The Kind Worth Killing

by Peter Swanson

  “No, he just doesn’t care what kind of car you drive, Mom.”

  That had been a few weeks ago. We hadn’t spoken again till yesterday, when I called her to let her know that Ted, her son-in-law, had been killed in an attempted burglary. I told her I was coming up for a couple of nights, that I didn’t want to stay in Boston.

  “Of course you don’t, Faith.” My mother still called me Faith, my middle name and the name I’d gone by from the age of six to the end of college. I’d insisted on changing it when there was another girl with the name of Miranda in my first grade class. When I told my mother I was switching back to Miranda, she’d refused. “I’ve only just gotten used to it, Faithy, and I’m not turning back.”

  I could tell that Detective Kimball wasn’t too pleased when I told him I was driving to Maine to be with my mother. “We could get you a hotel room here in town,” he’d said. “Your mother could come down here.”

  “Is it important that I stay in Boston?”

  “It would be helpful to have you here to answer any questions we might have.” Detective Henry Kimball talked in a low voice, and seemed far too nervous to have reached any kind of rank in the police department. He had brown hair that was a little too long, and brown eyes. He wore a tweedy coat over a pair of jeans. I thought he looked like one of the lost souls who used to work at the literary magazine at college. I wondered how quickly I could make him fall in love with me. Pretty fucking quickly, I thought.

  “I’m only going to Maine. You have my cell phone number. I can’t stay . . . I can’t stay in my house, right now. You understand . . .”

  “Of course, I understand, Mrs. Severson. Completely. Well, then, we’ll be in touch. I’ll call you immediately if something comes up in the investigation.”

  We’d had this conversation after I’d identified Ted’s body. I took a cab from the police station back to our house, and packed a bag. Brad had thought that driving to Maine so soon would look suspicious, but I thought it would look completely natural.

  After losing my husband it would make sense that I would want to spend time with my mother. That is, if you didn’t happen to know my mother. But driving up to Maine gave me a chance to stop over in Kennewick and check on Brad and find out how much I needed to worry about his nerves. And, as it turned out, I definitely needed to worry.

  Up past Portland I started losing decent radio stations and slid in one of the mix CDs that Ted had made for me. It began with a song that he claimed was playing at the party where we met. “Mansard Roof” by Vampire Weekend. I couldn’t remember the song from that party, but I liked it, and sang along. When I married Ted I hadn’t planned on killing him. I didn’t love him, but I liked him enough. And he was generous. He let me spend his money without complaining. Not that he really had anything to complain about; as far as I could tell, the money would never run out. Then one morning I woke up in Boston, sun coming through our bedroom window. I looked over at Ted, still deep in sleep, his face pillow-creased. I studied a little patch of dark stubble under his chin that he must have missed while shaving the previous day. He was snoring, lightly, but each ragged breath began with a little nasal hiccup, like his breath had caught on the edge of something. It was infuriating to listen to, and I realized that I was going to spend the rest of my life waking up and looking over at the same face, growing older, and older, and snoring more and more. That part was bad enough, but I also knew that, as soon as Ted woke up, he was going to look over at me, and his face was going to look so pleased, and he would say something like, “Hey there, beautiful.” That was the worst. I’d have to smile when all I wanted to do was smash that stupid grin off his face. Ted stirred a little, and I knew he was going to wake up. As quietly as I could, I pulled the duvet off of me and slid my legs over the lip of the bed. I wasn’t fast enough, though. Ted woke and ran a finger along my back, and said, in a sleepy, dopey voice, “Where you going, sexy?” And right then, I knew I couldn’t do it. I wanted the money but couldn’t spend a lifetime with Ted. Not even close. We’d just begun breaking ground on the house in Kennewick. I thought of Brad Daggett, our contractor, and wondered if he might be good for something besides house construction.

