. She would wait to get home before reporting the loss of her purse, she decided, hurrying to her Maserati. She was nervous, not knowing who might be lurking in the dusk, and she drove quickly—only to find a half-dozen cars blocking the entrance to her driveway. One was a police car, one belonged to Kathleen, and one was Rebecca’s; the others she didn’t recognize.

  A hoard of tiny preadolescent Mutant Ninja Turtles stood expectantly by her open front door. A strange man was dropping miniature candy bars into their goody bags. This surprised Susan, but not as much as when that same man refused her entrance.

  “But this is my house! I live here!” Susan protested repeatedly.

  “So why don’t you have identification?” he asked, barring her from her own hallway. “You drove here, didn’t you? Do you always drive without your license?”

  “I told you … Look, who do you think I am?” Susan asked, trying to make him see reason.

  “I don’t know who you are—and that’s why you’re not getting in. Go home, get some ID, and then we’ll talk.”

  Susan had an idea. “Look, my purse was stolen. That’s why I don’t have my license. I was going to report it to the police. A man ran up behind me and …” She stopped, surprised by the grin on his face.

  “Nice try. But, if any of that is true, you’re going to have to take yourself down to the police station and make that report. I have other things to do.” He nodded at the group of costumed children marching up the path. “I’m pretty busy here.”

  “You don’t understand! I’m Susan Henshaw. This is my house. I bought those Reese’s peanut butter cups that you’re giving out.”

  “So why can’t you prove it?”

  “Ask somebody! Ask anybody!” Susan was getting desperate. It had been a long day and promised to be a longer evening. “Ask those kids! They know me. That tall girl in the …” She tried to figure out exactly what the costume was supposed to represent; it consisted mostly of lacy underwear worn over ripped black leotards through which a lot of skin covered with goose bumps was shining. “You know me, don’t you, Hazel?” she asked.

  “Sure I do” came the obliging reply as the girl tripped down the steps.

  “You reporters will stop at nothing to get a story, will you?” He watched the children walk back down the street. “Corrupting young children. It’s terrible.”

  “Corrupting young children!” Susan screeched. The young innocents were almost naked from behind. “What do you mean? Who do you think I am? Do I actually look like a reporter?”

  He peered at her. “Not really. You do look more like a housewife, to be honest.”

  Susan gave up. She had better things to do than hang around and be insulted. Besides, it was her house, and she knew where the outside stairs to the basement were located. She hurried back toward the street, making a detour as she got to the high privet hedge Jed had cultivated for years. She inched along behind it until she arrived at the side of the house. From here it was a straight line to the basement door. She stopped to look in the living room window.

  Rebecca Armstrong was perched in the middle of the largest couch, her feet on the antique sleigh Susan used for a coffee table. She was surrounded by men, apparently all trying to help relieve her grief. Surprisingly, Charles Grace leaned over the couch, a solemn look on his face and a box of Kleenex in his hands. Rebecca was flanked by two young men whom Susan didn’t recognize. One held her hand, and the other had just offered his immaculate linen handkerchief to the cause. Jed stood at the rear of the room holding a crystal snifter and a bottle of Napoleon brandy. He looked embarrassed.

  As well he should be, Susan thought, leaning closer to listen through the glass. Rebecca was telling the story of how she and Jason had met.

  “… And he ignored me. I can’t tell you how long it had been since someone ignored me in a situation like that. After all, the only reason I go on these publicity tours is to meet people, and the only people who come to the events come to meet me—it’s definitely not for the ambience! This thing took place in the studio of a thirty-year-old television station in Utah—high school locker rooms have more ambience—and smell better!

  “You’d be amazed how many people think it’s bad luck to marry someone with your own last name. Hundreds of people took the time to write and warn us of some sort of upcoming doom when the story of our engagement came out. But Jason and I aren’t superstitious—that is, we weren’t.…”

  Fresh handkerchiefs appeared in response to her renewed crying. Jed poured the brandy and then drank it himself. Susan crept on around the side of the house; she had read the story in TV Guide.

  “I don’t blame you at all. In your position, I’d probably end up doing this myself.”

  Susan almost screamed as Amy Ellsworth appeared at her side.

  “Calm down! They’re going to hear us. And how are you going to explain sneaking around in the dark, looking in the windows of your own house?”

  Susan found her voiced. “Amy! What are you doing here?”

  “Shhh!” She pulled Susan away from the window. “Susan, listen to me! I may have mentioned that I know the wife of the president of the news division at Rebecca’s network”—only about a dozen times that Susan personally knew of—“and I think you would be wise to leave everything in their hands. They’re professionals, after all.…” She took a deep breath and grasped Susan’s hands, digging her long scarlet nails into the sensitive flesh. “Susan, your hands,” she cried, noticing the raw flesh in the light from the window.

