“You sound a little like Evie Forest. She apparently thought her boss was some sort of saint protecting us all from buildings that would crash down on the heads of innocent infants.”
“Simon Fairweather was a pain in the ass, no doubt about it. But he did accomplish what his job was supposed to do. Sometimes that means you won’t win a popularity contest. No one knows that as well as a cop.”
Susan picked up her avocado, bacon, and tomato sandwich and took a big bite. Chewing gave her an excuse not to speak until she had thought of something to say. But the only thing that came to mind was another question. “Do you have any information that anyone else in town was mad enough to kill him?”
“There were some other people whose plans for a dream home were wrecked by Simon’s insistence on following the rules, but nothing and no one who struck me or any of my men as unreasonable. There is some recourse if you don’t agree with the building inspector’s decisions, you know. You don’t have to kill him.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that murder is an answer to anything.”
“In this case there’s also an appeals process and anyone can request a hearing before the board of planning. Simon didn’t have the final say in everything.”
“But someone said”—Susan was beginning to have trouble keeping her information straight—“that in some towns the planning board was just a rubber stamp of the building inspector’s office.”
“Not true in Hancock. I had a man going through the files down at the building inspector’s office. Simon Fairweather didn’t always get his own way. He lost on little things like whether someone could put up a treehouse in their backyard for their children without having it inspected and on big things like subdividing the land down by the old mill. But,” Brett continued seriously, “there is nothing that anyone in my office can find that is similar to the relationship between Cory Construction and Simon Fairweather. There is not a single instance of his stopping a building project completely except for the one that Ken Cory’s men worked on. And it is certainly true that hiring Ken Cory meant that Simon was going to be carefully looking over your shoulder. But—before you ask—there isn’t a clue as to why Ken Cory was singled out by our anonymous caller.”
“They’re not incompetent, are they?” Susan asked. She held her breath, hoping to hear the correct answer.
“No. There have been some fly-by-night companies that came into town, but they didn’t stay long. Simon got after them and the only legal problem that I know about was a company that offered Simon a bribe if he would accept some shoddy work.”
“He didn’t take it.”
“He turned in the man who did it as well as the owner of the contracting company. They were prosecuted, of course. Bribing a government official is serious stuff.”
“It’s true that I haven’t heard anything about his being dishonest,” Susan mused, licking mayonnaise off her finger.
“I don’t think you’re going to. We’re looking into that, of course.”
“So what this boils down to is that our first guess was correct. If it wasn’t his family who did it, it was probably Ken Cory or someone on that crew.”
“It looks that way,” Brett agreed. “It certainly does.”
“I suppose you could say that eliminating suspects is progress,” Susan murmured.
“We always do,” Brett assured her. “Otherwise the entire force would have days when Prozac seemed like the only answer. Too bad Kathleen is going to be indisposed for a while.”
Susan bridled. “You think I can’t look around for a while by myself, do you?”
“Well, even the best can’t be in two places at once,” Brett said.
“True. But you haven’t met Josie Pigeon yet,” Susan said.
“Who is Josie Pigeon?” Brett asked.
“My fly on the wall.”
“What?”
“She’s my spy. She’s a carpenter that Ken Cory hired to help out with my job. I thought I told you about her.”
“How do you know that she’s not the member of the crew that the caller referred to? How do you know that someone doesn’t think she’s a murderer? Just because she’s a woman, you trust her,” Brett protested.
“Because she just joined the crew two days ago,” Susan insisted. “She’s not like everyone else. There’s no reason for her to have anything against Simon Fairweather. She only arrived in town a few days ago. Until now she’s been working in a resort community at the shore. That’s why I trust her. Besides, right now everyone on the crew is discriminating against her.”
“Where did you say she used to work?”
“At the ocean someplace. Why?”
“Is it possible that it’s Montauk?” Brett asked. “Does her arrival have anything to do with Patricia Fairweather and her sister?”
“I certainly don’t see how,” Susan insisted, wishing that she had thought of that before this.
“Well, maybe you’d better find out before you put your trust in someone you don’t know,” Brett suggested angrily.
“Why are you getting mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you. I just think you’re being foolish. And you could end up in danger.”
Susan stood up. “I’m fine, Chief Fortesque. Although I thank you for worrying about me. I have things to do this afternoon, so I’ll leave you now. Thanks for the lunch.”
“You’re welcome,” Brett said, motioning to the waitress to bring him their check.
“I’ll let you know if I discover anything about the murder,” Susan said, walking away.
“I certainly would appreciate it if you did so,” Brett said to the empty seat across from him.
TWENTY-SIX
Susan returned home to discover that Josie wasn’t there. An unhappy woman whining loudly about the men who had betrayed her indicated that Buns was controlling the radio for the afternoon. “She’s gone to the lumberyard, ma’am,” he answered when Susan insisted on knowing Josie’s location. “Art needed someone to check out the most recent order and she wasn’t doing anything more important.”