  By the time I reached the outskirts of Bangor, the CD had played through twice, but I kept listening to it. I got off of I-95, drove past the Thomas Hill Standpipe and got onto Kenduskeag Avenue, which took me all the way into town. It was grim, the leaves on the trees having already turned and fallen. Most had been bagged or mulched, and the city had settled back into its familiar color palette of shingle and brick, low dwellings underneath a low gray sky.

  I got onto State Street, skirting the Penobscot River, heading north toward Orono. A quarter mile from my mother’s condo my phone trilled. I turned down the radio and answered it.

  “Mrs. Severson, this is Detective Kimball.”

  “Hello,” I said, and even though he could be calling about anything, my heart skipped a little.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we have a question. Do you happen to know what your husband did on the day . . . on Friday, during the day?”

  “Um. Far as I know, he was home all day. I saw him in the morning before my flight to Florida. He told me he had work to do, and that night he was planning on eating alone at home. He was going to make lamb. I texted him to remind him to take it out of the freezer.” I made my voice tremble a little.

  “Uh-huh. Did your husband know anyone in Winslow, Mass.?”

  I slowed the car down, looking for my mother’s town house.

  “Winslow. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “We found a Town of Winslow parking violation in his car. It was from 2:33 P.M. on the Friday that your husband passed away. We were just curious if you knew why he might have driven out there.”

  I spotted my mother’s driveway, the Mercedes coupe in Diamond White, and pulled in next to it.

  “I have no idea. Where’s Winslow again? That’s where the college is, right?”

  “Yes. Did your husband have business contacts there?”

  “He might have. I have no idea. Why? Do you think it has something to do with what happened?”

  “No, no. We’re just following any lead. So as far as you know, your husband didn’t see anyone he knew during the day on Friday.”

  “As far as I know, yes, but I wasn’t there . . .”

  “Of course. Thank you very much, Mrs. Severson. If you think of anything else, or remember who your husband might have known in Winslow, please get in touch. You have my number?”

  “You just called me. I have it.”

  “Right, thank you.”

  I sat in my car a while, even though I saw the dark figure of my mother peering out of her second-floor living room window. I was a little concerned that the police were finding it necessary to investigate where Ted had gone the day he was killed. I was banking on their simply assuming that Ted fought back against a burglar. I took a deep breath, wondered for a moment if my mother was still smoking, and if there were cigarettes in the house, then calmed myself down. Of course they wanted to know where Ted had gone that day. It was routine. But why had he gone to Winslow, and why hadn’t he told me about it? I hadn’t lied when I told the detective that, as far as I knew, Ted knew no one in Winslow. But the name of the town was ringing a bell with me, and I couldn’t remember exactly why. Someone I knew lived there now, or was I getting Winslow confused with Winchester. And why would Ted have gone to Winslow? Could he possibly have secrets, as well? Now I had another thing to worry about, along with worrying that Brad was going to come apart at the seams. Story of my life.

  I stepped out into the cold Orono air. Dead leaves were scuttling across the driveway. I pulled my bag from the backseat of the Mini and made my way to the front door of my mother’s town house.

  CHAPTER 18

  LILY

  On the drive from Winslow to Kennewick I kept thinking about what Miranda had done to Ted. He was an innocent. Even though he had been planning Miranda’s
own demise, as well as Brad’s, I knew, down deep, he was not a natural murderer, not a true predator. And now I was realizing that he had been the prey all along. I wondered if he subconsciously sensed that Miranda was coming after him. Was that why he was willing to kill Miranda—because he felt her at his back, the way a mouse feels the presence of a cat, perched and still in the tall grass?

  The day was cold and gray but I had the window cracked, and as I exited from I-95 onto the rotary just north of Portsmouth, I could smell the briny sea air. I didn’t know Maine well. Since living in Massachusetts I had visited Cape Cod several times, staying in Wellfleet at the house of a work colleague and friend, but had only gone north of my state line on a few occasions. I got onto Route 1 and passed through Kittery, land of the outlets, and spotted the Trading Post, where Ted had bought the binoculars he used to spy on Miranda. I could imagine him on this very road, just a few weeks ago; I could imagine how he must have felt, that terrible hollow feeling in your gut when you’ve been let down by someone you love.

