Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  Susan knew Brett was too professional and discreet to mention names. “Have you heard anything about the Fairweathers’ marriage?”

  “No, nothing. So why don’t you tell me exactly what you know?”

  “I don’t actually know anything, but I can tell you what happened in my class one night.” She continued when Brett nodded his agreement. “Well, it was one of the nights that I was working at the wheel and it wasn’t going very well. I had to concentrate very hard to get the clay centered, and forming a small vase or pot was impossible at that point. Mainly I made a few passes and screwed up the entire thing—And I am getting to the point,” she interrupted herself to add.

  “I never suggested that you weren’t. I’m just slowing down so we don’t get to the house too soon. I’d like to hear the story before I meet her.”

  “Well, the point I’m trying to make is that I didn’t pay attention to anything for the first half-hour or forty-five minutes of the class. And then when I got up to stretch my back or maybe to wedge more clay … That’s what happened, I remember now. I was going to wedge some fresh clay because I went over to the table and was kneading away when I looked up at Patricia Fairweather. Her back was to me and she was leaning over her wheel. She was wearing a pretty short T-shirt and it had come untucked from her jeans.”

  “And?” Brett encouraged her to go on.

  “And there were huge bruises all across her back. It looked like she had been in some sort of terrible accident. Like falling backward.” She paused, remembering the sight. “I was shocked, of course, and I started to say something, but the teacher stopped me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She had been standing behind me and she just reached out and put a hand on my arm to attract my attention. And then she put her finger to her lips—you know, warning me not to say anything.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  “No. The teacher asked me to help her do something in another room and I followed her there. And that’s when she told me that Patricia Fairweather would be very upset if I mentioned those bruises.

  “I didn’t understand what she was talking about, of course, so I asked her what she meant. And she said that she thought Patricia Fairweather’s husband sometimes hit her.”

  “What exactly did she mean when she said that she thought Patricia Fairweather’s husband hit her?”

  “Of course that’s what I asked, but another student came into the room and my teacher said that we could talk after class—and that I shouldn’t mention it to anyone. I could tell that she didn’t want me to say anything to Patricia, so I didn’t. When I returned to the room, I noticed that she—”

  “Patricia Fairweather?”

  “Right. Well, she had put on a long sweatshirt that covered her back. I thought that was significant since the room was very hot. She must have been trying to cover those awful bruises.”

  “And what happened when you met with your teacher after class? What did she tell you?”

  “Well, by the time class was over she seemed to have reconsidered her impulse to be open with me.” Susan paused, remembering that evening. “We weren’t alone together for a while. Some of the better students stayed after class to talk about formulas for some new glazes—Patricia Fairweather was one of them,” she added quickly. “By the time everyone else left, I was feeling very uncomfortable about being there. And I was wondering just how much Patricia Fairweather had noticed. I felt like I was prying.”

  “You said that your teacher’s attitude seemed to have changed,” Brett reminded her.

  “Yes. Definitely. She had stopped me from saying anything to Patricia Fairweather earlier and maybe she would have been more forthright if we had been alone longer. But then she shut down. I actually had to bring up the subject and explain why I was still hanging around.”

  “And did you remind her that she had suggested you stay after the others?”

  “That’s exactly how I began. And then I said that I was worried about Patricia Fairweather and she interrupted me and asked in a rather snotty way if I had any reason to believe that Patricia wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. I was a little taken aback by her attitude and I said that I had seen the bruises and I was worried. And then my teacher lied to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that Patricia had fallen down her basement stairs carrying a full basket of laundry.

  “I was stunned, of course. It was so different from what she had told me originally. I started to mumble something about that—I think I mentioned Patricia’s husband—and she rather abruptly told me that I was meddling in things that weren’t my business.

  “I was shocked, of course, and I’m sure she could tell by the expression on my face. She backed down immediately and added that I didn’t have to worry about Patricia. That she had a lot of friends who were taking care of her.”

  “And that was that?” Brett asked after a moment of silence.

  “Yes. I thought about it all the way home and just about half the night. I even considered going over to the Fairweathers’ home and confronting whoever came to the door. The idea of him hitting her just got to me. I really felt I should do something. But I didn’t,” she added sadly. “I finally just decided that there was nothing I could do, that Patricia Fairweather undoubtedly did have friends who were aware of the problem and helping her out.”

  “And since then you’ve been feeling guilty whenever you think about it.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Of course. I tried to make myself feel better by thinking that Patricia had realized what I had seen and spoken to the teacher and asked for privacy.”

  “Which might be true.”

  “Even if it was, it didn’t make things better. I should have done something, said something. And look what I’ve done now. The first person I talk to about it is you—right after Simon Fairweather’s murder,” Susan added, feeling guilty. “It’s a good thing she was on that cruise ship when he was killed.”

  “She wasn’t,” Brett said quietly. He steered the police car through the heavy stone pillars that marked either side of the wide driveway that led to the Fairweathers’ home.

