Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “I—”

  “From the day that he was killed,” Susan insisted gently.

  “I don’t know.” Patsy looked around the room, obviously confused.

  “Why don’t you start with who told you that he had died.”

  “The doctor at the hospital. But you don’t mean that, do you?” Patsy asked, obviously upset at the memory. She took a deep breath and continued. “You want to know how I knew he was hurt. You see, I work at the hardware store downstairs—in the housewares department, of course,” she added, seeing the surprised expression on Susan’s face. “And I was on my midmorning break in the back room when Mr. Young found me.”

  It took Susan a few seconds to catch on; previously she hadn’t heard Art Young referred to with such respect. She nodded, encouraging Patsy to go on.

  “I was shocked to see him, of course. Mr. Young comes into the store from time to time, but my department is separated from the lumber and tools and things like that and I couldn’t imagine any reason for him to be there.

  “But he immediately told me that my father had had an accident and that he had come to take me to the hospital. I … I guess I was confused because I said that I couldn’t leave without telling my boss. But, of course, I didn’t know that my father was dying, might already have been dead at that point.”

  “So you went to the hospital with Art Young?”

  “Yes. Mr. Young insisted it was urgent and didn’t even give me time to get my purse. We keep them locked up when we’re working because sometimes customers wander into the back rooms.”

  “And when you got to the hospital?”

  “We went to the emergency room and a man there—he was so young that I thought he couldn’t be a doctor but he said he was—he came up to me and told me that my father had died.” She stopped talking and looked down at her hands, which were crossed in her lap.

  “And?”

  “And that’s how I found out that my father had died.”

  “How did you discover the circumstances around his death? That he had been electrocuted?”

  “Well, they had to tell me immediately because they had to explain why they wouldn’t let me see him. They thought his burns would shock me, I suppose.”

  Susan had visions of being in this hot sticky room for the rest of her life. “They told you it was an accident, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, of course. But once Mr. Young explained what had happened—the circumstances—I knew it had to be murder. My father simply did not make mistakes like that.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Young that?” Susan asked.

  “Of course. And he agreed with me that my father had been an extraordinarily careful worker.”

  “But even the most careful worker makes mistakes.”

  “Not my father. You didn’t know my father, Mrs. Henshaw. He wasn’t like other men.”

  Susan decided to try another tactic. “But why would anybody want to kill him?” she asked.

  “I have given that a lot of thought,” Patsy answered seriously. “A lot of thought.”

  “And?”

  “Why are most people murdered? For someone’s gain. Right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And who had the most to gain from my father’s death?”

  “Yes, who?” Susan asked, wondering if Patsy was asking a rhetorical question.

  “I am his only heir,” Patsy stated flatly.

  “So …”

  “So the crime was not committed for monetary gain. We can eliminate that.”

  “Then …” Susan started wondering where, if anyplace, this was going.

  “Then it couldn’t have been personal. My mother died over a year ago and my father had remained faithful to her memory. There were no other women in his life. And no other family except for me. His life was his work.” She leaned toward Susan. “It must have been something professional.”

  Susan wasn’t quite so sure about this deduction, but she wasn’t going to argue. “Do you have any idea what someone he worked with would have gained from his death?”

  “They must have been trying to keep him quiet. What else?”

  “Quiet about what? Did your father know something that made him dangerous to someone else? Had he mentioned anything like that to you before he died?”

  “Nothing specific …” She paused. “You’ll be discreet, of course?”

  “Of course,” Susan assured her seriously.

  “My father said strange things were happening at work.”

  Susan almost looked around for the orchestra that was going to punctuate that statement. “Like what?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  Susan sighed and leaned back against a calico pillow. “He said that strange things were happening and then he didn’t explain what they were?”

  “You must understand. My father believed in protecting the women in his life. For instance, my mother never knew how much money he made. He said she should buy what she needed to keep the family running and he would tell her if she was exceeding their income. Of course,” she added, seeing Susan’s eyebrows go up in surprise, “I’ve always felt that I should be self-supporting even though I’ve always lived at home.”

  “Well, if you’ve lived with your family, maybe you noticed a change in your father before he died?” Susan asked gently.

  “Now that’s an interesting question. I can tell you’ve had a lot of experience at this type of thing. The policeman who talked with me after Dad’s death never asked anything like that.”

  Bingo. If Brett had been interested in the death, it might have been something other than an accident. She’d check that out with him later. “Did you notice anything?” she repeated her question. “Any changes?”

  “It was obvious that he was worried. He would come home and have a couple of beers and just pick at his dinner. And that happened even when I made his favorite meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  “How long had he been acting like that?”

  “I don’t know. A few months maybe.”

  “And you have no idea why?”

  “Sometimes he would talk about how things were changing in the world and I would get the feeling that he was talking about work, but that’s really all I can tell you and it’s just a guess.”

