An Anniversary to Die For (22 page)

“So you think your money can ruin me? That’s typical of a rich—” He paused. “A rich woman like you.”

Susan, who heard the word he didn’t say, jerked open the door and stamped out of the office. She couldn’t remember ever being so angry. She didn’t even acknowledge the officers still sitting around the reception area, but stormed out of the building, got into her Cherokee, and roared out of the parking lot, driving in a manner that would have gotten her a ticket if anyone had been paying attention.

Ten minutes later, calming down a bit, she drove off the road into the lot beside an attractive farm stand. Baskets of squash, tomatoes, corn on the cob, and beans gleamed next to large bouquets of zinnias and mums. Susan realized she was breathing heavily and grinding her teeth. She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Maybe a bit of shopping would help, she decided, spying bunches of gorgeous basil beside little yellow pattypan squash.

Fifteen minutes later she had filled the back area of her car with vegetables, herbs, and even a few jars of locally made blackberry jam. Then she checked the stored messages on her cell phone. There were three, all of them from Jinx.

Susan smiled. Jinx must have found something. Then her smile vanished. She just hoped it was something that would help rather than incriminate Signe. She dialed the number Jinx had left.

A few minutes later, she was off the phone and on her way to meet her friend at the Landing Inn.

TWENTY-FOUR

“MRS. HENSHAW? IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU, DEAR. BUT I don’t believe there are any
more
presents for you,” was Constance Twigg’s greeting.

“I’m here for lunch. I’m meeting someone,” Susan added lest the inn’s owners believe she just couldn’t stay away.

“Oh, well, I can recommend the green gazpacho and the avocado salad with grilled shrimp. Both are delicious.”

“Sounds good.” Susan started to go back to the restaurant, and then she stopped and turned around. “I was wondering . . .”

“Yes?”

“About the murder.”

“Perhaps this is not the place to speak of death. Would you like to come into my office?” Without waiting for a reply, Constance Twigg glided off. Susan felt she had no choice other than to follow. She hurried through the foyer, past the small room where guests were checked in and out, through a door marked Private, and into a lovely sun-filled parlor. She looked around eagerly. All the planning for her party had been done in the bar—not because she was interested in drinking, but because that’s where samples of food and decorations had been most readily available. The bar was small and dark and had been cozy in the winter months when she had done the planning.

Constance’s office, however, was made for summer. The wallpaper depicted white trellises covered with lush morning glories. Dense green carpet lay on the wide chestnut planks of the floor. Three complementary chintzes covered the upholstered couches and chairs, accented with elegant petit point pillows. A large fireplace surrounded by blue-and-white delft tiles dominated one wall, while bookshelves ran floor to ceiling directly across the room. Antique English brasses hung on the walls, gleaming with decades of hand polishing. Ruffles of white-dotted Swiss fabric framed the many-paned windows. The only discordant note was the state-of-the-art CD player atop a cherry desk. Constance pressed a button as she passed it by, and Bach filled the air.

“Please sit down.”

“I’d love to. What a wonderful room!”

“Thank you. Except for our bedrooms, this is the only part of the house that is truly private—and the only part I feel I can really call my own.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Susan said, noticing the singular pronoun. “Is it part of the original inn?”

Constance smiled. “No. I never admit this publicly, but the oldest parts of the inn are the most uncomfortable. This room was added right after World War Two. I’m told the tiles around the fireplace were brought back illegally from occupied Germany.”

“Really?” Susan moved to get a closer look. “They look as though they’ve been here forever.”

“That’s part of the art of owning an inn like this one. We—and some excellent local craftsmen—have worked very hard to make everything look as though it’s been around since 1779, when the original inn was built here.”

“How much is original?”

“About half of the main building and most of the foundation. Of course, much of the rest has been restored to resemble how the building looked immediately after the Revolutionary War.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job.”

