“It isn’t. But I can understand why they think that. I have spent much of the past year and a half alone in my condo.”
“Why? What happened?” Susan cried.
“I was busy. Writing my book. That’s why I’m here. My first novel is going to be published in two months, and I’ve decided to give myself a book party.”
Susan threw her arms around her friend’s neck and hugged her. “Jinx, that’s fantastic news. What is it called? What’s the book’s title?”
“Men I’ve Killed and How I Did It.”
SEVENTEEN
“IT’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. I HAVEN’T ACTUALLY KILLED anyone, of course. But I do spend a fair amount of time discussing the changes in my attitude toward the opposite sex over the years. My publisher suggested the title. He thought it would sell.”
Susan laughed. “Probably will. I’ll buy a few copies. I want to read it, and it sounds like it would be a great present for some of my friends. Which reminds me: I told the Twigg sisters that I was here to pick up Jed’s and my anniversary gifts. Don’t let me forget to do it.”
Jinx’s eyes twinkled. “Susan, if that’s why you’re here, why are you worried about forgetting?”
“Well, you could say I have ulterior motives. I’ll tell you about it when we’re alone. Here comes a waiter.”
Susan and Jinx were given the best table on the deck, and chilled Sauvignon Blanc was poured for them without either woman asking. “Can’t complain about the service,” Jinx commented, picking up her glass and squinting at the golden liquid.
“The food is great, too.”
“Is that why you chose to have your party here?”
“No, we gave the party here because this is where we spent our honeymoon. I hadn’t even thought about this place in years and years—and then we were having cocktails with some neighbors and started talking about the party. Someone . . .” She paused. “I think . . . Well, that doesn’t matter now. Anyway, it was suggested that we think about coming back here to give the party. I thought it was a great idea—and it was, although not for the reasons we thought it would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in lots of ways the inn is nicer now than it was then. The food is sure better. And the public rooms have been updated. They’ve taken away the 1950s fake pine colonial and put out some wonderful antiques. And it’s not that the bedrooms aren’t nice—they are. They’re . . . well, they’re just not what we’re used to anymore.”
“You’re saying that your life has changed more than the Landing Inn has.”
“Exactly. And, frankly, I hadn’t been confronted with it before. We’ve become more Four Seasons than Oxford Landing Inn. We’re used to lush marble bathrooms, king-size beds with masses of pillows, discreet artwork hung above fashionable furniture. Our bathroom here didn’t even have a shower, the tub was stained with decades of lime and rust, and while the room was comfortable that’s about all I could say for it. And the pictures on the wall are a horror—watercolors done by the mother of the current inn’s owners. I’m afraid she had neither talent nor training—and was possibly color-blind as well.”
Jinx laughed. “You don’t make it sound very appealing.”
“You know, that’s wrong. It is appealing—except for the artwork—but this was the first time I’ve wondered if we’ve become snobs and . . . I don’t know.” Susan frowned and played with her wineglass. “Maybe we’ve become too dependent on things we swore wouldn’t matter when we got married.”
“So you’ve changed. Everyone changes. At least you and Jed changed together and managed to stay married. That’s a real accomplishment.”
“I know. I’ve thought that, too. But I keep thinking that when we got married we dreamed of going around the world on steamers, camping or staying in hostels.”
“You could still do that.”
“I guess. But do we want to do it anymore? Oh, this looks lovely.” Susan changed the topic and looked down at her plate. Roasted corn, tomatoes, avocados, and strings of red onions had been laid over arugula.
“Dill corn muffins, Cheddar shortbread rounds, walnut whole wheat rolls, garlic salt sticks.” Their waiter pointed out the selection of breads in the basket he placed on the table between the women.
“Thank you,” Jinx said, reaching for the little china crock of butter. “Has Jed talked about retiring anytime soon?”
“He talks about it, but we haven’t made any plans. I think once Chad is settled . . . We’ve always talked about leaving Connecticut, keeping the house in Maine, and buying another—or a condo—somewhere warm.”
“By the time Chad is out of college, you’ll have grand-children and you won’t want to leave them. What’s that expression on your face?”
“Chrissy’s pregnant! I’ve been thinking about other things so much that I almost forgot.”
Jinx jumped out of her seat and reached across the table to hug Susan. “What fantastic news! You’re going to be a grandmother! When is the baby due?”
“She hasn’t told me. In fact, she hasn’t told me she’s pregnant. I just found out.”
“Still the detective?”
“I guess. In fact, I’m—”
“—looking into the murder of Ashley Marks,” Jinx finished Susan’s sentence.
“How do you know?”
“Susan, everyone knows. Has there ever been a murder in your vicinity that you ignored?”
