A Star-Spangled Murder

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Tierney!”

  “God, you are so stupid!” Theresa growled.

  “It’s what you keep saying!” Tierney was obviously distressed; apparently the rules had changed, and no one had mentioned it to her. “And why are you here, Titania? I thought we were all going to meet down by the old well and we were going to collect thorns from the raspberry bushes to …” She looked at Susan and gulped. “To collect them,” she ended lamely.

  “You girls collect thorns?” Susan asked, when no one else spoke up.

  “Not usually. Of course not.” Titania spoke up. “Theresa loves to collect things, and she has a science project that she’s doing over the summer. She has to collect specimens of lots of plants and classify them. You know, for extra credit.”

  “You do extra credit work in the summer? Between the school years?” Susan, who had always suspected her own children of glossing over anything more difficult than Mad magazine during the summer months, was impressed. And more than a little skeptical. “Woody plants or just bushes?” she asked.

  “Everything! All the plants around here!” was Theresa’s enthusiastic answer. She waved her arms at the woods and the cove as she spoke.

  Susan didn’t even bother trying to look like she believed that one. “Should be interesting,” she said blandly. “I hope you have a large notebook.”

  “I like to collect things. I collect rocks, and beach glass, lobster buoys, and—” Theresa started to explain before her enthusiastic sister interrupted her.

  “Do I hear Mother calling?” Titania jumped to her feet. “Yes, I do!” she insisted. “It must be breakfast. We’d better get going.”

  Susan, who had heard nothing, wasn’t surprised when she found herself deserted. “There’s something going on there,” she said to herself, leaning back against the sun-warmed granite. “Something interesting.”

  The three children ran back across the cove. The sun shone down on their heads, turning their shiny hair the same color as the beard on their father’s face.

  FOUR

  “… And you didn’t get anything else from them.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of time.…” Susan began to excuse herself.

  “But there’s a story there.” Kathleen explained her interest. They were sitting at the scrubbed pine table in Susan’s kitchen, sipping hot tea and waiting while the body was removed from the living room. “Everyone who has come to the house, even the woman driving the ambulance, has made strange comments about this.”

  “Strange? In what way?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kathleen put her cup down on the table and glanced out the window. “No one seems very surprised that he was murdered.…”

  “Might be that no one on the island is surprised by some of the odd things you summer people do.”

  Kathleen and Susan both looked up as Janet Shapiro reentered the room. “And then again, it might be that they don’t want to be involved, that they want this to be a summer-people problem, not something that involves islanders.… I sure would love a cup of that tea,” she added, joining them at the table.

  Susan hopped up to get another cup. “There’s only milk and sugar. I still need to go to the store, I’m afraid. We had some problems getting down the road last night,” Susan added, and explained their situation.

  “Thanks,” Janet said, accepting the tea and taking a large gulp of the hot beverage before speaking again. “Tell me something. If you had been able to drive right to your door and unload everything into the house and then shop and do all the things that you normally do the night you arrive at the house, would you have taken that cover off Humphrey Taylor before this morning?”

  Susan looked down into the deep turquoise cup, made by a potter on the island; she loved the rings that led from its top to its bottom. “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “The first trip of the year can be difficult—fun but difficult. Normally the shutters would be off the house and all the covers put away before we arrived. This year something went wrong with the planning, and none of that happened.…” She would have continued, but Halsey had just run into the house, calling for her aunt.

  “We’re in here, Halsey. No need to wake up the dead.”

  “She’s on her way. She’s right out there. There was nothing I could do to stop her, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  They didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. Humphrey Taylor’s widow was knocking on the door before Halsey had stopped speaking. Halsey looked around wildly and, apparently unable to decide what to do, dashed for the stairs. Susan got up and hurried to open the back door.

  “Come in. You’re our new neighbor, aren’t you?” She heard the inanity of the words as she spoke them, but what else could she say? Come in. You’re the new widow, aren’t you? She was glad the job of informing Mrs. Taylor of her new marital status was going to fall in someone else’s lap. In this case, the wide one of Janet Shapiro.

  But it appeared that the subject was going to have to wait a few minutes; there were social amenities that had to be gotten out of the way first. “Hi. I’m Tricia Taylor. We haven’t met before, but my oldest daughter interrupted your meal last night. If I’d known then that we were neighbors, I’d have said something more. You must think we’re pretty rude.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t know who you were either. I’m Susan Henshaw, and this is my friend Kathleen Gordon. Kathleen’s up here for the Fourth of July—the other members of our families can’t get away, I’m afraid,” Susan explained politely.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping you and your husband could come to our brunch on the Fourth, but maybe Kathleen could come with you? We certainly aren’t old-fashioned enough to worry about having extra women.”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with extra women,” Susan said. “And we’d be delighted to come.” She wasn’t going to worry about accepting without consulting Kathleen. The only party that was going to take place at that house was a wake.

  “And we can meet your husbands when they come up—I know Humphrey’s looking forward to it.”

  Susan opened her mouth, and nothing came out.

