But Doug Marks wasn’t inside. He was walking around the corner of his home. Apparently he had been gardening. His hands and the knees of his chinos were covered with soil, and he carried a basket overflowing with weeds. He smiled when he saw her. “Hi, Susan. I was wondering if I should call you today. Your party was wonderful. I just hope Ashley and I didn’t disrupt it too much.”
Susan, who had spent the last few minutes trying to think of something consoling and original to say to this man, was completely nonplussed. Fortunately, Doug appeared to be in a talkative, cheerful mood, and didn’t notice.
“I’m thinking of replacing the swimming pool with a Japanese garden and small koi pond. What do you think?”
“I . . . Sounds lovely.”
“It’s something I’ve wanted to do since we moved in here. But Ashley wasn’t fond of the idea. She always said fish made her nervous,” he explained cheerfully.
“I . . . How unusual. I mean, they’re supposed to be relaxing, aren’t they?”
“Ashley was a very unusual woman.”
“Yes, of course she was,” Susan said. This was something she could hang a sympathetic statement onto. “I’m so sorry about . . . about what happened last night. We’ll miss her. She was a wonderful neighbor. . . .” She stopped speaking, realizing how unlikely it was that Doug would believe that lie.
But Doug didn’t even seem to be listening. He was sorting through the wilting plants in his basket, apparently searching for something. “Look at this,” he said, finally finding what he wanted. “This is the most invasive weed I’ve ever seen. The backyard is overrun. I’m tempted to have the entire place dug up and reseeded. Do you and Jed have a landscaping contractor you’re happy with?”
“We’ve used the same person for years and years. I can give you his name, but this late in the season . . .” She allowed the sentence to go unfinished.
“I’d appreciate that. He may have an opening you don’t know about. And I would love to get going on this project.” Suddenly his voice dropped, and the expression on his face changed. Susan thought he looked like a bereaved husband for the first time. “It will take my mind off things, you know.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” she enthused. “Your yard takes too much work to maintain the way it is. Martha Hallard loved her rose gardens, but I’ve never thought they were worth the effort it takes to keep them looking good—all that pruning and fertilizing in the spring and fall—and all the poisonous sprays it takes to keep them looking good in the summer. It’s amazing no one was ever made ill by them all.” She suddenly realized what she was saying, shut up, and glanced over at Doug. But he hadn’t seemed to notice; he was still sorting through the dying plants in his basket.
EIGHT
“AND THEN—THANK HEAVENS—SIGNE SHOWED UP, AND I left the two of them together.”
“Odd.” Jed was making his way through a huge sandwich stuffed with the cold cuts Susan had bought to make sure Chrissy and Stephen didn’t starve while they were visiting, and he didn’t, apparently, want to take the time to reply.
Susan, resisting the obvious comments about cholesterol, continued. “It is, isn’t it? I mean, if I’d been murdered yesterday, I doubt if you’d be out gardening today.”
“Probably not. Is there any more iced tea?”
As Susan told Kathleen later, the surprising thing wasn’t that she and Jed had been married for thirty years. The surprising thing was that, at that very moment, she hadn’t picked up a heavy pot and beaned him with it right there at their kitchen table despite those thirty years together. As it was, she went over to the refrigerator, pulled out the pitcher of tea, and refilled his glass. Then she left him to enjoy his lunch and went down into the basement to see if they had another bag of dog food. The last had vanished apparently overnight.
While she was there, she decided to look in the freezer. Doug and Signe wouldn’t feel like cooking, and Susan was too tired to spend a lot of time at the stove. But she thought she had a large Tupperware of coq au vin. It would thaw as she napped, and she’d take it next door around dinnertime. After a few minutes of moving around a dozen pints of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream—there had been an excellent sale at the grocery—she found everything she was looking for. When she climbed back up the stairs, she had a bag of Science Diet hanging from one hand and a large plastic container of chicken in the other. Jed was no longer at the table, although he had left behind his dirty plate for her to remember him by. Susan looked around. The counters needed wiping. The dishwasher needed running. The tile floor was covered with dog and people prints.
Susan was exhausted. Cleaning could wait. She dumped the dog food and the Tupperware on the kitchen table, called to Clue, and headed upstairs for a much-needed nap.
Her last thought, as she drifted off to sleep, was that she should set an alarm: She didn’t want to sleep away the afternoon.
Her first thought, when the phone woke her less than an hour later, was that she should have turned on the answering machine. She really needed more sleep. Since no one else seemed inclined to answer, she reached out and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Henshaw? It’s Signe. Signe Marks. Could I come over and talk to you?”
“I . . . When?” Susan asked, struggling to wake up.
“Now. Please, it’s important.”
“I . . . Of course.”
Signe hung up before Susan could say more. She stretched and put her head back down on the pillow. Where was Signe calling from? How long would it take her to get here? She was just beginning to drift back to sleep when the doorbell rang.
Clue jumped off the bed and flew into action. By the time Susan made it downstairs, the dog had worked herself into a tizzy. Susan grabbed Clue’s collar and opened the door.