  “Did your father ever mention Simon Fairweather or the building inspector’s office?”

  Patsy nodded. “I thought about Dad when I heard that Simon Fairweather had been killed. He didn’t like him.” She looked up at Susan. “I was taught not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was important. And I’m not just gossiping.”

  “Dad hated Simon Fairweather.”

  “There seems to be a lot of hostility toward the building inspector from the men working in my house. Maybe that’s just normal,” Susan suggested.

  “It was more than that. Dad said that Simon Fairweather wanted to take away his job.”

  “Take away his job? Those were his exact words?”

  “Yes. You must understand that my father loved his work. He was proud of every single building that he ever built. When I was young, he always took my mother and me to see the homes he had worked on once they were completed. And years later, when he would drive by one of those buildings, he would point it out and describe something unique about that project or tell a story about the work. But for months before Dad died, every time Cory Construction started a job, something happened and the job was stopped.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. But it was causing Dad a lot of unhappiness. I know that. And he had gone to Simon Fairweather about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He kept saying that he was going to and I would say, ‘Go talk to him, Dad. You always taught me to speak up when something was bothering me. Go to Simon Fairweather and talk with him about whatever is wrong.’ ”

  “And he did?”

  “Sure enough. The week before he died, he went down t
o the municipal center and marched right into the building inspector’s office and insisted on some answers.”

  “And did he get them?” Susan asked quietly.

  “Dad refused to leave until he got them,” Patsy Porter replied. “But, unfortunately, he never told me what happened. He just said that Simon Fairweather hated him. You’d be interested in that conversation, wouldn’t you?”

  “Definitely. Did he seem to feel better after that meeting?”

  “You know, I don’t think so. He was even more distracted and unhappy, if anything. It’s so sad to think that his last week was miserable. Dad was one of those men who took a lot of enjoyment from the world and from what he did. It shouldn’t have ended like that for him.”

  “No, of course not,” Susan agreed sincerely.

  “Dad said that something awful was going to happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The night before Dad was killed, he told me that someone was going to die …”

  “He must have had a reason even to be talking about death,” Susan prompted when Patsy stopped in the middle of her sentence.

  “I don’t remember. Frankly, I was so shocked by Dad’s murder that I sort of forgot what had happened before he died. Later I remembered that we had had this strange conversation over dinner the night before he died. See, I didn’t understand why he didn’t feel better after talking to Simon Fairweather and I asked him about it. He refused to explain—I think he just didn’t want to worry me. That’s the way Dad was: Always protecting the little woman.”

  “But he said something about someone dying,” Susan reminded her.

  “That’s all he said. He said that he had a lot on his mind these days, that someone was going to die.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so. He didn’t mention any names. I know he didn’t think that the person who was going to be killed would be him. Are you still going to see if you can discover who killed Dad?”

  “I … Of course,” Susan answered, the only way she could. She had no idea if this death was connected to Simon Fairweather’s murder, but she was fairly sure that Brett would let her see the official records. And that, she decided, standing up, was the place to start.

  She thanked Patsy for her help and, after some polite appreciation of the most hideous watercolors she’d ever seen, made her way out of the apartment.

  Her Cherokee was parked on the street in front of the hardware store in a spot too convenient to have ever been available when she had a heavy load to carry. Clue was waiting patiently in the back.

  “Come on, sweetie. Just a quick walk over to that big pine tree on the corner and we’ll be on our way.” She grabbed one of the blue plastic bags in which her New York Times was delivered and stuffed it in her pocket.

  Susan was familiar with the saying that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. However, she had personally experienced how many times a dog can sniff and circle an area before doing what it had been led there to do.

  At least ten minutes had passed before Susan had coaxed Clue back into her car and was turning around to find the exact location of the covered wastebasket she had noticed earlier.

  That’s when she was attacked from behind.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “… So I smacked him—or her—with it.”

  “You hit a complete stranger with a plastic bag full of dog shit?”

  “I hit the person who grabbed my shoulder with the only weapon I had available,” Susan called out indignantly from the shower.

  There was only silence from her companion.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she yelled.

  “I’m trying hard not to, and it’s not as though I don’t appreciate your creativity, but it is pretty funny,” Brett called back through the partially opened bathroom door. They were both having trouble making themselves heard over the sound of water running. “Why don’t I just go and see if I can find you a big garbage bag for your clothes?”

  “Great! More than one, if you can. I’m not even sure double-bagging will contain the smell. And I have no idea what I’m going to do about the inside of my car,” Susan muttered to herself, scrubbing her legs with the only clean washcloth she’d discovered in the police chief’s poorly stocked linen closet.

  “Did you say something?” A man walked in the door.

  Susan screamed and grabbed for a towel with nyc police athletic league stamped on one end.