  “I thought—”

  “So did we. But when we got hold of the ship, we discovered that Patricia Fairweather was a no-show.”

  “But everyone thought she was there. Where was she?”

  “That’s one of the things that we’re here to find out,” Brett answered.

  EIGHT

  “You’ll like her,” Susan said as she and Brett stood on the porch waiting for someone to answer their ring. “Everyone does,” she added.

  The door opened before Brett had a chance to reply.

  Susan looked at his face and realized that she had forgotten to mention Patricia Fairweather’s appearance. He’d probably assumed she was as old and folksy as her husband had been. But Patricia was close to Susan in age and closer to the sixties in style. Her long, straight hair was graying. She wore no makeup and tiny gold granny glasses sat on her sunburned nose. Still slender enough to look fine in the jeans and T-shirts that she habitually wore, Patricia appeared comfortable and relaxed. Not, Susan suddenly realized, like a recently bereaved widow.

  “Patricia, I was so sorry to hear about your husband,” Susan started, hoping to remind the other woman of her expected demeanor. Surely this was no way for a possible murder suspect to be acting.

  “Thank you, Susan.” Patricia looked at Brett. “Are you also here to offer your condolences, Chief Fortesque?” she asked him in a steady voice.

  Susan, a little shocked by this unexpected attitude, remained silent while Brett expressed polite sorrow at Simon’s death. “But we’d like to come in and speak with you, if this isn’t a bad time,” he added quickly.

  “By all means.” Patricia stepped aside and motioned for them to enter the large home.

  Susan started in and then, startled by the sight that met her, trod backward on Brett’s toes. />
  Patricia smiled at Susan’s confusion. “The house always surprises people—especially if they’ve seen the outside for years. It isn’t what most people expect, of course.”

  “Of course,” Brett muttered, closing the door behind them.

  They all gazed at the dramatic interior. No Victorian had ever lived like this. Pale, bleached woodwork accented the white enameled walls on which dozens of tiny spotlights caused glassy reflections. Stairs seemed to float up to the second floor without proper suspension. But the most amazing sight, to Susan, was the tiny niches that were cut into the walls, each one the exact size, shape, and depth to encompass a carefully chosen work of art.

  The threesome stood on a pale handwoven rug centered on the pickled-oak floor. It blended in beautifully. Susan tried not to imagine what it would look like after Chad’s friends made a few post–soccer game trips across it.

  Brett was the first to speak. “This is truly remarkable, but you must hear that all the time.”

  Patricia just nodded.

  Susan walked slowly around the entry foyer. “Some of these pots are your work, aren’t they?”

  “The two with the Raku glaze to your left, yes. But I’ve been a collector for years. Most of this was done by other artists.

  “But you wanted to speak to me about Simon’s murder, not art. Why don’t we go into the living room and I’ll get us some lemonade—unless either of you would prefer beer or wine? If we have it. I’ve been away for a few days, and I’m not really sure what’s chilling in the refrigerator.”

  “Lemonade will be fine with me. And now that you mention it, that was one of the things we’re here to speak to you about,” Brett said, following the two women into a large room as light and modern as the entryway. “Where have you been for the last few days?”

  “When I was supposed to be on a cruise in Alaska?” There was a smile on Patricia Fairweather’s face. “I’ll get you that lemonade and then explain. But I think you’ll be disappointed. That is,” she added, turning and beaming at them as she left the room, “if you want to see me as a suspect in my husband’s murder.”

  Brett sat down on a couch covered with a contemporary quilt and frowned. Susan wandered around the room, peering at the artwork. “I wonder if this is one of Patricia’s weavings,” she muttered, looking up at the large tapestry of children playing that hung over the mantel.

  “Nice marble fireplace,” Brett muttered.

  “It’s not marble. It’s a faux finish,” Susan corrected him, leaning closer to the wall. She had always wanted to try something like this. “I think they use feathers.”

  She heard Brett’s impatient sigh but decided to ignore it. They would get around to asking their questions, but this room was fascinating. She continued to examine the art. The work represented there covered a broad spectrum of crafts as well as, in some ways, tastes. Abstract acrylics shared walls with tiny golden icons. Appliquéd pillows were tossed on woven throws. Collector’s glass was displayed on furniture hand-formed from rare fruitwoods. Susan had about a dozen questions to ask that had nothing to do with Simon Fairweather’s death, but Brett insisted on getting to the point when the widow returned carrying a large tray.

  “You were going to tell us where you were when your husband was killed,” he reminded her abruptly.

  Patricia set the tray down on an end table near the couch and unloaded it onto the large glass coffee table as she answered slowly. “I was at my sister’s. She has a house out in Montauk—on Long Island.” She put a piece of cork shaped like a star in the middle of the table and placed a tall, crystal pitcher of lemonade on it. Thinly sliced lemons and fresh raspberries floated among the ice cubes.

  “It’s on a hill overlooking the town and you can even see the water in the distance.” Three tall glasses of translucent green were placed near the pitcher and a brass sculpture of a snail beneath a trillium was moved to make room for a plate of sugared gingersnaps.