A beautiful blond young woman stood on the welcome mat. She wore a white linen tunic over a short, straight, black linen skirt. Italian sandals displayed red-painted toenails—evidence of a recent pedicure. Her long hair was swept off her high forehead with a black-and-white polka-dot silk scarf. Twin gold-cuff bracelets were pushed up on her tanned arms, and black Gucci sunglasses covered her eyes. Her nose matched her toenails—probably because she was sobbing loudly.
“Signe! Oh, my goodness, come in. What’s wrong?” The words escaped Susan’s mouth before she realized how stupid they were.
“Oh, Mrs. Henshaw. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened.” Signe allowed Susan to lead her into the house. Over her shoulder, Susan saw a large truck with Fox News Television painted on its side pull up to the curb before the house next door.
“Come on into the living room. I’ll get you some . . . some tea or something.” Susan led Signe to the couch and retrieved a box of Kleenex from a drawer in a nearby coffee table. “Here.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry to be so . . . so soggy. It’s just that I’m so upset.”
“Of course you are.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Signe said.
Susan thought for a moment. “Perhaps your minister . . . or priest . . . should be called to help out now.”
“What could our minister do?” Signe sniffed.
“Make arrangements for the funeral. Or do you think it’s too early to think about that?”
“I . . .” Signe removed her sunglasses and stared at Susan. “Funeral? Oh, you’re talking about Mother. It’s not my mother I’m worried about now. It’s my father.”
“Of course. He must be devastated,” Susan murmured, thinking that perhaps Doug had waited until his daughter’s arrival to break down.
“He’s not devastated! He’s crazy! He’s on the way to the police station right now. I’m afraid that he’s going to do something terrible!”
“What?” The doorbell prevented Susan from asking any more questions. “I’ll get that. You stay here. It could be those awful reporters.”
But it wasn’t a reporter, awful or otherwise. It was Erika Fortesque—Brett’s bride, Susan’s friend, and, Susan suddenly remem
bered, Signe Marks’s employer. So when Erika asked, “Is she here?” Susan knew exactly who Erika was asking about.
“In the living room. But, Erika . . .” Susan reached out and grabbed her friend’s arm as she rushed by. “Signe says her father went down to the police station. She seems to be worried about what he’s going to do there.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Erika looked down the hall. “Can she hear us?”
“I don’t think so.” Susan lowered her voice. “What’s going on?”
“Brett called me. And you have to promise you’ll never tell anyone that he did—don’t even mention it to Brett. He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.”
“I won’t tell anyone anything. But what’s going on?”
“About ten minutes ago Doug Marks walked into the police station and demanded to speak to Brett. When Brett appeared in the foyer, Doug announced that he had killed his wife.”
“Who else was in the foyer?”
“That’s just the problem. You know how the press have been swarming around looking for a story. Well, there were a half dozen reporters hanging around for a scoop—and they got one. There’s no way to keep this quiet now. That’s why Brett called me.”
“I’m glad he called, but I don’t understand,” Susan admitted.
“Brett says he doesn’t believe Doug killed Ashley. He didn’t go into the details.”
“So?”
“It’s Signe. Doug is afraid Signe is going to be arrested. That’s why he confessed!”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s protecting me. My father thinks I killed my mother.” Susan and Erika spun around. Signe was leaning against the wall, sniffling.
Erika rushed to her side. “Signe . . .” She wrapped her arms around the young woman, and her embrace inspired a fresh bout of tears.
“Maybe you could get some us some tea or something?” Erika suggested, leading Signe back to the living room.
“Of course.” Susan hurried toward the kitchen. She could use a shot of caffeine, too. And some food.
Fifteen minutes later, when Susan returned to the living room, she was carrying a full tray and Signe seemed to have regained her composure. “I thought you might like something to eat,” she explained, pushing aside a pile of magazines with her foot and placing the tray on the large coffee table in front of the couch.
Signe looked up at her and almost smiled. “That’s sweet of you.”
Susan started to fuss with cups and saucers, cream, sugar, and artificial sweeteners. Once everyone had tea, she put out a wedge of Brie, a straw basket of water crackers, and a plate of Mint Milanos. Then she sat down and waited. Erika looked at Signe and raised her eyebrows. Signe took a deep breath. “Okay. If you think she can help.”
“Signe has a big problem,” Erika began.
Susan picked up her cup and sipped.
“You see, my father has—or thinks he has—a good reason to believe I killed my mother,” Signe explained.
“What?”
“It’s sort of a long story. And there are some things I don’t want people to know about me . . . about my life.” Signe looked over at Erika.
“Things have happened in Signe’s life that are a little . . . well, a little odd,” Erika said.
“And you’re afraid not everyone will understand,” Susan suggested quietly.
“Exactly.” Signe looked down into her cup as though expecting to find something fascinating there.
“I think you’re going to have to tell Susan if you want her to help you,” Erika said gently.
“I know. It’s so hard to talk about.” She looked up at Erika. “I don’t understand myself.”
Erika just nodded.
Susan waited, wondering what was coming. Drugs or some other sort of illegal behavior? Could this lovely young woman have been involved in a cult at one time? It was most likely an unwanted pregnancy, although that wasn’t usually as shaming as Signe’s hesitancy seemed to imply.