Susan smiled her thanks and hurried out of the sweltering attic. “Any idea when the air-conditioning will be back on?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Nope. Might check with Angelo. He’s doing something with the wires down in your bathroom.”
“Thanks. I will,” Susan said, hurrying off to find the electrician.
Angelo Ferraro wasn’t on the second floor; Susan found him in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by dozens of open cardboard boxes. Clue was by the electrician’s side, gnawing a large cardboard tube. “You buy these things?” Angelo shouted over the sound of a disco hit that Susan had hated ever since she first heard it—back in 1974.
“I picked them out at the store in town.”
“You got these things at Hancock Electric?”
“No.”
“At Brightly Lit?”
“No, they were out of stock. My husband bought them in the city. He had to go all the way down to the Lower East Side.”
“Too bad.”
“What?” Susan wondered why he couldn’t turn down his radio before speaking.
“I said too bad.”
“Why?”
“They all have to go back.”
“What! No, they don’t! I love them.”
“You better love them enough to have a fire in your bathroom ’cause that’s what’s gonna happen. No way to ground these mothers. They’re a disaster waiting to happen. And where are the wall heaters? Didn’t Ken tell you that we were going to be installing the wall heater in the attic first thing today? The walls are prepared and I pulled the wires last night. I thought we were all ready to go.”
Susan turned around and walked out of the room. It was that or start screaming. And who knew when—or if—she might manage to stop.
“Oh, and you got a call from a man at a tile store this morning. He needed to know right away what color to use for the background or something like that.
Said for you to call back. I think Frankie’s got the number.”
Susan was beginning to understand how Buns’s favorite singer felt about men as she searched for Frankie. A persistent reggae beat drew her to the bathroom in the hallway. Frankie was soldering copper pipes hanging from the ceiling.
“Hi. I thought the upstairs bathroom was going to be finished first,” Susan commented as he switched off the flame.
Frankie reached over and turned down his radio before answering. “The pipes are all connected, ma’am,” he said, smiling at her.
Susan grinned back, feeling like she had found a friend among the enemy camp. “I’m sorry if I was being stupid. I don’t know anything about plumbing. I understand you have a phone number for me. There was a call from the man who is making our tiles,” she added.
“Oh, sure. Right here.” Frankie fumbled through the pockets of his jeans until he found a small slip of paper. “It may be a little late to call, though. I think he said he was leaving early today.”
Susan sighed.
“Don’t let this get to you. It’s a big job and everyone is going to be telling you that their part is the most important and that it has to be done immediately. Don’t you believe it. Everything will get done whether you run around like a chicken with your head cut off or not.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”
“Hey, Frankie, Buns said to tell you you got a phone call from someone named Sean. He asked that you call him back as soon as possible. Something about dinner plans,” Kyle Barnes called out, sticking his head in the doorway. “Hi, Mrs. H. Did you talk to Art yet? He wants to know exactly how long you want the towel racks to be. The ones under the countertop.”
Susan took a deep breath.
“Just remember what I said,” Frankie reminded her.
“I’ll try,” Susan promised. “I have to go out again for a few hours, but I’ll figure out the racks and call the tile man first. Say, do either of you know where Josie is living?”
“She said something about being in an apartment above a florist’s shop, didn’t she?” Kyle offered.
“Or was it a dry cleaner’s?” Frankie asked.
“I’ll find it,” Susan said, remembering the silly name of the nail salon. “If I leave a message for my husband, would someone see that he gets it?”
“No problem,” they answered in unison as Susan headed up the stairs. She would talk to Art, call the tile store, and spend some time studying those permits that were hanging in her living room window. Then she’d go see Patricia Fairweather.
And by the time she’d done all that, maybe Josie would have returned to her apartment and they could talk.
She hurried through her chores, deciding to take Clue along on her travels. Sometimes having the animal along was a pain in the butt, but she had found that occasionally dogs opened doors that would otherwise remain closed.
And sometimes they barged right in, she was reminding herself an hour later as Clue’s leash slipped from her hand and her pet flung herself into Patricia Fairweather’s house.
“I’m so sorry,” Susan apologized to the tall woman who had opened the door.
“Is she friendly?”
Susan knew exactly what was being asked. “Almost impossibly so. She loves everybody—and especially other dogs,” she added as Clue reappeared with a large chocolate lab by her side.
“Ghiradelli has been starved for some company. Would it be okay if I closed the two of them in the backyard for a while? They can eat up the pastries that were dropped on the lawn while you talk with my sister. You’re here to see Patricia, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Susan admitted, aware of the fact that Patricia’s sister didn’t remember their previous meeting after the funeral.
“I’ll take them outside and go get her. Why don’t you wait in the living room?”
Susan did as suggested and a few minutes later found herself being entertained by the owner of the labrador retriever. “My sister was in the shower. She says she’ll be out in a while if you don’t mind waiting?”
“Not at all.”
“It may take a while. She was washing her hair. Getting it dry is something of a challenge.”