  Once I was past the outlets, the views from the road opened up, and I caught glimpses of sea marsh and, in the distance, the Atlantic, almost the same gray color as the low, placid sky.

  It took me a while to find the Kennewick Inn. I got off Route 1 at Kennewick Beach, then had to backtrack southward toward Kennewick Harbor. I passed several small clusters of salt-faded rental cabins, and wondered which one belonged to Brad and his family. I also passed Cooley’s, its neon sign unlit on that early Sunday afternoon. A pickup truck idled in its parking lot and I wondered if Brad was already there. Past Kennewick Beach, Micmac Road wound through some expensive real estate. I kept my eye out for the house that Ted and Miranda had been building, spotting it almost immediately—a beige monstrosity perched far out on a bluff, the dark ocean laid out behind it. There were two large Dumpsters at the front of the house but no vehicles that I could see.

  I kept driving till I reached the inn, pulling into its nearly empty gravel driveway. Below the wooden inn sign, carved in ornate script, hung a placard that said VACANCIES. I knew there would be. It was a Sunday in October, and at this time of the year the tourists head to the mountains to leaf-peep, leaving the shoreline to its year-round residents.

  I studied the Kennewick Inn. It was a post-and-beam structure built right up against the road, with a large extension behind it, designed to look as old as the original building. All the exterior woodwork had been recently painted white, and even in the gray light of the day it seemed to shine with the promise of luxury and comfort. I wasn’t sure if it was smart to take a room; there was a slim possibility that Miranda was also staying there. Still, it was unlikely—her husband had just been killed, and I assumed she was in Boston taking care of business. But I couldn’t be sure. Running into her would not be the worst thing. There was no reason for her to suspect I had anything to do with her husband. There was zero connection between us. Still, it might put her on her guard, and for my plan to work, I needed her to be relaxed.

  I decided to stay. The truth was, I wanted to get a look at where Miranda had been living for most of the past year. People would know her here. There might be gossip. All of which might give me an advantage.

  Walking from the car to the reception area, the raw air smelled of woodsmoke. A workman in paint-splattered overalls was coming out of the inn’s side door as I reached it, and he held the door for me as I passed through with my bag. I walked across the uneven, wide-planked floors to the unmanned reception desk. I waited for a minute, then rang the bell. A gray-haired man with a handlebar mustache appeared from a side office. His name tag identified him as John Corning, concierge.

  “Checking out?”

  “Checking in, actually. If there’s a room. I don’t have a reservation.”

  It took about fifteen minutes, as John described several of the available rooms. I settled on one in the old section of the inn. I was warned that the ceilings were low, but that there was a good view of the ocean.

  “Just visiting?” John asked.

  “I had a couple days off and I’ve never been up here, so I thought I’d treat myself.”

  “Well, yah picked the perfect place. There are spa services here, but they’re not walk-in. You need to call ahead. Dining room’s closed tonight, but the Livery’s open down in the cellar, and the food’s just as good, if you ask me. Try the lobster BLT. And I’d be happy to recommend nearby restaurants. Do you need someone to show you to your room?”

  I told him I didn’t, and climbed the narrow stairwell to the second floor. The view from my room was a narrow slice of ocean past a cluster of huddled trees on the bluff across the road, but the room was nice, with dark blue walls, Shaker-style furniture, and a four-poster bed with an actual red-white-and-blue quilt on it. I wondered, of course, if this were a room that Ted and Miranda had stayed in. Had they slept together in this bed?

