An Anniversary to Die For

by Valerie Wolzien

  “I know that from personal experience,” Susan said.

  Brett’s face lost its solemn look for a moment. “That’s right, you do. You and Kathleen and Erika. Well, then you understand a bit. We’re not talking Serpico here. Peter hasn’t been, as far as I know, involved in uncovering anything like police brutality, illegal acts, or racial profiling— all things any good cop hates. Rather, Peter has a habit of noting any little infringement of the rules and then reporting it to his superiors.”

  “Sounds like he wouldn’t be a very popular officer.”

  “Damn right. He wasn’t liked when he was here in Hancock. I actually suggested that he would be happier moving to a larger, urban department. I thought that if he was around more and more serious corruption, he would focus on that and be . . . well, less of a pest.”

  “And more of a conscience to his department,” Susan suggested.

  Brett seemed relieved by her words. “Yes, exactly.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Apparently not. I’ve been asking around. He left Hancock over seven years ago, and I understand he’s worked with five different departments since that time.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Very. Not many cops jump about from place to place. And, while you could look at Peter’s moves as attempts to improve his career, I think there may have been something else involved. I suspect he simply couldn’t get along with his coworkers and was encouraged to leave all his various positions.”

  “I gather you’ve contacted people in the other places he worked?”

  “No, but over the years, they’ve been in contact with me. You see, I’m on Peter’s resume as a reference. Unfortunately.”

  “He couldn’t have used your name without permission.”

  “No, I gave it. Years ago when he wanted to leave Hancock, he asked me if I minded being listed as a reference. Since I had suggested that he would be happier someplace else, I didn’t feel I could refuse. Especially as I had never expressed to him my concerns about his ability to get along with his fellow officers.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “It’s a mistake I’ve never made again. I should have told him outright that he was alienating himself from his coworkers and that it was dangerous, stupid, and arrogant of him. Instead I foisted him off on a precinct in New York City and assumed he would learn his lesson there.”

  “I gather he didn’t.”

  “Nope. Well, not at least that I know about. And it’s not as though I’ve been following his career step-by-step. But from what I do know, he’s moved to smaller and smaller departments, and I do believe there always have been some questions about his ability to work with his fellow officers. At least that’s the impression I get from the questions that I’m asked by whoever is hiring him.”

  “So how did he get to be police chief in Oxford Landing?”

  “Who knows? It may be that no one wanted the job. It’s a small town—probably doesn’t pay all that much. And he does have some connections there. He grew up in the area. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “Were you contacted as a reference?”

  “Nope. But he worked in Hancock four or five jobs ago. So why contact me now? And, as I said, he knew people there. They may not have felt it was necessary to do a thorough check on him. Small towns can be like that. Hell, Hancock is like that.”

  “I guess. But what does this have to do with me?”

  Brett sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Susan, I hate to ask you this. I . . . I was hoping you would snoop around a little and find out some things.”

  “Brett, I’m always glad . . .” She looked at him suspiciously. “This has something to do with Chief Peter Konowitz, doesn’t it?”

  “I need some information about him.”

  “Brett, I just told Jed that I was going to stay away from him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he hates me. At least he acts like he does. This afternoon I called him. . . . Well, I called the police station in Oxford Landing and spoke with the officer who answered the phone. And I told him that Jed and I had found an empty wine bottle in our presents. I mean, it was in with our presents. It may even have been one of them. But now it was empty, and we thought that maybe Ashley had drunk from it. That maybe it had contained the poison that killed her.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. So you called the Oxford Landing police,” Brett prompted.

  “Yes. We thought we had to, of course. And the first thing we know Chief Konowitz is at our door to collect the bottle.”

  “That’s part of his job.”

  “It’s not part of his job to be so nasty. I mean, I understand what you mean when you say he doesn’t get along with people. He’s awful! He made me feel guilty, and all I was doing was trying to help out the police.”

  “Does that mean you won’t help me out?”

  Now it was Susan’s turn to sigh. “Exactly what do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Keep your eyes open and please, Susan, stay out of Chief Konowitz’s way.”

  SIXTEEN

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, THE TWIGG SISTERS WERE enjoying a second cup of breakfast coffee on the wide front porch of the Landing Inn when Susan drove up. She forced a smile on her face, waved, and steered her Cherokee into the parking lot across the street. In the time it took Susan to join them, Constance had disappeared.

  “My sister has a busy day planned. In a few minutes, she’s meeting with a prospective customer looking for a location for a Christmas wedding reception. Then she has a brunch meeting with a woman who is sampling our cuisine for a party she’s giving in a few months. And, this afternoon, three of our suppliers are going to be here promoting new products. Of course, I feel that our dear inn isn’t quite the sort of place to try out new products, but Constance felt she had to meet with them. My sister is more modern than I am.”

  “You think the inn is perfect just the way it is,” Susan suggested, sitting down in the rocking chair Constance had just vacated.