  “I’m okay. I just tripped over a flowerpot and fell. It’s nothing,” Susan said quickly, pulling free. “And Rebecca is in a terrible situation. She knows no one in town,”—Susan remembered that Amy had been at the party, but she chose to go on—“and she has no one to depend on in a crisis. Jed is merely doing what he can to comfort her,” she insisted. “I’m sure I don’t have to worry about … about anything.”

  “For someone who’s all alone in the world, those network people sure appeared fast enough.” Amy’s smile was smug.

  “ ‘Network people?’ ”

  “The two men who were sitting with her on the couch, and a couple of others. I think one is handing out candy at the front door, as a matter of fact.”

  “How do you know where they’re from?” Susan asked, wondering why it was so difficult to get information from her.

  “That’s the way they introduced themselves,” Amy insisted. “I came over earlier to help out, and that’s what they told me when I answered the door. Jed was busy in the kitchen. And Rebecca had insisted on some privacy—upstairs—and the bell rang. I thought a good neighbor would help out, and, anyway, I assumed it was more trick or treaters.…”

  “But it was these men,” Susan prompted, knowing that Amy could get sidetracked more easily than most people.

  “Yes.”

  “They just rang the bell, and when you opened it, they announced that they were from …”

  “From the network is how they put it—as though there was just one.” Amy nodded enthusiastically. “I thought it was a little strange myself. Of course, they did tell me their names, but I was so nervous—with Rebecca Armstrong being here and all—that I’m afraid I forgot them right away.”

  “And what did Rebecca do when she saw them?”

  “She was obviously relieved. She looked as though a tremendous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.”


  “Really?” Susan remembered how anxious Rebecca had been to keep the news of her husband’s death from her colleagues. Things weren’t making sense. “Did she say anything?”

  “Well, of course, she ran over to them and started talking immediately, but we—Jed and I—thought that we should leave them alone, and the doorbell was ringing again.…”

  Susan thought she could guess exactly who had insisted that Rebecca have some privacy. “I really have to go now, Amy. I have some things to do immediately,” she lied, hurrying off to the basement door. If Amy thought it was an unusual way to enter the house, and she probably did, Susan didn’t give her a chance to talk about it.

  In a few minutes, Susan had climbed the stairs and entered her kitchen. She found Kathleen Gordon there, pouring Jamaican Blue into the electric bean grinder.

  “I hope you’re making a full pot. I’m exhausted,” she said, more relieved than surprised by her friend’s presence.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “The basement. I was banned from my own house by a strange man at the front door,” she added, and went on to explain what had been happening since she last saw her friend.

  “You’ve had a busy afternoon, haven’t you?” Kathleen said when Susan was finished, pouring her a cup of coffee. “I can answer some of your questions, though. For instance, I know why those men are here. They’re here to make sure no one says or does anything they’re not supposed to.”

  “What? I thought they were from the network: producers or cameramen.…”

  “They are from the network, but they’re not producers—they’re the first line of defense.”

  Susan gave Kathleen a puzzled look.

  Kathleen explained. “Look, I’ve only had a bit of experience with this type of thing, but when I was working in the city, I was assigned to a few cases that involved large corporations. No matter what the case was—murder, suicide, embezzlement, organized crime, whatever—the first response to any crisis was that the public relations department formed a wall around the people involved.”

  “A wall?”

  “First they show up and offer to help. Then you can’t find the people you want to speak with. They don’t even answer their own phones—all calls are channeled through the public relations department. And the PR department is full of people trained to say nothing in two thousand words or more. There’s a lot of senseless activity, there are articles printed in the friendly press, but nothing new is learned. Nothing.”

  “I don’t think it will be like that this time,” Susan said, arranging sugar and cream next to cups and saucers on a large mahogany tray. “After all, both Rebecca and her husband worked in news—they’re always talking about it on the air. Surely news professionals won’t be that bad. After all, they’re always trying to find out the truth about people.”

  “So who sent out the two men in your hall? They’re not reporters,” Kathleen reminded her as the smell of fresh coffee began to overpower the remains of the chili.

  Susan just sighed. “What I’m really wondering is how they knew about the murders.”

  “Rebecca didn’t call them?”

  “I don’t think so. She told me she didn’t want anyone in New York to know about Jason’s death.…”

  “She couldn’t have thought she was going to keep it a secret.”

  “I know. But she was upset. I don’t think she was thinking clearly.”

  “Well, she can’t be blamed for that—they’ve only been married for a few months, and there was no reason to expect that he would die.…”

  “Why don’t you even consider the possibility that she killed him?” Susan protested. “In any other case you would. The wife is usually the first suspect.”

  Kathleen was silent for a moment, pouring coffee into the ceramic pot that Susan offered her. “I’m not sure you’re right about that,” she said slowly.

  “Think about it,” Susan urged. “Think about those tell-all books by family members of stars. Obviously being a celebrity doesn’t necessarily mean exposing your true self.”