  “Hey. No need for privacy. It’s me. Your husband.” Jed pulled open the shower curtain and grinned at his soapy wife. “Brett called about fifteen minutes ago and explained the situation. I came right away. I brought you clean clothes. And that bottle of Issey Miyake perfume that you love so much.”

  Susan sighed. “Good thinking. I smell like a used pooper-scooper left in the sun too long.”

  Jed looked around. “Something in here sure reeks. Where’s Clue, by the way?”

  “There’s a tiny yard behind here. She’s running around out there. I don’t know how we’re going to get her home. I sure don’t want to get in my car and we don’t want to put her in your car until she’s had a bath.”

  “Susan, what happened?” Jed asked.

  “Why don’t you just leave my clothes there on the john and go ask Brett. I told him the whole story. He can fill you in. And take my dirty clothes—they’re lying on the floor wrapped in a towel. Don’t unwrap them! Just take them out and stuff them in the bags that Brett was finding for me. I’ll be done in here in a few minutes.”

  Actually, it was more like ten minutes. Susan couldn’t resist scrubbing up and rinsing off one more time. She was positive that she still smelled, but her nose was so stuffy there was no way to be sure. She entered Brett’s living room with an embarrassed smile on her face.

  But there was no one there. She walked across the sparsely furnished room and peered out the sliding doors to the patio. Brett and Jed were on their knees trying to subdue a very wet and slippery dog. She backed up quickly before they spied her and asked for help. She’d done enough for one evening, she decided, sitting down on Brett’s couch and closing her eyes.

  But the men returned almost immediately and her break was over.

  “Brett told me about your unusual methods of defense,” Jed said, sitting beside her and slipping his arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he added seriously.

  “I know I’m repeating myself, but are you sure you didn’t recognize your attacker?” Brett asked, sitting on a chair across from the Henshaws.

  “No, but unless he or she has showered recently, I’ll bet anyone could pick them out in a crowd—with their eyes closed. I smelled terrible and I just got some of the fallout. That bag split right across the back of his—or her—neck. That person must stink.

  “I have men out all over town, checking to discover if anyone has run into a very smelly person this evening—particularly any member of Cory Construction’s crew—but, of course, they’re only going to find the ones that are at home and who answer their door. Someone could be showering and we’d never know.”

  “You never told me that we might be hiring a murderer when you chose Ken and his men to work on our house,” Jed said accusingly.

  “I knew you’d feel like that, so I didn’t mention it,” Susan admitted. “Besides, you met Ken before we signed the contract. You picked them out as much as I did. But no one told me that one of the crew members was killed last spring,” she added, looking at Brett.

  “There’s no proof that George Porter’s death was anything other than an accident.”

  “But you did look into it. His daughter said she had been interviewed by a policeman.”

  Brett nodded. “Two of my men spoke with her at different times. She insisted that her father would never have made a fatal mistake like the one that took his life. But we had no reason to accept that. All the men on the crew admitted that accidents happen to the best of people. And I checked that out with other
contractors. They all said the same thing. And some of them had some pretty hair-raising stories of their own to tell. Construction can be a very dangerous business.”

  “As Simon Fairweather found out,” Susan muttered.

  “Well, that wasn’t quite the same thing,” Brett said. “After all, he was found dead in his office, not on a building site.”

  Susan frowned but didn’t answer immediately. “You’re saying you have no evidence that George Porter was murdered.”

  “I also have no evidence that he wasn’t,” Brett said. “I’ve been wondering if the two deaths were related, too. In fact, I have the file home for the night,” he added, nodding at the pile of papers sitting on his Formica dinette table.

  “Could I … ?”

  “Of course. Stay where you are. I’ll even get them for you,” he offered.

  “And I’m going to use the phone, if you don’t mind,” Jed said.

  “Feel free,” Brett told him, handing Susan the stack of papers and sitting down next to her in the spot Jed had just vacated. “Do you want me to go through this with you?”

  “Fine. But you must have suspected murder when you sent someone to speak with Patsy, right?”

  “No. We always check out accidents. And we probably wouldn’t even have gone back a second time if she hadn’t insisted that her father had been murdered. You can see that the officer I sent was skeptical,” he added, handing her a typed report.

  Susan took the time to read carefully through the pages. “Are you sure this isn’t just a bit sexist? I mean, the man practically says that Patsy Porter is a flake.”

  Brett took the offending statement from her hand and glanced at it. “This was written by a woman. And Patsy Porter was acting a little strange at the time. But that’s not unusual in a case of sudden death. However, she was interviewed a few days later also and her story hadn’t changed—that’s why we checked everything out with the other carpenters and with members of two other contractors in Hancock. They all agreed that an accident was more than possible. See. Here.” He handed her more papers.