Susan didn’t know what Chrissy’s gown was like, but someone in Italy sure knew how to pick out a nice strong box. When they arrived at the bottom of the stairway, she counted two smashed corners and another broken nail as the only damage done by the trip. Just a couple dozen more yards to go to the door. She tugged at her burden and …
“Hey, Mrs. Henshaw, you shouldn’t be doing that. You’re too old … I mean, you don’t want to damage your back before Chrissy’s wedding tomorrow, do you?” Two large hands grabbed at one corner of the box.
Susan, wondering how long she could live without her heart beating, spun around to look at the speaker. “Wha … ? Oh, Tom, it’s … uh, it’s nice to see you!” Tom Davidson, ace reporter (well, only reporter) for the local cable television station was at her side. She realized she sounded rather overenthusiastic, but she was relieved to find him standing behind her rather than someone more threatening—like a member of the Hancock police department.
“Let me help you carry this thing,” he offered.
“Oh … well, thank you.” Why look a gift horse in the mouth?
“Do you think this will fit in your Jeep? What’s in it anyway?” the young man asked, resting the package up on one shoulder and pushing his permanently unruly hair back with the other hand.
“I don’t …”
“Know, huh?” he finished her statement incorrectly. “I suppose people don’t necessarily tell the mother of the bride what they’re sending as a wedding gift, do they?”
Susan stared at the large box. “No, they definitely do not.” She was more than a little relieved by his incorrect assumption. “And you’re right. This isn’t going to fit in my car. I was going to put it in one of Erika’s vans—then it would be out of the way and someone could drive it over to my house late this evening …”
“No need. I’d be happy to drop it off.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think it will fit in your VW Bug,” Susan said, remembering the beat-up little car Tom was so proud of.
“Oh, I traded that in a few months ago. There just wasn’t enough room for my equipment. I’ve got a new van—you’ll see. It’s parked right out front. This thing will fit like a charm. And I can drive it over to your house right after I get done at the church.”
“Are you talking about my church? What are you doing there?”
“Making a video and doing still photos for Erika Eden. She’s hired me to tape the decorations that she and Chrissy designed. Then she’ll be able to use it for publicity and advertising. And the photos are for a book she’s writing.”
“I didn’t know you did that.”
“I’m trying to broaden my base. The networks don’t seem to be clamoring for my services, so I’m branching out. Maybe I’ll go into advertising … or something.” He ended less positively than he had begun.
“I thought you loved the news business,” Susan said, trying to hold up her end of the box and, perhaps, distract his attention from its contents.
“Yeah, well, it’s not all that it was cracked up to be in the textbooks. I went to college thinking I would become the next Edward R. Murrow and then found out that everyone was interested in stories that last only a couple of minutes. It’s discouraging.”
Susan certainly agreed, but this was not the time for a serious discussion. On the other hand, it was a pretty good time for a monologue—something she had noticed most men were good at when they were asked the right question. “What do you think about the blurring of news and gossip?”
“A disgrace. A threat to democracy. And you know what this is going to mean in the long run …” He was off and running.
Susan was pleased. All that was necessary was for her to mutter an “uh-huh” or two when he paused for breath and nod indignantly as they pulled the box down the stairs and out to Tom’s new van.
“Well, here we are!” Tom interrupted himself to wave toward a navy VW van parked right in front of the Yacht Club.
“Oh, I didn’t know they were making these things anymore,” Susan commented, wondering if her back was going to survive lifting the box into the rear of the van.
“It’s only new to me. It’s an eighty-seven. Not bad, huh?”
“It’s nice,” Susan said, peering through the window into the back of the dented and rusting VW bus. She noticed some Grateful Dead stickers on the rear windshield and wondered briefly if there were any VW vans in America without at least a few similar decorations. Maybe they were installed at the factory? But she had a more immediate concern. “Do you think there’s room for her … for the box back there?”
“No problem. I’ll just shove a bunch of stuff around—it will be fine. You think it’s fragile, don’t you?”
“I think we should assume it is,” Susan said carefully.
“Yeah, could be a piece of sculpture—Chrissy would like an interesting gift like that. On the other hand, maybe it’s a really ugly lamp. She’d hate that, and she’s such a sweet girl that she might feel she has to use it. Hey, maybe we should take a peek and if it’s something awful, break it so she has an excuse …”
“No! Don’t do that!” Susan realized she was shouting.
“Hey, don’t panic. I was just kidding! I … I wouldn’t do anything to upset Chrissy.”
“Good. So let’s just get this thing in your van and forget about it until … until after the wedding. There’ll be lots of time to open wedding presents later.”
“What if the person who sent the gift is at the reception?”
Susan wondered if he was some sort of obsessive-compulsive personality. “So what if he—or she—is?”
“My mother was a big believer in thanking people immediately,” Tom explained, almost apologetic.