  “Humphrey is your husband?” Kathleen asked to fill in the gap. Of course, they knew that, in fact, Humphrey was her husband—her dead husband, not her ex-husband. Although, when Susan stopped to think it through …

  “Yes. My second husband. We were married just a few months ago.” Susan wondered if Tricia was going to explain her unusual family situation.

  “He’s on the island?” Kathleen asked.

  “Not right now. He was here last week, but he had to go back down to Boston for a business meeting. He’ll be back in a few days, though. The man you saw me with last night was Ted, my first husband. The girls’ father. He’s staying at a bed-and-breakfast on the other side of the island. He says it’s very nice.”

  As nice as the dream house that he had planned and built and now watched someone else move into? Susan wondered.

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mrs. Taylor,” Janet said, insisting on returning to the tragedy.

  Tricia Taylor put her hand up over her face as though warding off a blow. “I don’t want to hear about it. I am sick to death of people coming to me about my family.” She looked at the startled women and changed her tone. “There are problems. There are bound to be problems in a second marriage.” She took a deep breath and continued more reasonably. “I have spoken to numerous psychiatrists and family therapists. There is nothing unusual here. We’re just going to have to live through it. I was speaking to my husband last night—”

  “You spoke with Humphrey last night? What time was that exactly?” Janet asked.

  Susan was interested: Tricia Taylor’s expression had changed from polite interest to annoyance to irritation to anger in a few moments. And why the changes since, apparently, she didn’t know Humphrey was dead?

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you people! Do you have such boring lives that you get your ki
cks by invading the privacy of others? I cannot imagine what sort of person would ask questions like that. You sound like a policeman or something and—”

  “I am a police person.”

  “And that gives you the right to ask anyone anything? I think not!”

  Susan, astounded at how quickly Tricia Taylor changed moods, wondered if Halsey had been correct. Maybe there was some sort of psychological problem here.

  “I happen to know something about the law, Mrs. … whatever your name is … and you are not allowed to hassle me or cause me any distress. Being a policewoman doesn’t mean you can do anything you want, you know.” She emphasized the word woman, ignoring Janet’s preferred form of address.

  Janet Shapiro poured out a cup of tea and pushed it across the table toward Tricia Taylor. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’m sure it was all my fault. I’m just not used to this type of thing.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I have to tell you that your husband is dead.”

  “T … He’s dead? How … ? Where is he? How do you know that?” Strangely enough, she picked up the tea and took a sip, peering into the cup. Susan wondered if she was trying to avoid their stares. “So how did it happen? A driving accident? These roads are so terrible, so many curves, no shoulders.… ”

  “It wasn’t an automobile accident, Mrs. Taylor. Someone hit him.”

  “Hit him? Hit him with what? Is this some sort of sick joke?”

  “Mrs. Taylor—”

  “Now, look …” Tricia Taylor put down her cup with a bang. “My family is going through a difficult time, I admit it, but there is no reason to make things more difficult than they are. I don’t know what my daughters told you, but they are really and truly settling down and accepting their new father, and all I can ask is that you ignore any wild stories they tell.”

  Susan put her hand on Tricia Taylor’s shoulder. “It’s true. Humphrey is dead. We found him this morning … here. In my house.”

  Tricia didn’t say anything for a few minutes. When she did speak, it was to Janet Shapiro. “You were talking about Humphrey. You were telling me that Humphrey is dead.”

  The policewoman looked puzzled.

  “You thought we were talking about your first husband, didn’t you?” Susan asked, thinking that she understood the confusion.

  “Yes.” Tricia Taylor stood up. “I … I have to go home. The girls …” She seemed confused. “The girls have to know about this. They have to know right away.”

  Susan leapt to her feet. “You shouldn’t be alone,” she insisted. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t know what you can do.…” the new widow began.

  “I’d feel a lot better if Mrs. Henshaw went with you,” Janet Shapiro insisted. “She can take phone calls and things like that while you deal with your daughters. There’s going to be a lot of business to attend to, I’m afraid. But first things first. Someone has to officially identify the body.”

  “I don’t think I could bear to do that.” Tricia Taylor paled, displaying the first anguish Susan had seen.

  “Well, you’re going to have to see him sooner or later, but if you want to wait until you’re more in control, that’s fine with me. What about your first husband?”

  “Ted?” Tricia seemed confused by the deputy’s suggestion.

  “You said he was on the island,” Janet explained, “and I did hear that he’s your second husband’s brother.”

  Tricia’s manner became slightly frosty. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “He could identify the body.”

  “Yes … yes, of course he could.” No one in the room could miss the relief that Tricia felt. “He’s staying at an inn over on the other side of the island. Near the bridge. I think it’s called The Land’s Inn or something like that.”

  “It’s The Landing Inn—that big cottage down by the old ferry landing. It’s run by some friends of mine. If you don’t mind if I use your phone, I’ll call over there and set someone to work finding your ex-husband.” Janet headed to the phone.

  “She could be wrong, couldn’t she?” Tricia asked after Janet had left. “Maybe the man you found wasn’t Humphrey.…”

  Susan knew Janet Shapiro wouldn’t have been sloppy in her identification, and she hated to raise Tricia’s expectations. “Unless he has a twin brother, I think you can be pretty sure it was Humphrey that we found.”

