Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “No, but I can find it,” Susan assured her.

  “Then I’ll meet you there for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Couldn’t we meet sooner?”

  “My family won’t be leaving until then,” Patricia insisted. “Please, tomorrow at nine.”

  Susan could only agree.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clue was having a wonderful day. First a thrilling hour spent racing around with a cheerful companion on a lawn liberally studded with delicious lumps of sugary dough. Then a long nap in the back of Susan’s Cherokee. And now three tiny white kittens to lick as they clung to her silky coat.

  “I cannot believe that dog. Apparently she’s never heard that dogs and cats are natural enemies,” Josie said, handing Susan a bottle of light beer. “I suppose I should have gotten you a glass,” she added, making no move to do anything about it.

  “I can’t believe you adopted three kittens at once,” Susan answered, taking a sip from the dripping bottle. “You do know that they’re going to grow up into three cats, don’t you?”

  “I work long hours. They’ll keep one another company. How much difference can there be between one and more than one? I’ll just have to clean out the litter box more often.”

  “I guess,” Susan said.

  “Besides, I miss my son. These little guys will keep me company.”

  Susan smiled. She hadn’t had time—yet—to miss her own children. “Did you hear anything interesting from the crew?” she asked, coming to the point of her visit. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I hope I didn’t make you more unpopular than you already are with the rest of the crew.”

  “No, actually I used the fact that they don’t particularly like me to elicit some information about the guys.” Josie sounded particularly proud of herself.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Well, I figured that Frankie knows we’re investigating, right? At least he knows that you are and that I was hanging around with you. But he also wants to keep his sexual choice private, so he isn’t going to talk about that visit to his apartment.”

  Susan nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking about that. But, you know, I’m not so sure that his lifestyle is a secret. I heard Kyle give Frankie a message about a phone call from a man about dinner. It wouldn’t take a huge effort to translate that into the truth.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about that, too, and it struck me that maybe Frankie was being a bit paranoid about the whole sexual thing. I’ve worked on crews that were homophobic, but I’ve also worked with men and women whose sexual preferences weren’t particularly Middle-American and they haven’t had a lot of problems. Actually, I think Frankie would get more kidding about his unusual artwork than who he sleeps with. There probably aren’t a whole lot of carpenters into abstract sculpture.” Josie picked up one of the kittens, laid it in her lap, and petted it absently as she spoke.

  “So you started asking questions with Frankie,” Susan prompted.

  “Not really, I just went up to the attic where everyone was working—”

  “Except for you?”

  “Except for me—as usual.” Josie frowned. “And I said to Frankie that I had heard he’d been with Cory Construction longer than anyone on the crew except for Art.”

  “And?”

  “And everyone started arguing about how long they’d been working on this particular crew—just like I thought they would,” she added proudly.

  “And?”

  “Well, as far as I can tell, the progression goes like this: Art Young and another carpenter—George Somebody—were hired by Ken Cory when he started the business. So Art is the only one of the two originals employees left.”

  “What about plumbers and the like? Frankie and Buns? And Angelo?”

  “Well, when Ken started his business, he just hired a couple of carpenters and he subcontracted for other people to do the rest of the work as needed. Later, when he got a reputation for working on kitchens and baths, he connected with Buns. Frankie came later. Angelo doesn’t work with Cory Construction all the time. He has his own business and comes in when he’s needed.”

  “But they’ve all been working with Cory Construction for at least a year.”

  “Definitely. Except for Kyle. He hired on at the beginning of summer when the workload got heavier. They had been shorthanded ever since George died, but Ken had been filling in, and it doesn’t sound like Cory Construction was actually overburdened with work until recently. And then there’s me, of course.”

  “Did you find out if the Joes always work with this crew?”

  “No, but I think you could probably assume so. There are a lot of variables in contracting work: the job itself, the homeowners and their lifestyle, different designs—things like that. Contractors like to work with the same people over and over. They get to know the styles of the outside workers and vice versa. It makes things easier for everybody.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t have trouble getting that information then.”

  “Not at all. Nothing like what happened when I mentioned Simon Fairweather. Those guys really hated that man.”

  “Well, then …”

  “Of course, hating the building inspector is practically a full-time hobby on some jobs,” Josie went on.

  “Because they have so much power.”

  “Exactly. I see you’re catching on to the business.”

  “You mean …”

  “I should say what happens on a lot of construction sites. Although it does sound like the relationship between Simon Fairweather and Cory Construction was rather extreme. At least, it’s the first time I’ve heard of such animosity being carried from job to job. To be honest, when I first heard about it, I just assumed that you’d hired an incompetent contractor and that I was working for one.”

  “But you don’t think he’s incompetent?” Susan asked, hoping for the answer she wanted.

