'Tis the Season to Be Murdered Read online

  Susan nodded. “I do, and you’re right. It must have been nice to have a neighbor like that.”

  “Wonderful. Even better than having a relative. Because Z didn’t really care all that much, so I didn’t feel obligated to pretend that nothing was wrong all the time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, as much as I liked the idea of having Jamie living nearby, I would always have had to be making sure that she wasn’t worried about me. So I couldn’t tell her about my various aches and pains and little worries because she would take it all so seriously. Every twinge of arthritis would become a malignant tumor; every time I forgot something, Alzheimer’s would be in the offing. So I would end up being quiet about things like that. But Z was superficial and uninvolved. If I told him about my aching hips, he’d just make a joke about my active sex life, or if I forgot something, he’d just say that lovely ladies like me should have people to take care of the small details for them. All of it was complete nonsense, of course, but it was nice.”

  When Susan didn’t answer, she continued. “I’m not such a fool as I look. I was a home economics teacher until I retired three years ago. I listened to teenage girls chatter while they learned to hem their skirts or roast a chicken for over thirty-five years. It’s not a vocation that’s likely to leave a person naive, and I certainly have heard more tales of self-deception about the opposite sex than most people. I knew what Z was, and I knew how to enjoy it.”

  “What about other women? Do you think he deceived them?”

  “Probably some were deceived, but they must have wanted to be.” She poured herself another cup of tea. “We’re not talking about a man who seduced young girls, you know. Z worked his charm on middle-aged and older women like you and me.”

  Susan got a small jolt of reality, but continued on. “Really? You’re sure about that?”

  “I certainly don’t know everything about his private life, but that’s what I observed. I was concerned at first about Jamie. Not that she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders, but she had just finished school and was living on her own for the first time. I didn’t want her to get involved with the wrong man. But Z left her alone. He didn’t even flirt with her the way he did with me. And then I noticed that the same thing was true with other young women that Jamie would bring over here. He was personable, but that’s all.”

  “I …” Susan wanted to ask a lot more questions, but neither woman could ignore the commotion coming from the hallway.

  Her hostess got up and started from the room. “I think I’d better go. That doesn’t sound like the police department, unless you believe this nonsense about them all being thugs.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  The sight that greeted them in the hall had nothing whatsoever to do with any images of police brutality. Jamie Potter was standing on the bottom step, arms stretched from wall to banister, blocking the path to the second floor. Directly in front of her stood two arguing women, whom Susan identified as Gillian Davies and Alexis Cutler. They both were elaborately garbed in the finest cold-weather running clothes. But she thought that their red faces were the result of extreme emotion rather than serious physical exertion.

  As Jamie loudly announced that she was not going to allow either of them to enter Z’s apartment, Alexis Cutler, the taller of the two, pushed by the young woman and dashed up the stairs, closely followed by Gillian Davies.

  “Let them go,” her aunt insisted.

  “But won’t the police be very upset that we allowed …”

  “What were we supposed to do? Attack them and tie them up?” her aunt answered logically. “We’ll just be sure that the police know they were there.”

  “And we can go up and see exactly what they’re doing,” Susan insisted, starting up the stairway. Fake evergreen roping had fallen off and was threatening to trip her. “Come with me, Jamie. We’ll be able to confirm each other’s story.” Susan was aware that the police were probably going to be told of her own admission to Z’s apartment, but she didn’t want to think about that now. There wouldn’t have been a problem if Brett had just asked for her help, she thought, entering Z’s apartment for the second time that day.

  Alexis Cutler was a tall shapely brunette, always dressed in predictable good taste. For exercise, she had chosen bright Lycra and microfiber outerware designed with the fashionable suburbanite in mind. Whether the designer had imagined that it would be worn while moving the contents of a man’s closet to the floor of his living room is unknown. Her cropped hair (off the shoulders to lift the face, as her hairdresser insisted) was bouncing up and down while she worked.

