Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Okay. I just don’t like to remember that. It makes me feel like killing Simon Fairweather myself.”

  “Did you kill that son of a bitch? Far out, lady,” Frankie cheered her as he started back up the steps.

  “Maybe we should sit in the backyard and get some fresh air,” Susan suggested, ignoring the comment.

  “Good idea. Let’s take Clue with us before she consumes the entire living room.”

  They hurried through various barriers of plastic to collect the dog and leave the house. The brick patio, shaded by trees, was perceptibly cooler than inside the house and Susan threw herself down on the teak reproduction of a Victorian lounge and wondered for the millionth time if they had known what the word lounge actually meant. Jed sat at her feet and listened as Susan told him what she and Brett had discussed.

  “I remember you telling me about the bruises and the man who hit his wife, but I didn’t remember that the woman was Patricia Fairweather until today,” he said when she was finished, scratching Clue behind the ears as he spoke.

  “Simon Fairweather was that tall, distinguished man with gray hair who checked out our garage plans, right?”

  “Yes. Brett says that we’d be surprised at the people who hit their wives,” she added when he didn’t respond immediately.

  Jed merely nodded. “So you think you can help solve this murder even though you didn’t know the murdered man and you know his wife only slightly?”

  Susan decided to ignore any implied insult. At least he wasn’t objecting to her involvement.

  “But you know you’re going to be very busy around here. If you wanted to just duplicate the old bathrooms, this would be a piece of cake. Messy, of course, but easy. But if you want to remodel …”

  Susan got the message. Of course, she reminded herself, Jed didn’t know that Cory Construction was, at least in a small way, connected with Simon Fairweather’s death. Although the members of the crew weren’t doing a very good job of keeping their hostile feelings about him a secret, she thought as Clue leaped up to greet Kathleen and her son.

  Kathleen chose the least comfortable chair and eased herself down onto it as her son ran about the backyard with Clue at his heels. “Hot, isn’t it?”

  “Our electricity isn’t on,” Susan admitted. “Want some seltzer or something? There may be some lemonade in the refrigerator, but everything is going to be warm.”

  “Anything is fine. I’m dying of thirst. Nothing has made me as dry as this pregnancy.”

  “I’ll get it,” Jed offered, jumping up.

  Susan waited until they were alone before leaning toward Kathleen, an intense expression on her face. “I’m glad you’re here. You and Jerry used to visit some friends out on the island, didn’t you? Do you know how long it takes to drive from here to Montauk? Could you get there and back in one day?”

  “Round trip? I don’t see why not.” Kathleen thought for a moment before answering. “There are probably a lot of options. You could drive like a maniac and you might make it if the Long Island Expressway wasn’t jammed up—but in the summer that’s taking a huge chance. I suppose you could drive to Hartford and then get a commuter flight to the end of the island. Or maybe drive to Westchester airport and go that way.”

  “So you think …”

  “Most people would just take the ferry in Bridgeport if they wanted mass transportation. Why? Are you thinking about taking a vacation while the work is going on here?”

  “No, although that’s beginning to sound like a good idea. I was wondering if Patricia Fairweather could have gone to Montauk, returned here and killed her husband late in the evening, and then been back at her sister’s house in Montauk by the time his body was found.”

  Kathleen raised her eyebrows. “That’s what Brett is thinking?”

  Susan nodded.

  “You don’t believe she did it.”

  “No, but she has a motive and I told Brett about it.”

  “What?” Kathleen asked seriously.

  Susan explained about the bruises on Patricia’s back for the third time that day.

  “I remember you telling me about it. You’re right. It sounds like she’s got a motive,” Kathleen said.

  “Yes. I sure wish I hadn’t mentioned it to Brett,” Susan admitted. “You know, Kath, there’s really only one thing to do.”

  “What?”

  “Go back to her house and ask some more questions. Don’t you think?”

  “Well, she might not answer you. And I wouldn’t blame her. After all, Brett has every right in the world to question her after her husband’s death. You don’t.”

  “True, but I could point out to her that I’m trying to help her.”

  “What about Cory Construction? I thought you were going to look into the possibility that someone on the crew murdered Simon Fairweather. Anyone here who might have a motive for murder?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it!” Susan exclaimed. “Everyone that hears his name is almost anxious to talk about how much they hated him, how glad they are that he’s dead.”

  “Really? I wonder why,” Kathleen said as Jed rejoined them.

  “Why what?” he asked, putting a tray containing three mismatched tumblers on a nearby table. “I brought Kool-Aid for Alex. Cherry,” he added.

  “He’ll love it,” Kathleen assured him.

  “You forgot a lemon for the seltzer. Kathleen might need it,” Susan said.

  “That’s okay. I don’t use—”

  “Well, I’d like some,” Susan interrupted. “Jed …”

  “Okay. I’ll go back. I can tell when you two want to speak in private.”

  “Susan, what is it?” Kathleen asked as soon as the door slammed behind Jed.

  “He still doesn’t know why I hired Cory Construction! And I don’t want him to!”

  “Good idea.”

  “You think he would object to choosing a contractor that way?”