  “So you decided at the last minute to go there instead of on the cruise?” Brett asked, accepting a full glass.

  “Yes.” She offered him a cookie.

  “Why?”

  Patricia looked at him curiously. “Why not? I was planning to go on a tour, but frankly I had my doubts from the beginning. I just don’t think I’m the tour type. Too independent or something.” She sat down and sipped from the glass she had poured for herself. “I had some last-minute doubts about the trip I’d planned and at about the same time my sister called me and suggested a visit. I canceled my plans and took her up on her offer.”

  “Did you usually vacation without your husband?” Brett asked.

  “Sometimes. But never alone—with one of my sisters or a friend. I have traveled for other reasons without Simon. I’ve taken a lot of courses at various craft schools around the country—and in foreign countries, too, for that matter.” She looked up from her hostessing and stared seriously at Brett. “I’m not an artist, but I do consider myself a serious craftsperson and I have been lucky enough to study with some extraordinary artists over the years.”

  “So Susan told me,” Brett assured her.

  Patricia gave Susan a grateful look before continuing. “My husband has always worked very hard and he is, of course, a fine craftsman himself—he is an excellent finish carpenter and he has done a lot of woodworking as a hobby—but he has no interest in taking classes or in being around people who consider themselves artistic. He is—or was—a very down-to-earth man.”

  “How much of this house is his work?”

  “All of it. We moved in soon after our wedding. My father died almost immediately and my mother moved out a few months later. Simon was just beginning to build his company back then—he started his own remodeling business the month before we were married—and we didn’t have extra money. He did almost all of the first floor at night after a day of hard work. It took years, of course.”

  “You designed it?” Susan asked.

  “We designed it together. And it has changed over the years, mainly to accommodate our collection as it grew.”

  “Like the niches in the walls in the entryway.”

  “Exactly.” Patricia smiled at Susan.

  “I wish I could get some designing help from you. Cory Construction is tearing apart my bathrooms and I have very little idea what I want to have done,” Susan began.

  “Could we get back to where you were when Simon died?” Brett reminded them all why they were together.

  “But I told you where I was—at my sister’s house out on Long Island.”

  “When we tried to find you to notify you of your husband’s death, we were told that you were on a cruise. Your cleaning woman answered the phone when we called your home, and she said that you were away and gave us the emergency number that you left behind. You changed your plans without telling anyone?”

  “No. I told family members—my other two sisters as well as Simon, of course. What my cleaning woman read from was the sheet that the cruise line sent with emergency numbers. It went up on the bulletin board by the back door almost a month ago—the day it arrived in the mail, in fact. I was afraid of losing it. When I changed my plans, it didn’t get removed. That’s all there was to it.”

  “But what about your friends and neighbors? Did they know that your plans had changed?”

  Patricia seemed to mull this over carefully before answering. “I don’t think so. I may have mentioned it to someone in passing, like at the grocery store or the dry cleaner’s, you know. But I don’t specifically remember telling anyone about it.”

  “Then your plans changed very close to the time you left.”

  “The day before. I was standing in my bedroom trying to decide if cotton sweaters would do for Alaska in August or if I needed to pack wool ones when the phone rang and it was my sister. We’re very close and for the last few weeks I had been telling her that I was beginning to regret signing up for this cruise. She called to see how I was feeling and when I explained that I was le
ss enthusiastic the closer the time came to leave, she suggested that I cancel the trip and come visit her in Montauk.” She paused to take a bite out of a gingersnap and then continued the story.

  “Lillian, my sister, had been expecting her in-laws to come for two weeks, but there was an emergency and they canceled at the last minute. She has a large house with a pool and suddenly spending time with a person I love in a warm, relaxing place sounded a lot better than being chilly with strangers. So I said yes, dumped out my suitcase, repacked it with the few things I knew I’d need on the island, and I went.”

  “Surely you called your husband first?” Brett asked.

  “Of course I did. He was busy that night, as he was on so many nights. There was a meeting of some sort down at the municipal center that he had to attend. So there was little reason for me to wait until morning as I had originally planned. I left right after dinner.”

  “Which is why you didn’t bother to let anyone know,” Susan suggested.

  “I had already arranged everything that needed to be done while I was gone,” Patricia said.

  “Like what?” Brett asked.

  Susan didn’t have to ask since she knew better than he what was needed to keep a home running while the person primarily responsible for its care was away. Patricia explained about frozen meals in the freezer; appointments with lawn men, tree men, the chimney sweep; and the weekly cleaning woman who would have to come at least twice as often to take care of one man rather than a man and a woman.

  “What about the cruise line?” was Brett’s next question once he had a firmer grasp on the logistics of running a house this large.

  “What about them?”

  “Did you contact them and let them know that you weren’t going to arrive on schedule?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I’m sure Simon did. I doubt if he was thinking of being considerate. He was probably hoping to convince them that a refund was appropriate.”