  “But we do have to have official identification, and Cathy over at the inn says your ex-husband is out,” Janet said, returning to the room.

  “Then I’ll have to do it?” Susan thought Tricia sounded horrified.

  “No. He told Cathy that he was going to look around some art galleries on the pier in town, so I think I’ll just mosey down that way and see if he can be found. Do you have any idea just what sort of art interests him?”

  “Anything modem or abstract. I wouldn’t bother going to places selling realistic watercolors of waves crashing against the granite coast or seals on the beach.”

  “I know the kind of thing you mean—and the places to look. My husband is a sculptor.”

  “I thought you said he was the sheriff.” Tricia sounded as if she were accusing Susan of lying.

  “You have to do more than one thing to make a living up here,” Janet said, heading toward the door. “I’ll call your house when I find him,” she added, leaving the room with a quick wave of her hand.

  “A sculptor? Isn’t that kind of a strange hobby for a sheriff?”

  “It’s not a hobby. Her husband studied at the Rhode Island School of Design, and he teaches at an art school on the island. Being sheriff is a way of bringing in a steady salary. It’s like Janet said, it’s tough making it up here, and lots of people do more than one thing to make ends meet. Janet sells silver jewelry that she designs and creates—she graduated from RISD, too,” Susan explained.

  “I know I sound surprised, but she doesn’t look like an artist,” Tricia said, starting from the room.

  “Not all artists fit the image,” Kathleen said, standing at the door. “I’ll stay here in case anyone needs me.”

  Susan and Tricia strolled down the path in the woods between the houses. For years and years, when the land had been unoccupied, this had been the Henshaws’ trail to the tiny point of land that jutted out into the water of Penobscot Bay. Susan and Jed had often sat here in the evening, a bottle of wine and two glasses keeping them warm as they watched the sun set over far-off islands. Last summer they had walked the same trail many times as the gigantic home grew on the point.

  The Taylors’ new house (for cottage or camp, the names usually used for Maine island homes, certainly didn’t apply here) stood on the foundation of an old summer cottage, one of the first on the island. Abandoned years ago, the original mansion had been built directly upon the pink granite slab that rose thirty feet or so above the water at high tide. The rocks had been matched so that it was difficult to determine where nature left off and artifice began. Sometime in the spring last year, before the Henshaws had opened their house, the Taylors’ contractor had destroyed the original building except for the stone foundation and the base of a large fireplace. On that he had created a large, modern structure that soared into the sky.

  And now, Susan thought, the inside would be finished and furnished. Even the tragedy at hand couldn’t entirely destroy her curiosity.

  “I hope the girls haven’t heard about this from anyone else,” Tricia Taylor said, closely following Susan.

  “It would certainly be best if you were the one to tell them,” Susan agreed, stepping over a large beige mushroom that had popped up in the middle of the path.

  Tricia, apparently unaware of Susan’s conservation, gave the fungus a kick that sent it flying into the woods. Oh well, Susan thought, the woman had more important things to worry about. “Jed and I have been admiring your house. We feel like we know it well—we watched the workmen all last summer,” she explained.

  “I hate that
house,” Tricia surprised her by answering. “If the economy weren’t so bad, if I had a prayer of getting my money back, I’d sell it in a minute.”

  “I—” Susan began to offer a soothing word or two, but she was interrupted.

  “It’s worth a fortune. Ted, of course, had to have the best of everything. Solid copper and solid brass. The most expensive traditional workmanship and the most expensive new technology all rolled together into one gigantic castle on the Maine coast. I know the recession is supposed to be only a memory, but there’s no way I’m going to make money on that thing. People get divorces for a lot of reasons, but I swear that house came between us just as much as another woman might have. It’s his first love, his creation—his Frankenstein,” she ended bitterly.

  As they rounded a curve in the path, Tricia’s monster came into view. It was spectacular—and beautiful. “You’re impressed, aren’t you?” Tricia Taylor asked. “Ted planned for you to be. He planned everything about his baby. It always made me think of those spots at Disney World where you’re supposed to take pictures because that’s the best view. Humphrey and I always laugh about it. Or we used to,” she added quietly.

  Susan didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “The girls like the house, of course,” Tricia added. “Well, they should. Ted consulted them about every little detail.”

  “Really? How nice for them.”

  “I suppose, but,” Tricia began as one conceding a point, “it didn’t make life easier for Humphrey. Ted was a hard act to follow. As a father, that is. As a husband, almost anyone would have been an improvement.”

  “It sounds like building the house was a strain,” Susan commented.

  “Building the house was a piece of cake. Ted wrote a check. Dozens of men on the island leapt for joy over his stupidity and largess, and then they got busy and built it.” Tricia shrugged. “Planning the house was the killer. In fact, it occupied Ted every spare second of our fifteen-year marriage.”

  “I—”

  “There’s Titania,” Tricia interrupted. “She’s my oldest daughter.”