Constance shrugged. “We usually tell guests that it’s a labor of love, but to be honest, it can be something of a bore. Around ten years ago I spent a week at an inn in Carmel, California. It was a brand-new building sitting right by the water. It had every bit as much charm as our place—more, in fact—but every time there’s a minor plumbing problem at that inn, the owners won’t be forced to spend a fortune cutting through lathe, plaster, and worm-eaten wood. I think of that inn every time a guest here blows a fuse or a pipe in the attic freezes.”

“Then you don’t get away much?”

“It’s difficult, but that isn’t what you wanted to speak with me about. I believe you said something about the murder.”

“Yes, of course. You see, I wasn’t questioned by the police.”

“I should consider that a sign of good luck on your part. Surely you don’t want to be questioned by the police? Or . . . ?” She stopped speaking and pursed her lips.

“Or what?”

Constance smiled slowly. “You must know what everyone says about you and murder.”

“I know that your sister believes murders happen when I’m around. She apparently thinks I cause them to happen.”

Constance waved a manicured hand in the air, apparently dismissing this thought. “My sister has these romantic fantasies. Perhaps I don’t listen to her as carefully as I ought. But I can assure you that I don’t believe Mrs. Marks was killed here because you were giving a party. I assume that a clever person saw an opportunity to kill Mrs. Marks while everyone was busy elsewhere and took advantage of it. The party could have been given by anyone, it seems to me.”

Susan smiled. “Yes, that’s what I think. But, to be honest, this is not what interests me right now. You see, the police—the local police—never interviewed me,” she explained again.

“And you think they should have done so?”

“Well, I found the body. That is, my husband and I did. And she was my next-door neighbor.”

“Of course. I had heard there was a close personal connection between the two families.”

“Well, there really isn’t. I mean, they moved in less than a year ago, and I’m afraid we . . . well, we weren’t close.” Why, she wondered, did she keep feeling as though she had done something wrong by admitting this?

“Oh, that’s too bad. I thought perhaps you might know something. There is something I’ve been wondering about.”

“Maybe I can help,” Susan offered eagerly.

“Why did he stay with her?”

“You want to know why Doug stayed with Ashley?”

“Yes. I mean, she was poisoning him.”

“That was never proven,” Susan pointed out, sitting back in the comfortable chair and getting ready for a nice long chat on the subject.

“Apparently the police botched the investigation.”

Susan was quick to defend Brett and his men. “I don’t think you can know that. According to my . . . my sources, the prosecutor went to court without preparing the case properly.”

“Court . . . I . . .” Susan was surprised by Constance’s laugh. “Oh, you’re talking about this last time. I’m talking about earlier. Back when the Markses were living on the family farm.”

“I don’t understand. I thought . . . of course, I don’t believe it for a moment, but I’d heard that Signe was supposed to have poisoned her mother.”

“Heavens, no. That girl was just a child. Everyone knew that the problem in that house was the mother. Everyone in town knew.”

“Really?” Susan leaned forward, hoping the other woman would continue.

But the movement apparently distracted Constance Twigg. She shook her head and laughed a bit self-consciously. “I’m sorry. It’s all gossip. Ancient gossip, if you will. I know you’ll excuse me for not passing it on.”

“Of course, but sometimes there’s a kernel of truth . . .”

“And sometimes not.” For Constance Twigg that apparently ended the subject. “But I brought you in here for a reason, Mrs. Henshaw.”

“What?”

“I really must ask you not to speak openly about your friend’s murder in the inn.”

“But—”

“Quite simply, it is not good for business. No one wants to sleep in a bed where a corpse has lain.” She grimaced and corrected herself. “No one normal wants to, anyway. You would be shocked by the perverted requests we have been subjected to in the last few days.”

Now that was something interesting! “Really?”

“Really.”

Damn, that seemed to close the subject for Constance Twigg. Susan had been hoping for some salacious details. “I’m sorry if we were overheard. I certainly didn’t mean to upset anyone. Ah . . . were you forced to throw away the mattress in our room?”