“Well, no, but . . . well, I’ve been asked to help with this one. Officially.”
“Really?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised!”
“I remember that the local police, when we were taking college classes, were anything but thrilled by your involvement.”
“Well, the local police here don’t really know about it,” Susan admitted. “Do you remember Brett Fortesque?”
“The incredibly good-looking man who runs the police department in Hancock? Of course. How many women would forget meeting him?”
“He’s asked for my help. He . . . You won’t say anything about this to anyone else?”
“Who shouldn’t know? The sisters Twigg? The local officials?”
“The local officials.” Susan paused. “The local police chief once worked in Hancock—for Brett.”
“And Brett Fortesque thinks he’s a corrupt cop!” Jinx suggested.
“No, nothing like that,” Susan insisted. “Brett just thinks it would be better if Peter Konowitz doesn’t know that I’m looking into Ashley’s murder.”
“Who is Peter Konowitz?”
“The chief of police here in Oxford Landing.” Susan hesitated. She trusted Jinx, but she knew Brett wouldn’t want her to repeat too much of what he had told her. “It’s not that Brett doesn’t trust Peter, but I know he thought that Peter would be better off in a large police department. He worked in New York City after Hancock.”
“Oxford Landing isn’t exactly an urban area. Wonder how he ended up here?”
“That’s simple. He grew up here. He probably has friends here.” She remembered what Alvena Twigg had said about this and rushed on. “And professional contacts, of course. Peter Konowitz is still pretty young to be a police chief. Actually, I don’t know a whole lot about all this—yet. I suppose I’ll find out more as I investigate the Markses.”
“How are you going to do that here?”
“I’m not sure. I was talking with Alvena Twigg. She seems to know a lot about everyone who grew up in the area. But, you know, I just had a great idea. I should check with the local paper. There may have been stories about the Markses.”
“This area is pretty rural. Are you sure there is a local newspaper?”
“I think I saw what looked like one on the coffee table in the front parlor. Wait, our waiter will know.” She waved to the young man who was standing nearby ready to do their bidding.
“Ma’am?”
The question was addressed to Jinx, so she answered. “Could you possibly find a copy of the loc
al newspaper for us?”
“Of course. They’re in the foyer. I’ll pick up copies for both of you and be back immediately.”
“Is the service always this good, or is this just a sales pitch?” Jinx asked.
“It’s pretty good,” Susan said. “Back in the winter, things were different. They were slightly understaffed when we were doing some of the party planning, but once summer arrived, the place was swarming with willing and helpful college kids.”
Their willing and helpful waiter must have also been on the track team; he reappeared promptly, papers in hand. “There’s a weekly newspaper and a shopper that comes out weekly, too. I picked up both. Many of our guests seem to enjoy going through the real estate ads, looking for vacation homes, you know.”
“Please, I’m a writer. One small apartment is more than I can afford,” Jinx said.
Susan looked up and grinned. It was obvious that Jinx had enjoyed announcing her newfound career. And, gratifyingly, their waiter was impressed.
“Really? A writer? What’s your name? Would I know it? Have I read anything you’ve written?”
“No, my first book is due to be published in October.”
“Really? I’m majoring in English lit, and I want to write. What’s the name of your book?”
“Men I’ve Killed and How I Did It.”
“Oh, a mystery novel. I’m afraid I’m studying more literary work.” It was obvious to both women that his interest had all but vanished. “Well, I’d better bring you your soup.”
“I guess the title doesn’t appeal to everybody.”
“Well, he is male. Perhaps he considers you a threat.”
Jinx whooped her enthusiasm at this suggestion and reached for her wineglass. “I think that deserves a toast. I’ve waited almost sixty years for men to think of me as a threat!” Then raising her glass, Jinx said, “To me! And all the other threatening old bags!”
“You are not an old bag!” Susan protested, picking up her glass.
“Well, maybe not old.”
They both laughed and tapped their glasses.
“I’ll skim through the shopper while you look at the—” Jinx glanced down at the table. “—at the Oxford Democrat,” she finished, reading the header aloud. “But I don’t see why these papers would have anything about the Markses in them. They don’t even live here anymore.”
“These issues won’t. I thought I’d find out where their offices are located and go over this afternoon and see if I can go through their archives.”
“That’s a great idea! No wonder you solve so many murders!” Jinx cried.
Unfortunately, their waiter appeared with two cups of gazpacho at just that moment. “The chef also makes a wonderful chive vichyssoise,” he said, putting the cups down hurriedly, grabbing their empty salad plates, and moving immediately to the other side of the room.
“I think we scared the poor guy,” Jinx said.