  “Exactly!” Alvena turned pink with pleasure. “You do understand. So many people don’t. Including my dear sister sometimes, I’m afraid. She can be so very modern.”

  “Perhaps that’s what makes the Landing Inn work—your reverence for the past and your sister’s . . . ah, modern flair.” The words sounded superficial to Susan. Did Alvena share her opinion? But apparently they were just what the other woman wanted to hear.

  “You are so perceptive! That’s exactly what makes our inn unique. Of course, it’s not always easy to arrive at a consensus. Sometimes my sister and I have the most dreadful arguments. But my father provided for that in his will. We simply take turns being right. My father was such a wise man. Isn’t that a brilliant solution?”

  “It sounds like it,” Susan said, realizing she sounded doubtful. “But how does it work?”

  Alvena leaned forward to peer at Susan. “I just told you. We take turns being right.”

  “You mean you alternate making all the decisions?”

  “No, because, of course, sometimes we agree. And that’s that. We alternate making the decisions concerning those things we disagree on.” She sighed loudly, giving Susan the impression that Alvena had explained this many times before. “It’s simple. Suppose I say—as I did say recently— that I believe it would add to the inn’s ambiance if we had new table linens woven by one of the local weavers. I was thinking of heavy napkins made from natural linen, actually. There is a weaver a few towns away who is doing the most beautiful work. Her fabrics are gorgeous, heavy but with a silky hand. Of course, I was the first to admit that replacing the regular linens we get from restaurant supply outlets would be expensive, but I, for one, thought the outlay was justified. It’s the small details that mean so much. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, yes. I guess so.”

  “But you see, my dear Constance didn’t. She thought what we were using was adequate. That’s her exact word: adequate. I want more than adequ
ate for the inn. Much, much more. I want everything to be perfect. And the linen napkins and cloths I found were perfect. Unfortunately, it was Constance’s turn to make the decision, so I had to accept less than perfect. Once again.”

  “It’s the inn’s loss.” Susan hoped that it was the right thing to say.

  Apparently it was. Alvena reached out and patted Susan’s arm. “Exactly! You put that so well. ‘It’s the inn’s loss.’ I shall remember that phrase. It’s the inn’s loss,” she repeated.

  “And the next time it will be your turn to decide what to do, right?”

  “Oh, I’ve already had my turn. You won’t believe what that silly Constance wanted.”

  Susan had yet to see anything silly about Constance at all. She leaned forward. “What?”

  “She thought we should install central air-conditioning in the entire inn. It’s so foolish of her. She drew up plans and ordered information from a few suppliers over the Internet, but of course I said no.”

  “There are individual air conditioners in each room, and they do seem to keep everything nice and cool,” Susan said, nodding.

  “Yes, and it would be horribly expensive and destructive to install central air-conditioning! Constance should have known that. She suggested the same thing last year, and I said no then. Silly Constance!”

  Susan would have called Constance wily rather than silly, but she decided it was time to change the subject. “I hate to bother you, but I’m here to collect the last of our anniversary gifts,” she explained.

  “Of course.” Alvena stood up immediately. “So many lovely things. You have very generous friends.”

  “We did ask that they not bring gifts. It was printed right on the invitation.”

  “Then they are especially generous, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s true. And you and your sister have been very kind to store these things for us.”

  “Well, I feel it was the least we could do. After all, it must have been such a shock to find that woman in your bed. I can’t tell you how badly I felt about that. A murder on your second honeymoon. Of course, you’re used to this type of thing, aren’t you?”

  “But Ashley’s murder had nothing to do with me!” Susan protested.

  “Now, now, that’s not what Peter says, and he would know, don’t you think?”

  “Peter who?”

  “Why, Peter Konowitz, Chief Peter Konowitz. He’s running the investigation of Mrs. Marks’s death. I would have thought you would have remembered him.”

  “Yes, of course. I just wasn’t thinking of him as Peter.”

  “He’ll always be Peter to me. I knew him when he was young, you see.”

  “That’s right. I’d heard he grew up around here.”

  “In the next town over, but he attended Central High— all the children whose parents didn’t send them to private school go there—and I got to know him very well during his tenure there.”

  This was exactly the type of information Susan had come here for. “Really? I remember you saying you were the school secretary.”

  “Yes, for over fifty years.”

  “Does that mean Peter Konowitz was one of those boys who spent a lot of time in the principal’s office?”

  “Why yes, he . . .” Alvena stopped and wagged her finger at Susan. “Oh, you naughty woman you. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re completely wrong.”

  Susan was so taken aback by being referred to as a naughty woman that she was speechless. Fortunately, Alvena wasn’t.

  “Peter wasn’t in trouble. He was one of the nicest boys in the school. He got good grades, dressed well, was one of the stars of the baseball team. He was always well groomed—he never wore his hair long and stringy as so many high school boys do. He belonged to many of the school’s clubs. He even received an award for his part on the debating team from the state when he was a junior.”

  “He must have been very popular,” Susan muttered.

