An Anniversary to Die For (18 page)

The next morning, Jinx was on the phone before Susan had finished her first cup of coffee.

“Sam and I are going to be busy all day,” Jinx announced after a quick greeting. “I’m off to the newspaper office now, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll give you a call as soon as we find anything more.”

“Great. What did you come up with yesterday?”

“Just the ordinary press-release stuff, but Sam’s really a good investigative reporter, so . . . Oh, Lord, he’s knocking on the door and I haven’t even got my mascara on. Gotta run.”

A loud click told Susan that she had been abandoned. Oh well, she had things to do too.

Susan’s mother and Mrs. Sweeney would have been proud of how promptly she was getting to work on her thank-you notes, she decided about an hour later, backing out of the driveway. Her husband had taken the early train to the city. Chad and Clue had gone for a long run—apparently this Kelly lived on the other side of town. Stephen had driven the mastiffs to Long Island Sound, hoping, he said, a swim would be as good as a bath. Chrissy was sleeping in. Susan smiled. Pregnant women needed extra sleep. Her daughter hadn’t said anything yet, but Susan had begun counting the months. An April baby would be nice, she thought, parking in the lot behind the Hancock Post Office. As usual, there was a line inside; she walked to the end of it, hitched the heavy box of envelopes up in her arms, and leaned against a wall, prepared to wait.

“Susan! I was just thinking about you!” The professionally streaked hairdo Susan had been admiring turned around; it belonged to Martha Hallard.

“Martha! I was just admiring your new hair color!”

The women hugged as much as they were able, each holding a large box at the same time.

“What’s that?”

“Thank-you notes. What are you mailing?”

“You know those wonderful spice blends for seafood that they sell at the market here? I can’t get them in Arizona. I’m stocking up! Next I’m heading to that tea shop on Main Street. Their chamomile mint tea is one of the things I miss most about Hancock—that and our wonderful old neighbors like you and Jed.”

“Believe me, you can’t possibly miss us as much as we miss you!”

“Oh, Susan, I told Dan we should have held out for a different buyer! But the Markses paid cash, and Dan was anxious to move before winter set in and he couldn’t get his damned daily golf game!”

“Didn’t Dan tell me that you were going to take up the game once you got to Arizona?”

“He may have told you that. He may even have believed it. But I had no intention of following a little ball around a golf course in a tiny cart. You know that’s not my idea of fun.”

“So what are you doing in your retirement?” Martha had been one of Hancock’s most successful realtors.

“Having a ball. I’m docent at the local botanical garden two days a week. I’m taking weaving classes from a woman who was taught to weave by her Navaho grandmother. I belong to two reading groups at the library. I teach Sunday school at our church. And I’m collecting antiques to furnish our home. I want everything to be southwestern, but special.”

“Sounds like a wonderful life.”

“It is. And it’s been a lot of work, but I’ve taken the time to keep up with the trial and all.”

“That’s right. Dan said you get the local paper sent to you there. Martha, what do you think of it all?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you’d have the scoop on the Markses. After all, you live right next door.”

“They never really mixed with the rest of the neighborhood,” Susan started to explain. “Ow!” She spun around to see what—or who—had run into her spine. A tall young man dressed all in black and sporting tattoos where his clothing failed to cover him looked embarrassed.

“Sorry, lady. Didn’t mean to hurt you. But I’m in a bit of a hurry. The line’s moving, and you two aren’t.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen each other in so long. We were catching up.”

“Why don’t you come to the tea shop with me? We can walk. It’s only a few blocks away. We can have a snack and talk,” Martha suggested, hurrying toward a suddenly free postal clerk.

“Great.” Susan moved up to the counter as the next clerk became free. “One hundred first-class stamps.”

“We only have the pasted variety,” the young woman behind the counter stated flatly.

“Fine with me. I’ll just wash down the taste of the paste with iced tea.”