“Weddings are a little different from birthdays or Christmas,” Susan explained patiently. “The bride has a year to write her thank-yous—according to most etiquette books,” she added, wondering if she had gone crazy—here she was loading an unidentified, and murdered, body into the van of someone she barely knew while discussing the finer points of wedding etiquette. “I really have to get going,” she added. “My mother-in-law is meeting me at a restaurant downtown.”
“Oh, hey, I didn’t understand. I … well, I know how important that relationship can be, Mrs. Henshaw. Why don’t you just leave this thing to me? I can take care of it.”
“I’m sure you can. But I think I’d better be able to tell Chrissy that I … that I saw it safely in place,” she finished weakly.
“Okay. Fine by me, Mrs. Henshaw.” And so saying, Tom Davidson slid the box into the spot he had cleared in the back of his van and slammed the door shut. “I’ll drop it off at your house this evening, okay?”
“What?” Susan asked, confused by his reference to “it.”
“The present, of course.” He looked at her curiously. “What else would I be talking about?”
“Sorry,” Susan muttered. “I was thinking about something else. Sure. Drop it off whenever you get a chance, but … but put it in the garage.”
“The garage?”
“Yes, otherwise someone might open it by mistake.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Henshaw. Whatever you say.”
Susan would have felt less certain of his acquiescence if she had seen the unhappy expression on Tom Davidson’s face.
NINE
Susan drove up and down the block where the tearoom was located five times before realizing that Tea for Two had become Smoke ’Em Here. Wondering precisely what the patrons were being encouraged to smoke, she found a parking spot, hopped out of her car and hurried through the green enameled door, trying to think up an explanation for her lateness that her mother-in-law would accept.
If she could find her mother-in-law.
Her first instinct, upon entering the room, was to dash back into the street screaming, “Fire!” as loudly as she could. But the young woman who appeared through the smoke seemed rather too calm for the building to be ablaze.
“Would you like a seat at the bar?”
Realizing she looked like someone in need of a drink (and only she knew exactly how true that was), Susan restrained herself and declined the offer. “Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. At this address, at least,” she added, peering into the dark and smoky room. What had happened to the charming faux-English tea shop interior? Crisp lace curtains had been replaced by dusty mahogany shutters. The etched clear glass globes that hung over brass lamps on the walls and from the ceiling were now amber and opaque. Starched linen tablecloths had been whisked off tables. The charming bouquets that had been centered on the tables equipped with bowls of rock sugar, tiny pitchers of cream and milk, and dainty crystal dishes of sliced lemons had been replaced with heavy brass ashtrays—which needed polishing just as soon as someone got around to emptying them.
The room was mobbed with young people, talking, smoking, and playing various board games (backgammon and chess, not Monopoly). Susan wondered what Claire had thought about the place—before she discovered the subject of that question sitting near the bar, with what looked like a martini in one hand and what could only be a cigar in the other.
“Claire?”
“Susan! What a wonderful place to choose to meet. I was expecting one of those cliché suburban spots you usually prefer. You know, one of those prissy women’s places. But this is absolutely fabulous. What do you think?” She waved her cigar in the air.
Susan correctly guessed that Claire was interested in a compliment. “Very sophisticated,” she muttered. Claire, in fact, looked adorable. Her violet silk shirt was open at the neck; her hair was arranged to look casual and chic; the cigar was held in a hand that had been carefully manicured. All she needed was a beret to look like an advertisement for French vermouth. Susan wondered if her daughter would be spared a lifetime of jealousy by the person who had murdered her future mother-in-law.
Claire’s next words reminded her that she didn’t actually know the identity of the victim.
“Did you run into Stephen’s mother?” She knocked ash into the tray provided.
“I … she … what do you mean?”
“You do know that she called your house more than once. I think Jed gave her your cell phone number, in fact.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“What is that woman’s name, anyway?” Claire continued, always inclined to get involved in her own thoughts. “Something musical.”
“Barbara Canfield …”
“But she doesn’t call herself Barbara or Barb or something normal, does she?”
“I don’t know,” Susan admitted.
“I thought it was such an interesting name. So very California, if you know what I mean,” Claire mused.
“I guess. My phone may have been turned off. She’ll probably call back if … if she can,” Susan said, wanting this conversation to end. “Why did you want to see me, Claire? You said something about a wedding present?”
“Yes. The wedding present. Well, I’m not so sure about that now.”
“You certainly don’t have to give them a present.”
“Oh, I would never think of not giving Chrissy a gift. She’s my favorite granddaughter. And we’ve always been so close.” Claire smiled. “I’ll always remember how she used to call me when she was in high school and complain that you didn’t understand her.… Well, you know how adolescents are.”
Susan nodded. She did. And she had paid her dues, lived through that time with two different children. And she wasn’t going to think about it anymore—even if she hadn’t realized that her daughter had been calling Claire and complaining about her mother during those difficult years. “What does this have to do with a wedding gift?”
“It’s just that I wanted to get her something special. I shopped and I shopped. I even thought about just writing them a generous check. And then the answer came to me. Do you remember the land I own on the lake?”