  “Well, that’s just the problem, see. For some reason he wasn’t. I mean, I loved him, and I know most of his teachers must have liked him; but the students . . . Well, what can I say? High school students have never been especially good judges of character. Poor Peter ran for office four years in a row, and each time he lost. It was heartbreaking. Of course, it was because he ran for office that I got to know him so well.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the student elections were monitored by the vice principal. Everything went through his office—you would not believe what some of the students thought was appropriate for campaign posters and slogans.”

  Susan, thinking back to her children’s school years, knew that nothing would surprise her, but she didn’t argue. “So he was in the office a lot?” she prompted.

  “Yes. And he was such a polite young man. He’d come in and just stay around to chat. Not many young men did that, I can tell you.”

  “No, most young men don’t appreciate women of our age,” Susan said tactfully, although, of course, Alvena was probably twenty years older than she.

  “Exactly. And we have so much to teach them,”Alvena added, then giggled and blushed. “Oh, I don’t mean that! But you do understand what I mean.”

  “Yes, of course. So you got to know Chief Konowitz well?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “That must be very comforting for you. In case you have any problems here that require police involvement.”

  “Until yesterday we never had reason to call the police to the inn.”

  Susan had not realized Constance had joined them.

  “Oh, Constance, that’s not true. We have had to call them before,” Alvena protested. “Why just last week—”

  “I was referring to a serious problem, and I’m sure Mrs. Henshaw does not want to sit here and discuss our unruly guests, Alvena,” Constance said. Her tone, Susan thought, would wilt most anyone’s enthusiasm.

  But apparently Alvena was more accustomed to her sister. “But remember that guest who tried to steal the trundle bed in room seven and the one who decided to repaint all Mother’s dear, dear watercolors hanging in room three?”

  “Alvena, those were minor problems, and I’m sure Mrs. Henshaw is not interested.”

  Actually, Susan wouldn’t have minded meeting the person who shared her opinion of the inn’s artwork, but she decided that the conversation would go nowhere with Constance around. “I suppose I’d better get on with what I came here to do. It’s almost time for brunch,” she added, glancing at her watch.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Constance explained. “Those damn suppliers have screwed up and they’re arriving two hours early. I was hoping you would entertain a Ms. Jinx Jensen for brunch, Alvena. I’ve already ordered—”

  “You mean Jinx is here?”

  “Yes, I believe that is her first name. She was at your party the other evening, wasn’t she?”

  “She was, and I didn’t get a chance to speak with her. I took some classes at the local college a few years ago, and Jinx was there working on her degree. We got to know each other when we joined a support group for returning students.” Susan didn’t add that they had investigated a murder together. She thought for a moment. She had things to do, but nothing that couldn’t be put off for a few hours. “Would it be possible for me to have brunch with her? You said you’d ordered, but—”

  “That would solve our little problem, wouldn’t it, Constance?” Alvena enthusiastically responded to Susan’s question.

  Her sister was less enthusiastic. “You would have to choose from the regular menu,” she warned. “I only ordered one sample meal.”

  “That’s no problem at all. I . . . Jinx!”

  Jinx popped her head in the doorway. “Well, here you are. The perky young woman at the desk said I would find you all out here, and she was right. But I must tell you, she seems to need some help. The phone was ringing, guests were checking in and checking out, and I noticed two men with large briefcases coming up the si
dewalk.”

  The sisters got moving with surprisingly little stiffness for women so old. “I’ll go bring the reps around to the office. You better spend some time at the desk. I don’t know why we can’t find more competent help,” Constance complained, striding away without waiting to see if Alvena followed her orders.

  “There’s a table reserved for you out back,” Alvena told Jinx, fluttering around. “I do need to help out at the front desk. First impressions are always so important, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Perhaps I can help if Jinx has any questions. Remember, I just planned my own party,” Susan offered.

  “And if I have any questions that Susan can’t answer, I’ll ask you or your sister later,” Jinx said.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “We’re positive. And we’ll feel dreadful if we keep you any longer,” Susan assured Alvena.

  “Well, then I’ll go help out. Do have a lovely brunch. And, if you have some time, fill out one of our guest satisfaction forms. There’s one on each of the tables. We do depend on our guests to make sure our dear inn is up to snuff.” Alvena started from the room and then turned around. “Be sure to try the creme Courvoisier for dessert. It’s my favorite. A wicked number of calories, but worth it, I think.”

  “We will,” Susan assured her.

  “Yes, we will.”

  Apparently unable to think of anything else to suggest, Alvena fluttered off. Waiting a few minutes to be sure they were alone, Jinx shook her head. “I love this place. I loved your party. But those two women are going to drive me nuts. How about a drink?”

  “An excellent idea. I was so thrilled to see you the other night, but we didn’t have a chance to really talk. And I have so much to ask you—starting with who was that hunky guy you were with?”

  Jinx threw back her head and roared, “My nephew! Oh, Susan, it is good to see you! Everyone else I know thinks I’m pining away in my own little world, depressed and alone.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” Susan said as they headed toward the dining room.