  “Do you know anyone who wouldn’t object to having a possible murderer working in his home?”

  ELEVEN

  The only answer, Susan had decided after Kathleen and Alex had gone home to nap, was to go down to the Hancock Field Club and take a long shower. Maybe it would help her think. Certainly it would make her smell better. Now she stood under the sharp spray, letting the warm water rinse the shampoo from her hair, and tried to figure out what to do next.

  The field club had recently remodeled its locker rooms to make them more “spalike.” Rows of utilitarian white shower stalls with muslin curtains had been replaced by a crescent of tiny Mexican-tiled shower rooms each with its own bench, hooks for clothing, and spray bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and liquid soap. Susan had never before appreciated these amenities; of course, she could usually find her own soap without crawling through a couple of inches of rubble. She was tempted to lean back against the wall until the water turned her into a human prune. But it wasn’t going to be easy to shave her legs in the small first-floor bathroom sink, so she lathered up and got to work.

  Around her, women who had completed an afternoon of tennis or paddleball were cleaning up before heading home and starting dinner. Other women, having left work early, were changing into aerobic togs or swimsuits and were preparing for evening exercise. At least they knew where they were going, Susan told herself, reaching for the pink plastic razor she’d just dropped on the floor. That’s when she heard her name.

  “… Susan Henshaw. I’m sure I saw her Jeep in the lot. There’s that dent in the bumper where she ran into that metal post trying to back out of the driveway after the Jamisons’ Memorial Day barbecue.…”

  “Someone should tell Jack that people don’t appreciate punch so loaded with sugar and lumps of fruit that you can’t tell how much rum is in it,” someone else suggested.

  “I wasn’t drunk. It was dark. I just didn’t see the post.” Susan stuck her head out between the swinging wooden doors and defended her reputation.

  “Hey, Susan!” a neighbor called
out. “Edie’s looking for you. Evidently your husband called her husband yesterday. Something about a plumber.”

  “Is that Susan Henshaw?” a familiar voice called out. “I heard rumors of a disaster at her house. A flood in the kitchen or bathroom or something like that.”

  Susan, never surprised by the extent and efficiency of the grapevine in the town, turned off the water and reached for a towel while explaining. Her audience was wowed by her story and quick to offer names of favorite plumbers, contractors, and the like. Susan explained that she had hired Cory Construction and demolition work had already begun.

  Cries of appreciation for her efficiency were followed by harrowing stories of remodeling disasters and near disasters, each woman topping the tale of the person before her. Susan just towel-dried her hair and pulled on clean shorts and T-shirt. Even a friend’s story of an intermittent and apparently untraceable leak in the ceiling over her kitchen sink sounded better than living with the mess that her home had become in the last forty-eight hours. She slipped on her Keds and slipped Simon Fairweather’s name into the conversation at the same time.

  “That bastard!” A voice from the shower stall next to hers summed up the general response. Tales of variances rejected, bedroom windows that had to be enlarged to meet new safety standards, long lists of requirements that had added time and expense to numerous building projects over the years bounced among the tile walls. Susan frowned and wondered if everyone in town had had a reason to dislike the building inspector. And perhaps even a reason to kill him?

  “Of course, sometimes, it’s merely a matter of hiring the right contractor. Everyone knows that Simon Fairweather played favorites. Some companies could do no wrong and some couldn’t do anything right,” someone called out from the locker area.

  There was general agreement to that statement and more stories to support everyone’s opinions. But Susan, picking up her towels and depositing them in the laundry bin, was pulled aside by a blond woman she knew by sight but couldn’t quite place.

  “Do you have a few minutes? I need to talk with you privately,” the woman asked. “It’s important. It’s about Cory Construction.”

  “Of course.” Susan looked around the crowded room. “We could meet in the bar in a few minutes. I just have to get some stuff from my locker.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It took Susan slightly longer than fifteen minutes to gather her stuff together and say goodbye to friends, but the other woman was waiting patiently at a table near the window overlooking the golf course. She stood up and waved as Susan entered the wood-paneled room. Susan hurried over to the table.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” the other woman said after they were seated and had ordered iced coffee from the college-age woman waiting on their table.

  “I know I’ve seen you around, but I just can’t place you,” Susan admitted.

  “I’m Natalie McPherson. I was in a class you took at the art center—beginning ceramics—only I had—”

  “You were a brunette then!” Susan exclaimed. “And you wore glasses,” she said, not adding that the woman before her had lost at least twenty pounds and grown long red nails in the intervening year.

  “I got a divorce.”

  They nodded at each other. It was fairly well known that women whose husbands left them for younger, more glamorous women frequently became more glamorous themselves as a result. “You look wonderful,” Susan said honestly. “Are you still taking classes?”

  “Yes. But I decided that pottery was not my thing. Not at all. I took a class in silversmithing and fell in love with it. I’ve even sold some of my work at a gallery up in the Berkshires.”

  “That’s impressive.” Susan made a mental note. Maybe a class change was a good idea. Maybe she had an undiscovered talent for a different craft.

  “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you about. I think you should know that there was some very bad blood between Cory Construction and Simon Fairweather.”

  “Really?” Susan decided there was no reason to say anything more.