Susan did. Jed had bored her with tales of his camping trips in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania, more times than she could count. “Yes, of course. The Boy Scouts use the land now, don’t they?” she asked politely. She knew damn well that they did; many times she had thanked her lucky stars that the land was rented to that organization and she hadn’t been forced to endure her own wilderness experiences with her family. (Jed’s frequent descriptions of the night he had feasted on almost-raw chicken and the ensuing twenty-four hours without indoor plumbing had done nothing to pique her interest in the experience.)
“They had a twenty-year lease on the land.”
“Oh, does that mean the lease is up soon?” She had a definite feeling of foreboding.
“It was up last December. And they’re not interested in renewing it. The suburbs have expanded, and the area is more suburb than wilderness. A bunch of Cub Scouts got fed up with the food their counselors had provided and hiked to the local McDonald’s last fall.”
“Smart kids.” (No one had ever undercooked a Chicken McNugget.) “So what does this have to do with … Claire, you’re not going to!”
“Yes. I thought it would make a nice gift for Chrissy and Stephen.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re going to say. Owning property is a big responsibility. I’ve thought of that. I’ve paid the taxes for the next ten years.”
“But—”
“And I’d make sure I covered any expenses or … or those things they’re always adding to the taxes for water or curbs or sidewalks and things.”
“But—”
“The only problem, as I see it, is whether to put the land in Chrissy’s name or in her name and Stephen’s—with the right of survivorship, of course. Or whether I should put it in Chrissy’s name with the intention that the land go to Chad if Chrissy dies before she has any children. Who knows where they’re going to end up living. If it’s California, community property laws would make all this insignificant—but if they end up living in a state without laws like that, and I give it to Chrissy outright, she’ll be able to decide when she makes out her own will—unless I make the decision for her. What do you think?”
“Well, I think—”
“I don’t want to offend Stephen—don’t you wonder why he has such a straight name, when his parents have such interesting ones? What is it that his father calls himself again?”
“I’m not sure.…” Susan was beginning to wonder why everyone kept asking her the same question. What did these people call themselves anyway?
“Well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what should be written on the deed to this land. Now, I thought I would be sneaky and find out what Stephen thought without actually asking him outright. You know?”
She had Susan’s complete attention. “No, I don’t know. What did you do?” She glanced down at the martini a waitress had just placed on the table in front of Claire. “I’d like one of those, too,” she said. “So what did you do?” she asked, as the waitress slouched off to fill her order.
“Well, I asked him what he thought—as a future student at one of the best business schools in the country—about inheritance laws. And after he had bored me about that for at least fifteen minutes, I sort of snuck in a question or two concerning families and inheritance.” She frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, I don’t want to disturb you, dear, but I didn’t get the impression that the young man is … what should I say? That he is overwhelmingly generous.”
Susan was instantly alert. “You don’t like him. You don’t think he’s good enough for Chrissy.”
“How could we possibly know that now? I remember when Jed brought you home to meet us. You were wearing this tacky polyester minidress with apples printed all over it and I thought …” She seemed to realize the expression on Susan’s face had changed. “Well, what I thought doesn’t matter. Chrissy has decided to marry Stephen Canfield and we certainly have to respect her decision. I merely think he might have answered my que
stion differently if he had known it was Chrissy’s money we were discussing rather than his.”
“So he thinks money should go only to blood relatives,” Susan concluded, accepting the martini the waitress brought without a smile, lifting it immediately to her lips, and forcing herself to sip rather than gulp.
“Well, he made it easy for me to decide to have the deed made out to Chrissy.” Claire drained her glass. “I’m glad you approve, dear.”
But did she? And did it matter, really, what she thought? Claire’s offer was very generous. Chrissy, she knew, would be thrilled. And Stephen? Well, he’d cooked his own goose, Susan decided. She followed Claire’s example and downed the rest of her drink. “What sort of impression did Stephen give you?” she asked.
“Susan, I’ve only had one short conversation with him,” Claire equivocated. “About all I can tell you is what you told me. He must be smart. Wharton doesn’t accept dummies. And he’s certainly good-looking. What do you think?”
“I think he’s … actually, I don’t know what I think.” She paused. “He’s not much like the man I thought Chrissy would marry. He’s not even very much like the boys and men she’s dated over the years. I was surprised when she brought him home—but apparently you felt the same way about me.”
“True,” Claire admitted.
“I’m a little surprised,” Susan said, when Claire didn’t continue. “I thought … well, actually, I thought you were crazy about me.”
“Well, of course, we wanted you to think that. You were so … so young and … and you obviously loved Jed. In the long run that’s really all that matters.”
Susan smiled. She had an image of herself in that dress Claire had found so tacky. She’d been young, thin, astounded to find herself in love with a man heading for a career in business rather than the English and philosophy majors she’d been dating throughout college. And here they were twenty-five years later, still in love and marrying off their daughter. She might have had another martini and mused about this for a while longer if her purse hadn’t rung. She found her phone and answered on the third ring—a record. Maybe she was really moving into the twenty-first century.
Weddings Are Murder Page 7