  “Brett doesn’t think she’s the murderer.”

  “That’s right! I forgot that I saw his car in the driveway. Where … ?”

  “He got a call a few minutes ago and had to leave. He was probably going out the front door when you were coming in the basement. I was making coffee for him, actually.”

  “Kathleen …”

  “It was interesting to see him again,” she continued without waiting for Susan to go on. “It will be interesting to have him living here in Hancock.”

  Now what did that mean? Susan didn’t have time to inquire; Jed hurried into the room.

  “I—good, coffee,” he approved after getting over his surprise at seeing his wife. “Rebecca was just saying that she would have some coffee.”

  “I’ll …”

  “She likes it with cream and sugar—two teaspoons,” he interrupted his wife. “We should probably offer some to those men, too,” he added vaguely.

  “I have everything here.” Susan pointed to the heavy tray. “Why don’t you take it on out? But don’t give any to that man answering the front door!”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “He wouldn’t let me in the house! You wouldn’t believe …”

  “I would,” Jed disagreed, taking the tray from her. “The stories that the press make up—the lies—just to get close to celebrities—Rebecca has been telling us all about that. I think they’re probably right to be cautious. Not that they should have kept you from your own house,” he added, seeing the look on her face. “I know you’re having a rotten day, Sue. Maybe you’d like a drink or—or something.”

  “What I would like is to sip some cold wine while sitting in a warm bubble bath, but it looks like that moment is still hours away. Maybe I should pull some croissants from the freezer or something.…”

  “Why don’t you let me do it,” Kathleen suggested. “I think you’d better tell someone official about how you were mugged at the …”

  “What?” Jed put down the tray so hard that two of the cups lost their handles. “Why didn’t you tell me about that? Were you hurt?”

  “I’ll take the coffee out,” Kathleen said to the embracing couple. They didn’t bother to respond.

  “I probably should report this to the police,” Susan said, after she had told her story and Jed had exclaimed over her skinned hands and knees.

  “Definitely. It’s hard to believe that it’s just a coincidence that you’re mugged on the Armstrongs’ front porch on the same day that Jason is murdered there. Although I’ve never believed that old saying about the guilty man returning to the scene of the crime … still, it could have been the murderer who grabbed your purse.”

  “But why? My purse didn’t have anything to do with the Armstrongs.”

  “Let’s think a second. You said you were hit from behind. I don’t suppose the man could have thought you were Rebecca.…”

  “Thank you for not comparing her hair, hips, and everything else with mine. And the answer is that it certainly wasn’t that dark—and there was the porch light as well. It comes on automatically when someone approaches. Besides, the man could probably see more than my back.” She explained about the mirrored doors.

  “But you really couldn’t see his face.”

  “No, he was wearing a large mask. Or she, if it comes to that. Although it was pretty tall for a woman.”

  “But …”

  “But it could have been,” she agreed with what she didn’t give him a chance to say. “Why don’t you get back to our guests, and I’ll call the police.”

  “I …”

  “I’ll be out in just a moment.” She picked up the phone. “Really.”

  “I’d feel a lot better if you’d put some first-aid cream on your hands.” Jed was hesitant to leave.

  “I will. There’s some in the drawer here. I’ll be right out,” she said as he left the room.

  Brett, found quickly a
t the nearby police station, was gratifyingly concerned that she had been mugged, interested that it had happened on the Armstrong porch, and incensed that she had not been allowed to enter her own home. Susan found herself explaining that none of it mattered, that she was all right, really. She hung up, smiling and thinking that he was going to do just fine as the chief of a small-town police department. She was staring into the bottom shelf of her freezer, wondering which of four rectangular packages contained croissants, when Charles Grace entered the room.

  “Can I get you something?” Susan asked when he didn’t say anything or even acknowledge her presence.

  “I was looking for a private phone.” He didn’t waste any energy smiling. “But there seem to be people in every room of your house.”

  “You mustn’t think it’s usually like this …” Susan began before she could stop herself. She hated being made to feel that she was doing something wrong when, in this case at least, she certainly wasn’t. She considered the phones in the rooms upstairs and then dismissed them. Rebecca was using the guest room, and her own bedroom wasn’t much cleaner than she expected her children’s were. “There’s an extension in the laundry room in the cellar,” she offered. “It’s right down those stairs. If you wait a minute, I’ll show you the way.”

  “I’ll find it myself.” He opened the door she had indicated.

  Susan shrugged and returned to her puzzle. The first box was certainly too heavy for pastry.

  The librarian’s call must have been short; he returned to the kitchen while she was rewrapping a large chunk of uncleaned squid, clams, and blood worms that her son and husband had bought when preparing for a deep-sea fishing expedition that bad weather had canceled. Susan went ahead with her job, finding and putting the croissants in the oven, before turning and again offering to help.