“I was almost arrested once for attempted murder.” The words were said so quietly that Susan wasn’t absolutely sure she had heard them.
“Attempted murder?” Susan repeated when Signe didn’t elaborate. “But that’s what your mother was arrested for.”
“You have to explain a bit better,” Erika insisted.
“You see . . . Well . . . there seems to be a theme of poisoning in my family. It started years and years ago. Back when I was a teenager. Back then, my mother came down with the same symptoms my father was suffering from. She . . . she kept going to the emergency room with stomach problems. Finally a doctor there realized she was being poisoned. There was an investigation, of course. The evidence pointed to me. But I . . . I wasn’t arrested,” Signe said, the words coming out so quickly that Susan had trouble understanding what she was saying.
“You said you were a teenager at the time.”
“Yes. I was sixteen. Barely.”
“Signe, I know you don’t want to talk about all this, but you really do have to explain more.” Erika’s voice was gentle, but firm.
Signe took a deep breath. “I didn’t get along very well with my mother.”
That didn’t surprise Susan. She had found it difficult to get along with Ashley, and she didn’t live in the same house as her. “Sixteen is a difficult age,” she said.
Signe brushed her hair off her face and began, haltingly, to tell the story. “It wasn’t because I was sixteen. It was because of the way I was raised.
“When I was a kid, I didn’t know my mother all that well. I grew up on my grandfather’s farm—he raised tobacco and dairy cows. The closest town was tiny—and a fifteen-mile drive away. I went to school by bus and was driven to church on Sunday. It sounds isolated, but it wasn’t. My grandparents were from Norway, and they kept in touch with their roots. I learned to dance at the Sons of Norway Viking Hall. My Girl Scout troop’s leaders were from Norway, and we learned to cook Norwegian dishes for our cooking badge. My 4-H project was raising goats. You get the idea.” She smiled for the first time since entering the house. “It was a wonderful way to grow up. I was surrounded by people who nurtured and cared for me.”
“What about your parents? Did they live on the farm, too?” Susan asked.
“No. My father’s job kept him overseas, and my mother went along with him. Most summers, they had a one-month leave, but my mother always insisted that being home wasn’t what my father needed to relax from his stressful occupation, and anyway, she preferred Paris or London to a farm in upstate Connecticut. As a result I didn’t see much of them—at least not when I was young. But when I was fourteen years old, my grandfather died and my parents came home. My father left whatever project he was working on, moved into my grandmother’s house, and planned to run the farm. It was a bad idea. My mother hated the farm and didn’t like caring for my grandmother, whose health was failing. It turned out that my father wasn’t very good at farming, so when my grandmother died, he sold the place and they went back overseas. By then I wasn’t living at home, of course. I’d gone to college—NYU—and I was living in the city. I’ve never been one of those kids who return to the nest. Of course, in my case, there wasn’t any nest.”
“But back at the farm—when you were all living together. You said your mother was poisoned.”
“Yes. It was creepily like what happened last summer,” Signe continued. “That’s why Erika knows about it all. I went a little—a lot—nuts when my mother was arrested.”
“I followed the case in the papers,” Susan said slowly. “You father was poisoned with insecticides, right?”
“Yes. He still has traces of it in his blood.”
“And your mother?”
Signe nodded. “It was exactly the same. My mother became ill and went to the hospital. She was diagnosed as having food poisoning. It happened three times in two weeks, and finally a doctor insisted on some tests. Those tests revealed that she was ingesting poison.
“At first,
everyone assumed she had picked up something on the farm. My father was worried and hired a company to come out and do tests in and around the house to discover exactly where my mother was coming in contact with the poison.” Signe paused for a few minutes and then, looking straight at Susan, finished the story. “There was poison in the house. It was in my bedroom closet—a bag of it as well as a cup and a whisk, which had obviously been used to mix the insecticide with other ingredients. I was taken into custody that evening.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t poison your mother, did you?” Susan asked.
“No.”
“But . . .”
“But what was that stuff doing in my closet, right?”
“Yes.”
“I can only tell you what I told everyone at the time: I have no idea. My room had two closets. I used one for clothing and one for stuff. You know, sports equipment, school things, teenage junk. The poison was found in the back of that closet. It could have been there for months and I wouldn’t have noticed. Or it might have been placed there the day of the search.”
“They found the poison in your closet, and you were taken into police custody?”
“Yes, and released almost immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother claimed to have put that poison there. I really had no idea where it had come from. And my mother stuck to her story. She said she used it on house-plants. Since she wasn’t suicidal, the police really had no choice but to let me go.”
“What about your father? Your grandmother? What did they think?” Susan asked.
“My grandmother was wonderful. She believed me absolutely. She made an unusually critical comment about my mother, and that was it. My father—back then I didn’t know what he thought. But he suggested I go into therapy. I did. To tell the truth, I seriously needed someone to talk to. My therapist was wonderful—and a graduate of Columbia. She’s the reason I went to college in the city.
An Anniversary to Die For Page 6