  I unpacked my bag. I had told John at the front desk that I would be staying for two nights, but I had packed clothes for more than that. I would play it by ear. The room was too warm, the radiator clicking and hissing, and I opened the window, standing there while the cold air spilled over me. The low clouds were thinning as the afternoon wore on, and I could make out the lengthening shadow of the inn as it stretched across the road. It would be dark in less than an hour. I had planned on walking the cliff walk but decided that I could do that the following day. I left the window cracked and lay down on the soft bed. The ceiling was crossed with dark beams, and I imagined Miranda in this room staring at the same view. I pictured her alone, naked under the sheets, thinking about the two men in her life—her husband and her lover—and plotting murder. I tried to think of Ted, but my mind kept slipping toward Miranda. Was it possible that I was wrong about her, and that Ted had really been killed by a surprised burglar? I didn’t think so but knew it was a possibility. It was the first thing I needed to find out, and the reason why I needed to meet Brad as soon as possible.

  Miranda flooded my thoughts. I remembered her from years ago, staring into my eyes that drunken night at St. Dunstan’s. She had wanted to study them, she said, and I’d let her. I could smell the sweet trace of vodka on her breath, and one of her hands was touching my wrist. She told me all the colors she could see in my eyes. I wondered at the time what she was up to. I thought that it had to do with Eric, that she was trying to spook me, since I was now going out with her ex-boyfriend, but now I wonder if it had something to do with me. What had she seen in my eyes? Had she seen Chet at the bottom of that well? A commonality that went beyond Eric Washburn?

  Some guy whose name I’ve forgotten had yelled, “Kiss, already,” from across the room and we broke eye contact, but I’ve never forgotten that moment. I wondered if she remembered it, too.

  I stayed in the room until a little after five, then changed into my tightest jeans. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and put on more makeup than I normally used, including dark eyeliner. After dinner at the Livery, I was planning on checking out Cooley’s on the beach, and I needed to look the part.

  The Livery was quiet when I took a seat at the bar. The bartender, a dyspeptic-looking giant in suspenders and a tie, was cutting lemons and limes, and a waitress was wiping down tables. The bar area was long and narrow. At one end was an unlit fireplace, and at the other, a man with long gray hair was unpacking an acoustic guitar, and setting up an amplifier. I hung my purse from a hook beneath the oak bar and ordered a bottle of light beer. Football highlights were playing on the TV mounted above the bottles, and I pretended to be interested. I wondered if anyone would show up on a Sunday night, but by six o’clock, as I was nursing my second beer, at least fifteen customers had arrived, most of them taking seats at the bar, and the man with the acoustic guitar had already sung two Eagles songs. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and ordered a turkey burger with sweet potato fries. Just as it was arriving, John, the hotel concierge who had checked me in, sat down two stools over and ordered a Grey Goose martini.
/>   “Hello, there,” I said, swiveling my barstool fractionally in his direction.

  I watched his eyes hunt my face. I knew I looked quite a bit different from when I had checked in. After a long second, he said, “Hello, guest with no reservation. How’d you like your room?”

  “It’s lovely. You were right.”

  “Didn’t bump your head going through the door?”

  “Almost.”

  His drink arrived, the vodka forming a trembling meniscus at the brim of the glass. “Now, how do you expect me to drink this?” he said to the bartender, who, without a word, plucked up a small black bar straw and dropped it into his martini. John lowered the level of the vodka a quarter inch, then flicked the straw back toward the bartender, who let it bounce off his chest and fall to the floor.

  “Nice to leave your job and be able to go less than a hundred yards to get a martini,” I said.

  “I wasn’t kidding when I said how good this place was. See what a great advertisement I am, drinking at my own place of work.” His laugh was almost like a giggle, his shoulders hitching up and down.

  We chatted while I ate my burger, and he worked his way through the martini, adding ice as he drank it. I was about to give up any hope that I would stumble into gossip about Ted and Miranda, but when John’s second martini arrived, he asked, “You said you were from Boston?”

  “No, but Massachusetts. Winslow, about twenty miles west.”

  “Did you read about the murder in the South End? Ted Severson.”

  “I did. It was a home invasion or something, right?”

  “Right. He was building a house up here, just about a mile up the road.” He pointed north with one of his large, meaty hands. “They stay here—stayed here—all the time.”

  “Oh, my God. You knew him?”

  “I knew him really well, and Miranda, his wife, she practically lived here the past year.”