  “Yes. He—”

  “Simon Fairweather?”

  “Yes. Well, he tried to get Ken Cory’s license taken away from him.”

  “What?” Susan accepted the coffee the waitress brought but was too involved in Natalie’s revelation to sample it.

  “I don’t know all the details, but I can tell you what I do know. Of course, if you’ve signed a contract with Cory Construction …”

  “Did they work for you?” Susan asked, not answering the implied question.

  For some reason the question seemed to embarrass Natalie. “Yes, they did,” she admitted. “Right before my divorce went through, actually. I decided that my ex might as well be the one to pay for having a bathroom added to the first floor of the house. He was anxious to be free—for the usual reason—and I thought I could get something out of it.”

  “And they didn’t do good work?” Susan asked, thinking of the rubble in her house.

  “Well, the tub doesn’t drain properly and it all took a lot longer than it was supposed to.… But that’s pretty much the same with everyone, isn’t it? No job is ever perfect.”

  “I suppose so. But you were going to tell me something about Ken Cory and Simon Fairweather.”

  “Simon Fairweather hated Ken Cory.”

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  Natalie paused and then the story came out in a rush. “It would never have happened if my husband hadn’t had a midlife crisis. Or, actually, if he hadn’t decided that a blonde half his age was going to be his midlife crisis. I was crazy for a while—for a long while, actually. I lost weight, took enough aerobics classes to fill the hours, bleached my hair, and had an affair with the best-looking, available young man I could find: Ken Cory.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Well, that’s tactful,” Natalie commented, a wry look on her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. My feelings aren’t that easily hurt. It was a stupid thing to do—and I’d do it again,” she added a little defensively. “You can’t imagine how wonderful it is to go to bed with a fabulous-looking young man unless you’ve done it yourself.” She looked at Susan, who didn’t respond. “Anyway, I felt like twenty years had dropped from my life. And a lot of the damage my husband’s philandering had done vanished.” Natalie picked up a packet of artificial sweetener, ripped off the top, and poured it into her coffee, then added a splash of cream before stirring slowly. When she was finished, she sipped her drink, then continued. “That’s really the reason I hate to tell you this. I owe a lot to Ken Cory.”

  “But … ?” Susan asked gently.

  “But he once told me that he’d like to kill Simon Fairweather.” Natalie bit her lip and then looked up at Susan. “You’re looking into the murder, aren’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why did you hire Cory Construction?”

  Susan was surprised. “Why not?”

  “Well, Susan, they’re not exactly known as the best contracting company in town.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Susan, everyone knows who the best contractors are.”

  “Yeah, the ones that are busy when you need a job done in a hurry,” Susan muttered. “I waited almost a year to get a laundry room added in the basement. But Cory Construction isn’t incompetent, is it?”

  Natalie gave Susan a shrewd look. “You already hired them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Should I figure out a way to fire them?”

  “No, just keep an eye on their work every step of the way. They need a lot of guidance. If any of that crew is left to make a decision on his own, they’ll surely make the wrong one.”

  “I was going to do that anyway,” Susan admitted. “We’re sort of planning this as we go. But what about what Ken Cory told you, about how he wanted to murder Simon Fairweather. I can see that you don’t like talking about it, but better I know th
an the police.…” Susan didn’t finish the statement. She wasn’t even sure that it was true.

  Natalie began slowly. “It was after I’d known him for a while.”

  “After you’d been sleeping together for a while?” Susan tried to clarify the situation.

  “Yes. In fact, we were in bed when he told me. I had noticed that they didn’t get along almost from the very first time I met him, when we were planning the project.”

  “Simon Fairweather was there then?”

  “No, of course not, but he was mentioned.” She sipped her drink and thought for a moment. “We were planning the project: talking about the bathroom’s design and how much space we were going to need if we butted out into the backyard. The architect who drew up the plans before the divorce had included a huge extension for my ex-husband’s exercise equipment. I see that now as the beginning of his midlife crisis. The man I married filled his required team-sports time by managing the soccer team for four years at his prep school. I should have known something was up when he began talking about pumping iron here at the club and when he filled our basement with expensive instruments of torture.

  “Well, I wasn’t interested in that, so I eliminated the area and asked Ken for something a little less elaborate.”

  “And Simon had to approve the new plans?” Susan guessed.

  “Of course, but we … I have a few acres of property and the house is small. Ken just said something like ‘that so-and-so Simon Fairweather won’t be able to turn this one down.’ I didn’t know him very well at that point, but it was obvious that he was pleased.”

  “So pleased that you got the feeling that there was a certain amount of bad feelings between the two men?”

  “Definitely. Ken didn’t even try to hide it. Nor did any of his workers. The carpenters—Art and George—used to talk about it all the time. And the rest of the guys on the crew were always making comments about how much they didn’t like Simon.”

  “They’re not exactly reticent on the subject these days either,” Susan admitted, wondering if she had missed a carpenter named George working in her home.

  “Well, then you know what I mean. But our bathroom was planned by one of the best architects in the state and all we did was make the extension smaller. There was nothing for anyone to object to and we didn’t need a variance or anything like that.”