“This place is sensational!” Susan said, looking around. The tearoom was lined with dark linenfold walnut paneling, but every flat surface—counters as well as tables—was covered with polished copper. Copper urns boiled water, and copper knobs made it possible to get into the many drawers of tea. The effect was rich and comforting.

“You’ve never been here before?” Martha sounded amazed.

“You know me. I’m a coffee drinker. Although this iced herb tea just might change my mind. What’s in it again?”

“Ginger, hibiscus, and orange peel, but we’re not here to talk about the tea. I’m dying to know more about the Markses.”

“I was hoping you could tell me about them. Like where did they get all the money they needed to pay cash for your house? Eight-fifty was the asking price, right?”

“Yes. And they paid it. Said the house was exactly what they were looking for and they had the money and wanted a quick closing. Suited Dan just fine. I wasn’t quite so happy. I’d have liked to spend more time sorting and packing. I can’t tell you how many boxes of junk went to Arizona from Hancock and then just had to be thrown away there.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“What? The junk? I suppose years and years of living—”

“Not the things you took to Arizona. The Markses’ money! Where did they get all that cash?”

“I understand they owned a farm somewhere upstate which they had sold to a developer. It must have been a large farm. I got the impression that money wasn’t going to be a problem for the rest of their lives—or the lives of their children, for that matter.”

“Well, that’s not good news,” Susan said, thinking of Signe.

“I don’t agree. Now that that awful woman is dead, Doug has the time and money to find someone else and live a nice life.”

“Wow! You really didn’t like her.”

“Couldn’t stand her. I remember the first time we met. She and Doug came to an open house that we gave the weekend the house was put on the market. There were lots of people milling around, but she made a definite impression on me. She hardly looked at the house. Actually, I was a bit surprised when they made an appointment to come back. They struck me as the type of people who would look at a lot of houses, wasting a realtor’s valuable time, and then vanish into the world of ‘we’re not ready to buy just yet.’ ”

“How can you tell?”

“In the first place, most of those people are incredibly critical, stupidly so. They make appointments to see a perfectly restored Victorian and then they wander from room to room comparing it—unfavorably—to a custom-built contemporary. Most serious buyers only look at homes they would consider buying. Of course, there are buyers who don’t know what they want—modern, colonial, whatever—but those types tend to be exceptionally uncritical. They love the old-fashioned fireplaces in the colonial homes and the open plans of the contemporary. They talk about what they would do if they lived in a Queen Anne Victorian with lots of stairs or how they can understand the reason most fifties ranches have almost nonexistent dining rooms upstairs and huge rec rooms in the basement. They’re my favorite kinds of shoppers. The ones who are smart know what they can afford and how many beds and baths they need. And many times they stumble right into the perfect fit without worrying about the style of architecture.”

“But the Markses weren’t like that.”

“No. I don’t have any idea how they ended up in Hancock, but—”

Susan leaned forward. “Really?”

“Really what?”

“What you just said. Why did they come to Hancock anyway?” Susan asked, wondering if Martha knew about Signe’s earlier explanation. “We have great schools, but the Markses were well past worrying about that. I love Hancock, but our taxes are high and the homes expensive. And I don’t believe they had any friends in the area. At least they never mentioned any to me, and I don’t remember meeting anyone who knew them before they arrived.”

“They didn’t know a soul. I’m sure of that. I remember Doug said that it was a fresh start for them. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with Ashley at that point, but I could already believe they needed one.”

Susan nodded. “She really had the most amazing ability to alienate people.”

“Amazing is the right word. The first time I met her I wanted to kill her.”

“What happened?”

“I was sitting at my kitchen table during the open house. It’s strange selling your own home after decades of giving sellers advice on how to move theirs. I really felt I had to do it right. Of course the place was clean and had fresh flowers and green plants everywhere. And I turned on every light in the place. Then I did what I tell clients to do: I stayed out of the way but was available to answer questions. So I sat in the kitchen with tea, fresh home-baked cookies, and the information sheets on the house on the table.”

“You baked?”