  “Not at all. Ken is a little greedy, but contractors got used to really big money in the eighties and some have had a tough time scaling back. Besides, to be honest, this is a very wealthy neighborhood. It’s pretty obvious that you—and your neighbors—can afford to have big things done on your houses.”

  “But still …”

  “But you still want to get the best you can for your money. I know.”

  “So you’re saying he charges too much?”

  “He’s expensive, but so are a lot of contractors. The best always are. Ken just likes to add on to the job. And lots of small additions can really increase the cost—and hide profit. But we’ve talked about this before and I don’t see what it has to do with Simon Fairweather’s murder.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the building inspector’s job is to see that everything is done right—done to code. And that has nothing at all to do with the cost of the work.”

  “So the inspections don’t ever increase the cost of the job,” Susan said.

  “Actually, that’s not quite true. Some contractors save money by cutting corners, and it’s the building inspector’s job to make sure that isn’t done. And a job that is done twice—even if it was done wrong the first time—costs more than one that was done once.”

  “Is that what happened with Ken Cory and his crew?”

  Josie sat back against the couch and flung her hands in the air. “I have no idea. And no matter how much the guys on the crew talked, I couldn’t get a handle on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as far as I can tell, the problems with Simon Fairweather began a while ago—maybe nine months or even a year ago. I know that there was some sort of problem with a job late last fall because Buns made a comment about Simon Fairweather trying to keep them from being with their families for a four-day weekend at Thanksgiving. I didn’t catch the story, but I’m sure about the timing. And there was a major problem with a foundation last spring.”

  “That must be Debbie Sanderson’s house,” Susan commented.


  “Well, if she’s a friend of yours, you better warn her to get that thing filled in now that Simon Fairweather isn’t around to stop it. If a hole full of water sits up against the foundation all winter, freezing and thawing, it could crack the back wall of her house and imperil the entire structure.”

  “I’ll mention it,” Susan promised, wondering how she was going to phrase such a dire prophecy. “Anything else?”

  Josie petted her kitten and thought for a moment before speaking. “Look, I’m only hearing one side of the story, but …”

  “But what?”

  “It sounds to me like Simon Fairweather had it in for Ken Cory and his men. The stories they’re telling sound like unjustified harassment pure and simple.”

  “Really?” Susan breathed. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t be sure because I’ve only heard one side of the story, but unless these guys have all gotten together to tell the same lies, Simon Fairweather was acting in an unprofessional manner.”

  “Too bad we can’t find out the truth,” Susan muttered.

  “We’ll all know next month though, won’t we?”

  “What do you mean?” Susan asked.

  “There are going to be hearings about all this, aren’t there?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Susan admitted.

  “Oh, the guys were talking like it was a big story in town. I just assumed that you knew. Your town has a planning board that homeowners and builders can appeal to if they don’t agree with the decision of the building inspector—most towns handle the appeals process in a similar manner. But this is a small town and the people on the board are volunteers who go away for the summer, so the planning board doesn’t meet from late May until after Labor Day. According to Art Young, the first thing on the agenda when vacation is over is a case that has to do with Cory Construction and Simon Fairweather. Of course, no one knows what will happen now that Simon is dead. Art seems to think that whoever takes over the building inspector’s office will just withdraw their side of the argument.”

  “Can that be true?”

  Josie shrugged. “It’s possible. Art seems to know what he’s talking about. If you can’t believe a man who knows the names and lengths of the twenty longest rivers in the world, who can you believe?”

  Susan frowned. “You mentioned George Porter.”

  “The other carpenter on the original work crew.”

  “Exactly. Did anyone happen to tell you about his death?”

  “Not exactly. I think Art said it was an accident.”

  “A terrible accident the way Buns tells it,” Susan agreed.

  “What happened?”

  “He touched a live wire with one of his tools. Apparently he was electrocuted.” Susan didn’t feel any need to repeat the description of the man as a piece of fried meat.

  “In the spring before Kyle was hired,” Josie said.

  “Right. The question I have is: Was it an accident? You know, it seems a little strange to me. The first thing any of the workmen did when they arrived at the house was turn off the power. I assume that’s standard procedure?”

  “Well, it sure should be.”

  “Then—”

  “Things aren’t always the way they should be,” Josie continued. “Sometimes people forget to turn off the power. Sometimes the wrong circuit breakers get turned off. Sometimes someone thinks someone else has done something that they either forgot to do or just plain didn’t know needed doing. Not many people work for very many years without touching a live wire. It can be a truly hair-raising experience,” she added, fluffing up her unruly red curls.

  “But George was killed,” Susan said.

  “It happens. Not often, but it happens.”

  Both women were silent for a moment, watching the animals cavort on the floor. “You know what I think?” Susan said finally. “I think maybe we should try to find out why George Porter died. Maybe it was a freak accident. Or maybe we have two murders instead of one here.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Josie admitted.

  “You thought the same thing?” Susan asked.