  Gillian Davies was English, with light brown hair and the type of pale skin that gave that country its reputation. She also wore running clothes, but with her own imprint. Susan had often envied Gillian, not only her taste, but her ability to wear fashions in which Susan would have felt silly. Today, Gillian wore running clothes with a Tyrolean air. Black leggings were topped with an embroidered red anorak that would look at home in the Alps over a white turtleneck. Her hair was twined into braids. Instead of scaling the Matterhorn, she was climbing on a very modern cherry stool and peering into the cabinet above the Sub-Zero.

  “Maybe,” Jamie began, arriving at Susan’s side, “maybe they’re taking part in some sort of unusual treasure hunt. I know games are being played at some of the parties The Holly and Ms. Ivy cater. They’re becoming fashionable.”

  “They should find a better place to play than in a murdered man’s apartment,” Susan said.

  Alexis backed out of the closet with a leather-brimmed hat falling off her head and a look of astonishment on her face. “What did you say?”

  “Who said anything about murder?” Gillian asked, spinning around so fast that she almost tipped over the stool she was standing on.

  Susan and Jamie exchanged a glance. “You didn’t know he was dead?” Susan asked slowly.

  “We heard he was dead,” Alexis said, a sad look on her face.

  “But we didn’t hear anything about murder,” Gillian added, then looked down on her friend. “At least, you didn’t tell me anything about murder.”

  “I didn’t know anything about murder. I just heard that he had been found dead at the carriage house,” Alexis insisted.

  “That must be where all the police cars were heading in such a hurry,” Gillian said thoughtfully. “I just assumed there had been a bad traffic accident.” She looked at Susan and Jamie. “Who murdered him?” she asked accusingly.

  “I don’t think anyone knows yet,” Susan answered.

  “Unless you want to confess?” Alexis said sarcastically to Gillian.

  Susan thought the question was rather mean. There was something about all this that seemed a little … well, a little contrived. “How did you find out that he was dead?” she asked.

  “Gillian and I were out jogging.”

  “We just started. This is our first morning. We’re trying to get rid of some of the fat that the holidays always bring. All those cholesterol-filled foods …” Gillian stopped speaking, perhaps remembering that the cholesterol-filled foods most recently imbibed had been prepared and served by the woman she was speaking to. “Anyway, we passed The Holly and Ms. Ivy, and Alexis thought …”

  “We both thought,” Alexis corrected her.

  “I guess so. We both thought that we should take the opportunity to check on the parties that we’re giving. So Alexis ran into the building, and someone told her that Z had been murdered.”

  “Was dead,” Alexis corrected quickly. “Just that he was dead, not how he died.”

  “And so you both decided to jog on over to his apartment to … To what?” Susan asked, looking around at the mess they had made in just a few minutes. Even the candles had been knocked out of the Mexican tree of lights.

  “That’s none of your business, Susan Henshaw,” Alexis said, kicking a running shoe back in the direction of the closet.

  “She’s right
,” Gillian said. “You weren’t with the police at the carriage house. You’re not helping investigate this murder. We don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “But I am. And I think someone had better tell me exactly what is going on here.”

  All four women in the room turned to find Brett Fortesque standing in the doorway. Directly behind him was Jamie’s aunt, an embroidered tea cozy in her hand.

  EIGHT

  “This is the most ridiculous thing ever.”

  “You know—”

  “I know that I’ve helped Brett in the past. I’ve even solved murders in other states. Why is he excluding me from this one? I even know the people involved in this. I knew the man who was killed, for heaven’s sake!” Susan flung herself back in the seat of Kathleen’s small car and smacked her head on the heavy cardboard box stowed away behind her. “I absolutely do not understand.”

  When Kathleen finally spoke, it was quietly. “You know, it just might be that your involvement with Z is the reason Brett thinks it might not be appropriate.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Susan tried not to shriek. “You’re on his side, aren’t you? I can’t believe it!”

  “There aren’t sides here.”