“Yes. I convinced the owners of the specialty shop that used to be out on the highway to sell me the dough. I sliced it, put the cookies on the baking sheets, and had warm—if rather lopsided—gingerbread ready before the first looker entered the house. I always tell owners that the smell of home cooking can sell a home.”

Susan, whose favorite gingerbread recipe contained fresh, candied, and ground ginger, reminded herself that she wasn’t here to argue with anyone else’s idea of home cooking. “And that’s where you were when you met Ashley?”

“Yes. She came into the room, followed by her husband as always, looked around, and did a pretty good imitation of Bette Davis. You know, her ‘what a dump’ scene in
All
about Eve
?”

“She called your kitchen a dump?” Susan was indignant. “I always loved your kitchen. That wonderful seating area in the bay window. That old Wedgewood stove . . . Oh, she probably didn’t appreciate the stove.”

“Or the old pine cabinets or the hand-painted mural on the walls around the soapstone sink, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. By the time she got through looking around and making loud comments about everything she despised, I was ready to kill her. She was quite literally driving away potential buyers.”

“Do you think it was deliberate on her part? That she had decided she wanted the house and was hoping no one else would bid for it?”

Martha frowned. “I don’t think so. Although I did consider that possibility at the time. But then her husband came by with an offer for the asking price . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Susan asked when her friend didn’t finish her sentence.

“You know, that may have been exactly what she was doing.”

“But you just said—”

“I just said that Doug made the official bid on the house. But her name wasn’t on the bid. It’s just possible that Doug was making the first independent move of his life when he bought our house.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look, Susan, I didn’t say anything to anyone at the time. I mean, I mentioned it to Dan when we saw the first stories about Ashley’s arrest in the
Herald
, but he said— and I agreed with him—that Doug was just making one of those comments that husbands make all the time, and that it didn’t mean anything significant.”

“What did he say?”

“He said his wife was going to kill him for buying a house in the suburbs.”

TWENTY

“AND THEN, OF COURSE, SOMEONE TRIED TO DO JUST THAT.”

Martha nodded. “I assumed she was guilty, and I assumed she would be found guilty. Reading the stories in the
Herald
. . . Well, I never thought she’d go free.”

“Which is why you didn’t tell anyone about what Doug had said to you.”

“Exactly. It seemed unnecessary. And Dan’s right. Husbands say that very thing about their wives all the time.”

“True, but . . .”

“But most husbands don’t have to worry about their wives actually doing it, and it’s just possible Doug did. I’ve thought about that.”

“Did he sound . . . I don’t know . . . more serious than Jed might sound making the same comment?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t think there was anything unusual about it at the time—except that it seemed to be so unlike Ashley to allow Doug the freedom to make such a decision on his own. Heavens, I sold homes for almost thirty years. There was only one other time that I know of that a married man bought a house without his wife’s approval. And that marriage lasted only a few years. Buying a home is something a couple does together. Period.”

“If Doug bought the house and Ashley hated it, it would explain a lot of things,” Susan mused.

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, like the fact that Ashley changed everything she possibly could.” She looked up and watched the expression on her friend’s face change—for the worse. “Oh, Martha . . .”

“Susan, Dan and I had a good life in that house. We raised three great kids there, and we made the right decision when we decided to move to Tucson last year. I’m being foolish and sentimental when I start thinking that it should have been left the way it was. Hell, over the years we obliterated every trace of the Coles as well.”

“Who were the Coles?”

“The people we bought the house from. They built that house.”

“I hate to make you feel worse, but Ashley not only remodeled and redecorated but she made everything ugly and depressing.”

“What did she do? Paint all the walls black?”

“No, but everything she did was overdone—you know the type of thing—each window was draped in at least two layers of fabric; the walls were papered, stenciled, gilded, with borders and fancy doodads. Her color scheme was black, ochre, purple, and gilt.”

“Sounds hideous.”

“It is. And expensive. She had people in doing faux finishes for months. And you know how, when you go to a lighting supply store, you wonder who buys all those ugly fixtures?”