  Josie nodded her head in agreement. “Yes. In fact, I was so worried about it that I asked some questions about George.”

  “Do other people think it might have been murder?”

  “Not that type of question. I thought you would want to look into that yourself. Besides, the guys were talking about his death as though it never occurred to them that it was anything other than an accident.”

  Susan was confused. “So what questions did you ask?”

  “I found out where he lived.”

  “Where?”

  “In an apartment over the hardware store.”

  “Was he married?”

  “His wife died a little over a year ago. He lived with an adult daughter. Art stays in touch with her. Her name …” Josie paused and went through the pockets of her overalls before she found the piece of paper she was looking for. “Her name is Patsy Porter. This is her phone number. I thought you might want to give her a call or something.”

  “I sure do. Where’s your phone?”

  “Kitchen.” Josie pointed out the way.

  It took Susan only a few minutes to call. She returned to find Josie on the floor, roughhousing with the animals.

  “She agreed to see me tonight,” Susan said.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Maybe she’ll think it’s a little strange if two unknown women appear at her door this late.”

  Josie glanced down at her watch. “It is a rather unusual time to make a social call, but maybe that’s the way you rich suburbanites live.” She grinned. “After all, you don’t have to get up early like us poor working people.”

  “You’ve figured out a way to work silently?” Susan asked, smiling back. “Because unless you have, I think I’ll be getting up pretty early for the next few weeks.”

  “A few weeks? You’re getting my nomination for optimist of the year,” Josie kidded as Susan stood up and called to her dog. “I could keep Clue here for you,” she offered.

  “Thanks. But I’ll leave her in the car. That way I won’t have to come back and bother you tonight.”

  “Anything you say. Maybe I’ll be able to find out more about the crew tomorrow.”

  “That would be great,” Susan said, wondering about the serious expression on Josie’s face. It wasn’t at all typical of the young woman. “You know, sometimes looking into the personal and professional lives of people who find themselves in a murder investigation is a little depressing. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Josie frowned. “I guess I should have thought of that a while ago.”

  “Then don’t—”

  “I’m fine,” Josie said, putting a wide grin back on her face.

  Susan would have believed her if she had seen the usual gleam in those remarkable green eyes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The woman who opened the door to the apartment was not aging gracefully. Susan guessed her age to be in the late thirties, but her style was that of an old woman. Her hair was pulled back into a thin bun; the lines on her face were undisguised by makeup; the flowered housedress she wore was popular among farm women in the fifties, but Susan would have had a difficult time knowing where to buy one like it today.

  “Patsy Porter? I’m Susan Henshaw.”

  “Mrs. Henshaw. How nice to meet you. Please come in.” Patsy stood back to permit Susan to enter.

  “Thank you, I … What an interesting apartment.”

  “It’s exactly the way it was when my mother died. She inherited many of these things from her mother,” Patsy said proudly. “It hasn’t been easy to replace some items as wear and tear took its toll, but I go to flea markets on weekends and manage to find some things. And my father used to bring home furniture that people were throwing out when they remodeled. You would be amazed what some people consider wor
thless. That lamp next to you, for example.”

  Susan looked at the curly iron floor lamp with the pink ruffled shade. She wasn’t surprised it had been discarded. Although, now that she thought about it, without the shade …

  “Of course, I had to work to find the shade. It came from a used furniture shop in Darien.” Patsy interrupted Susan’s visions of redecorating. “Sit over there.” She pointed. “Then you’ll get the breeze from the floor fan.”

  “I think my grandmother had an ottoman fan like that,” Susan said, sitting down on a knotty-pine couch slipcovered with itchy plaid fabric ruffles.

  “My father kept that one running ever since I was a child. He always believed in fixing things instead of throwing them out or replacing them with something cheap. Of course, that became more and more difficult for him to do after my mother died. He was so distraught over her death,” Patsy explained proudly, sitting down across the room from Susan. “Would you like something to drink? Maybe some iced tea? Or Sanka?”

  “No, I’m just fine, thank you,” Susan answered, wanting to get on with her questions but not knowing how to start.

  Apparently Patsy had no such problem. “You’re here to find out more about my father, aren’t you?”

  Susan had been thinking of beginning with some polite small talk. “I—”

  “You believe that he was murdered, don’t you?”

  “I—”

  “I know who you are. You’re the woman who investigates murders in town. You’re here to talk with me about Dad’s death.”

  “I’m—”

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’ve been telling everyone that it couldn’t have been an accident. Dad wouldn’t have had an accident like that. ‘Safety first,’ he always said. It was his motto. He wouldn’t have gone into a wall where there were live wires. He would have turned them off. Someone else must have turned them back on. But you must know that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re going to find the man who killed my father and bring him to justice.”

  “Please wait. I can’t do anything until you tell me what happened to your father. And even then I may not be able to do anything. But begin at the beginning. First you have to tell me about your father’s death. Everything you know.”