  “No, you’re wrong. There are sides here. Or groups rather: an ‘in group’ and an ‘out group.’ And I’m in the out group!” Susan bit her lips. She was uncomfortable sounding like a petulant teenager and was glad that neither of her children was witnessing her tantrum.

  Kathleen was quiet for a few moments before speaking again. “Susan—”

  “Don’t try to defend Brett.”

  “Susan, you haven’t let me finish a sentence, how can I defend him?”

  “I—”

  “No, now listen to me. Brett is right. You’re too involved in this case. Brett’s protecting you by keeping you away from this. You have to believe me.”

  Susan was silent. If Kathleen thought she was buying that, then she was living proof that eggnog caused brain damage.

  “You understand, don’t you?” Kathleen asked again.

  “Of course,” Susan lied. There had been a murder and someone was trying to keep her out of the investigation. And she certainly wasn’t going to let that happen. It might be a few days early for New Year’s resolutions, but this was number one.

  “Susan …” Kathleen’s voice rose in an unspoken question.

  “I’ll stay out of it,” Susan lied. “Not because I was involved with Z in any way, but because …” She thought quickly and came up with an answer. “Because Chrissy is home, and I haven’t seen her in so long. It’s best that I spend time with her.”

  “You know, you’re right about that. I know when Bananas leaves for college, I’ll be thrilled with his visits.”

  Kathleen babbled on, and Susan wondered where her friend’s mind had been for the past few years. Teenagers didn’t come home to see their parents; they came home so that someone would clean and cook for them while they visited their friends.

  “And I really have to pick him up,” Kathleen ended.

  “I’ve got a lot to do at home. I still have some cleaning to do from yesterday. It wouldn’t pay to get behind before the party on Saturday night.”

  “True.” Kathleen agreed, turning her car into Susan’s driveway.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” Susan said, hopping out of the car into a snow drift that was forming down the center of her sidewalk.

  “Call you later.”

  Susan got the feeling that Kathleen was in as much of a hurry to part as she was. Probably heading back to Brett, she decided, unlocking her front door and ignoring the two dried roses that fell to the ground as she pushed her packages ahead of her into the hallway.

  “Anybody home?”

  She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t get one. But she heard scratching sounds, indicating Clue was trying to escape from the kitchen. Susan tossed her packages on the hall chair and hurried to the back of the house, hoping to release the dog before it was necessary to replace the door. She opened the kitchen door and crunched across the quarry-tile floor.

  “What the …?” Visions of broken glass ornaments filled her mind before she realized that Clue had gotten hold of a pinecone wreath that had been in the middle of her kitchen table, with a chunky beeswax candle at its center. “I should have learned my lesson when you stole that pound of butter last week,” Susan said, frowning. She still got slightly nauseous thinking about the pound of butter, wrappers and all, that Clue had consumed when her back was turned—that reminded her. “Do you need to go outside?” she asked her dog, opening the back door. The animal flew out into the recently fenced backyard, and Susan turned to pick up the glass on the floor, flicking on her electric kettle along the way. She could use a cup of tea. The phone answering machine was flashing, and she pressed a button and listened to the tape.

  As usual, most of the messages were for her children. After leaving notes for Chad to call six of his friends and for Chrissy to remember a party that evening, she sat back and considered her messages. Two friends had called with the news of Z’s death; one had called to announce that she had heard from her cleaning woman that both Z Holly and Gwen Ivy had been murdered, and was Susan going to give her party Saturday night because, if she wasn’t, they would have to go to her husband’s mother’s house, and she couldn’t bear to start 1995 with her in-laws; and the mayor’s wife had called and asked Susan to call her immediately. She had left her private, unlisted number. Susan raised her eyebrows and dialed.

  “Camilla Logan here.”

  “Oh, hello. This is Susan Henshaw,” Susan sputtered, slightly surprised by the abrupt announcement on the other end of the line.

  “Mrs. Henshaw. How nice of you to call,” Camilla Logan trilled.