“No, we certainly were not. Ashley Marks was not the first person to die in this inn, and she won’t be the last. Our guests are given immaculate rooms, which they enjoy during their stay with us. They do not need to be given details of everything that happened in the room prior to their arrival. Don’t you agree?”

“I . . . I guess.” The truth was that she had never thought of this before. Had other people died in that room? That bed? And how had they died? But apparently she was not going to be allowed to ask any other questions. Constance Twigg stood up and turned off the CD player. “I am needed to greet guests this afternoon. My sister has chosen this inconvenient moment to take some time off. And you, of course, have your guest waiting in the restaurant, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. And we’ll be careful what we speak about.”

“I would appreciate that.”

Susan left the room, feeling that she had been dismissed. It was unfortunate that Alvena Twigg wasn’t available. Susan suspected she would have learned much more talking with her than with her sister.

Jinx was waiting in the restaurant. “I asked for a table separate from the other diners so we wouldn’t have to worry about being overheard,” she explained, stirring cream into her iced coffee. “I haven’t ordered yet, but I was out late last night, and frankly I need the caffeine.”

“But did you learn anything?” Susan got straight to the point.

“Besides the fact that the
Oxford Democrat
has one sexy editor?”

“Jinx! Is that why you’re sleepy today?”

“We were out late last night. We went to dinner and then just started talking and forgot the time.”

Susan grinned. “Sounds very romantic.”

“Not really. Well, not what I always think of as romantic. Not wine and candlelight. More tea and fortune cookies. We went to a Chinese restaurant.”

“Good food?”

“Only okay.”

“It was the company that made it special.”

“Yes, and that company is going to pick me up here in less than an hour, so we’d better get a move on if we want to talk privately.”

“Does this mean another dinner date?”

“This means that while Sam Redman is a sweetheart, his newspaper’s files are a mess. You would not believe the work it takes to find anything. I’m having a terrible time resisting trying to organize him.”

“Men don’t like that,” Susan said, picking up the menu.

A smile spread across Jinx’s face. “I know. So, what are you going to have to eat?”

“Green gazpacho and the avocado salad with grilled shrimp. I’m told it’s excellent.”

Jinx tossed aside the menu. “Then I’ll have the same. Where is the waiter?”

By the time the food had arrived, the two women had caught up on their personal lives and Jinx was ready to start reporting what she had learned. She started with Peter Konowitz because he was easy to talk about. “I learned next to nothing,” she said. “I mean, I know he was born in the area, went to school here, started in the local police department, traveled from department to department, and then returned to his old hometown as chief of police about three weeks ago. That’s his bio. That’s it. Sam says most of the crime around is petty and there isn’t a whole lot of police news.” She shrugged. “It sort of fills a column here and there between school events and the 4-H Club.”

“Oh.”

“But I’m in the middle of learning a whole lot about the Markses. And I think there’s some information about accusations of murder while they were living on what is always referred to as the family farm.”

Susan bit a shrimp off her fork and leaned forward. “Really?” she muttered, chewing.

“I don’t have all the details yet. I thought I could work forward from the beginning, but that doesn’t seem to be possible. Sam turned the sixties and seventies files over to a group of high school students who were doing a project on the history of team sports in the country. I don’t know how their research went, but they put nothing back where they found it. Sam promised to spend the morning trying to get things in order, but I don’t think organizational skills are his forte, frankly.”

Susan speared a tempting chunk of avocado and wondered how important organizational skills were to Jinx when she was considering a romantic entanglement. “So what have you learned?”

“Well, first the Markses—Doug’s parents—were very important people in this area. Their farm was huge and one of the largest growers of tobacco in the state. They also bred Jersey cows and were major milk producers. This, Sam pointed out, made them not only important people in the farming community, but important employers. Sam says that if Doug had stayed in the area, he would have been a very important man.”

“Really?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“Doug has never struck me that way. Of course, the more I learn about Doug, the more I realize I’ve never really known him at all.”