“I was glad to see that she hadn’t cut it,” Susan commented, leaning back on the couch. “She was saying she might.”
“She’s been talking about whacking it off for years—whenever she’s in a bad mood. But she never does. I’m glad myself. I can’t imagine Pat-Pat with anything but long hair.”
Susan grinned. “ ‘Pat-Pat’?”
“Yeah, it’s what we called her when we were kids. Terrible, isn’t it? You live like an adult for years and then your family comes around and tells all these tales about you.”
“True. I’m Susan Henshaw. And I don’t think I remember your name.”
“I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. I was assuming that we had spoken at the service or in the backyard this morning. I’m afraid I’ve met so many different people in the last twelve hours that I’ll never get them all straightened out. I’m Lillian Weed. I’m Pat’s older—actually, her oldest sister.”
“We did talk for a few moments after the funeral,” Susan admitted. “You’re the sister with the house in Montauk. The one Patricia was staying with when her husband was killed.” Susan realized she wasn’t being very tactful, but this was what she had come there to talk about and she had never dreamed it was going to be this easy.
“Yes. I’m her alibi.”
Susan opened her mouth and nothing came out.
“Don’t be shocked. That’s what Pat has been calling me for the last few days. Apparently the chief of police came by and asked her why she had decided to change her plans for an Alaskan cruise at the last minute and practically accused her of flying back here and murdering her husband. So it was a lucky thing that she was staying with me at the time. Although, of course, it was a ridiculous idea.”
“Why?” Susan asked.
“In the first place, why would Patricia want to kill her husband? They might not have had a marriage made in heaven, but if they had been terribly unhappy, they could have gotten a divorce. Murder wasn’t necessary. Besides, why wouldn’t a wife just poison her husband’s oatmeal or something? Certainly Patricia wouldn’t have killed Simon with an automatic nail gun. What an ugly thing to do! My sister is a charming, cultured woman. If she had been going to murder her husband she would have done it with some class—absurd as that sounds.”
“If this is the type of thing my sisters say about me, what are my enemies saying?”
“If your own family can’t trash you, who can?” Lillian answered back, the grin on her face identical to the one displayed by Patricia Fairweather.
Susan looked from one to the other, delighted by the family resemblance.
“Susan Henshaw is the woman I was telling you about who helps the police solve murders in Hancock,” Patricia said pointedly to her sister. Susan was surprised by how serious she looked.
“We have murders—plural—in Hancock these days?” came the amused reply. “And to think I was desperate to leave here when I was a teenager because it was so dreadfully dull.”
“It’s not all that funny when it’s your husband who was murdered,” Patricia reminded her dourly.
“That man was dreadful, Pat-Pat. You should have divorced him years ago. Heaven knows why you didn’t. I certainly didn’t wish him dead, but if that was the only way we could get him out of your life, then I’m not going to sit around and pretend to mourn the bastard.”
“Lillian!” Patricia turned to Susan with a frown on her face. “Please excuse my sister. She’s always been known as the one in the family with absolutely no tact.”
“I call a monster a monster. You’re well rid of him. And you know it.”
Susan saw how upset Patricia was becoming and decided it was time to break into the conversation. “I’m not just the person who helps Brett solve murders, I’m also a struggling craftsperson
. I took a pottery class with your sister last spring,” she explained to Lillian.
“And did very well.”
Susan knew that was just a polite lie; no one would call her work anything but inept, but she continued. “I was wondering if you would work on a commission for me. I know this might not be the best time, but I would sure appreciate it if you would make one of those beautiful porcelain baby sets for my friend Kathleen’s new baby girl.
“You see, I want to get her something special. Not special like from Tiffany’s special, but special like unique. And I remembered the cup and bowl that you were making for one of your nieces’ babies …” She let the statement drift off. It was an excuse to get in the door. She didn’t really care if the answer was yes or no. In fact, she had already bought Kathleen’s baby an eighteenth-century English porringer—the child could always sell it and use the money to hitchhike around Europe when she was a teenager.
“I never saw the mug you made Bettina’s baby,” Lillian exclaimed.
“I can show you something similar,” Patricia said, looking curiously at Susan. “That’s what you came here for?”
“I guess this is the wrong time. I was going to mention it this morning, but …”
“It’s an excellent time, Pat-Pat. You need something to occupy your days and starting up a business is just the thing to keep you going until this whole mystery is cleared up.”
“Sure. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll just try to get committed to a prison that has a good crafts workshop.”
“My sister the pessimist,” Lillian said, standing up. “Please ignore her, Mrs. Henshaw. There is no way she’s going to be arrested for the murder of her husband.”
A phone ringing in another room interrupted them.
“Would you get that for me?” Patricia asked her sister. “It might be the press again and I’d rather not talk to them.”
“Certainly.”
As Lillian Weed hurried toward the sound, Patricia turned to Susan and grabbed her hand. “I need to speak with you. Alone. Do you know a little restaurant over on Ivy Lane called the Seagull’s Retreat?”
Remodeled to Death Page 19