  Susan was even more stunned. Camilla always acted as though Susan was a dust mote in the air around her, something to be ignored or even brushed away. “Well, I got your message on my machine.” Maybe it had been a mistake? Perhaps Camilla had dialed a wrong number?

  “And you answered so promptly. I can’t tell you how I appreciate that during this holiday season when some of us are so busy.”

  Susan wondered exactly why she got the impression that Camilla pictured her lying around and eating bonbons while the rest of the population baked, bought presents, wrapped, decorated the house …

  “We just returned home from Aspen, and you know how exhausting unpacking can be,” the mayor’s wife continued.

  “Ah, yes.” Susan wondered if it would be rude to ask Camilla why she’d called.

  “I was hoping, Susan, that you would be able to come to my dinner party tonight.”

  “I …”

  “I know what late notice this is, and I’m so sorry that I can’t ask Jed to accompany you, but maybe you’ll just let me explain the situation.…”

  “Of course.”

  “I have planned this dinner for months. In fact, it’s going to be one of the social events of the season. And then, this morning, I arrived home to find out that one of my guests has the flu. Her husband is just fine, and he’s going to come, but … Well, I hate to sit down to an uneven table. I know that’s old-fashioned of me, but that’s just how it is. And, when I was wondering who else to ask, your name just popped into my head.”

  “I …”

  “It’s a wonderful group of people. My very best friends are in town. I know you’d love everybody. You may actually know some of them. And The Holly and Ms. Ivy are catering, so you know the food will be wonderful. I’d be so delighted if you’d say that you’ll come. Please do.”

  Susan got the impression that Camilla didn’t expect to be turned down. And, in fact, Susan was happy to accept. She was more than a little curious about the Logans’ friends as well as whether or not The Holly and Ms. Ivy were going to be able to continue as usual. And she knew that Jed wouldn’t mind staying home. He hated stuffy dinner parties. Besides, there were plenty of leftovers to feed the troops at home,
and she liked the idea of being a guest instead of a hostess for a while. “I’d love to come.”

  “Wonderful! Drinks at seven. We’re a pretty casual group. I’m wearing a long velvet skirt and a wonderful silk shirt that I bought out west.”

  Susan thought of casual as jeans, but she was willing to adapt to the customs of the upper crust. “I’ll see you at seven then,” she said, getting ready to hang up.

  “Yes, or perhaps a little later,” Camilla suggested in what Susan assumed she thought was a tactful manner.

  Susan was aware of the fact that her social skills were being questioned. “Of course, see you then.” She would have changed her mind if she hadn’t been so curious about this dinner. Hancock, like many towns, had its own social strata: churches, schools, neighborhoods, even parents with children who play hockey, soccer, or baseball had their own groups. But the most politically involved people in all the groups funneled into Camilla Logan’s social circle.

  Susan thought about the Logans on the way to her bedroom closet to find something casual as well as chic. She didn’t know either of them well. Their only child, a daughter, had graduated in Chrissy’s class, so of course, she’d seen them both over the years at school events. Camilla was what she herself referred to as “old Hancock,” having been born and raised here. For most of the town’s residents, commuters to the city, that meant nothing. But enough people appeared to care to make Camilla queen of the town’s society (which consisted mainly of the Field Club, the Junior League, and the committee that ran Hancock’s yearly hospital benefit ball). A born committee woman, Camilla ran all of these things efficiently. Her husband had been Hancock’s mayor ever since Susan could remember.

  Susan stood in front of her closet as though expecting to discover a smashing new outfit that she had forgotten about. The black skirt with the lamé vest needed to go to the cleaners; the green velvet slacks were too tight; she’d worn the chenille top yesterday; her new crushed velvet was for New Year’s; and she couldn’t even begin to imagine why she had allowed the saleswoman at Bergdorf’s to talk her into buying red leggings. If only she had something new … What an idiot! Susan headed down to the living room and the goodies under the Christmas tree.