“I suppose more of his customers discuss real estate than murder,” Susan said. “So, do you want to come along with me?”
“To the office of the Oxford Democrat?”
“Yup!”
“If you hadn’t asked, I’d have invited myself. But there is just one thing.”
“What?”
“Constance Twigg promised to send out a dessert plate with samples of all their goodies.”
“And I told Alvena that I would be sure to try something called creme Courvoisier,” Susan said.
“So, dessert first, investigate later.”
“Sounds like a great plan,” Susan agreed, laughing.
EIGHTEEN
“I THINK WE MISSED IT!” JINX PEERED THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD of Susan’s Cherokee.
“Not again! We’ve circled this block at least three times. How could we possibly have missed it? Maybe we don’t have the correct address,” Susan suggested.
“It’s printed right here.” Jinx looked down at the newspaper grasped tightly in her hands and then back out the window. “This is a short block. There’s a luncheonette, an auto supply store, a five-and-dime—closed—a newsstand, a pharmacy, a store that sells work boots and hunting and fishing supplies, and a diner. Oh, wait! Slow down! Look at what it says on that sign!”
“Which one?”
“Sam’s Sporting Supplies. Up there.”
Susan put her foot on the brake and looked in the direction Jinx had indicated. “Sam’s Sporting Supplies. Work Boots our Specialty. Ammunition. Fly Rods. Bait. We have Blood Worms. Expert Taxidermy. Office of the Oxford Democrat. Sam Redman, Editor in Chief.”
“There’s an empty parking spot at the end of the block.”
Susan pulled in, switched off the engine, and turned to look at her friend. “Amazing. A newspaper office above a bait shop.”
“Look again,” Jinx suggested.
The second floor of the building was fronted by double plate-glass windows displaying all manner of dead animals frozen into what were, to Susan and Jinx, rather odd poses. “The taxidermist seems to be upstairs,” Susan said. “So where are the newspaper offices located?”
“Why don’t we go in and ask?” Jinx suggested. They got out of the car, and Susan pressed the key to lock it.
“Sounds good to me.”
The building was old—perhaps as old as the Landing Inn. The door creaked as they pushed it open, and the floors echoed the sound as they walked down the aisles between displays of fishing creels, camouflage clothing, camping equipment, and hand-tied flies. “Who would have thought that there were so many different kinds of dried bait,” Susan said, peering down at what appeared to be a large, dehydrated worm.
“Ugh. On the other hand, look at him!”
Susan looked away from the displays to see what had softened her friend’s voice. “Oh . . . hi,” she said. A tall man, possibly in his mid-fifties, was walking down the open knotty pine staircase at the back of the store. He was wearing hiking boots, worn jeans, and a red T-shirt. His clothes hid few, if any, of his muscles.
“Good morning, ladies. What can I do for you?” His voice was deep, and he brushed graying hair off his forehead as he spoke.
“We’re looking for the newspaper office.”
“Well, then you’re in luck. You’ve found it. I’m Sam Redman, editor in chief. What can I do for you? Announcements of upcoming events have to be submitted at least a week early. All press releases should be submitted in writing. Advertising rates are reasonable and posted on the door of my office upstairs.” Sam was tanned, and when he smiled, the deep wrinkles that formed around his light blue eyes only added to his considerable charm.
Susan introduced herself and Jinx before continuing. “I’m afraid what we want is a bit more complicated than any of those things.”
“Well, I can deal with that. Since I don’t seem to have a steady supply of customers down here, why don’t we all go up to my office where we can sit down, be comfortable, and you can just tell me what you want.”
“Great!” Jinx said, just a bit too enthusiastically. “You lead the way,” she continued, grabbing Susan by the sleeve.
“Wha—” Susan looked at Jinx as Sam Redman started up the stairs.
“He isn’t wearing a wedding ring. See if you can move the conversation around to whether or not he’s married,” Jinx whispered.
“Why me?”
“It will be less suspicious coming from you!”
“What happened to that liberated woman you’ve become?”
“She tends to vanish in moments of stress.”
“I’m sorry? I didn’t hear what you were saying.”
“I was just telling Susan what an interesting store this is,” Jinx lied. “Not that I know anything at all about stuff like camping and so on. I’m more of a city girl myself.”
Sam Redman turned and smiled at Jinx. “If there’s anything I love, it’s trying to teach a city girl to appreciate the great outdoors. Right this way, ladies.”
Susan and Jinx glanced at each other and hurried
after him.
The office of the Oxford Democrat was the entire top floor of the sporting goods shop. There were three worn, golden oak desks and two large printing presses. “We’re modern. We don’t lay out the paper in hot type anymore,” Sam explained. “My grandfather used to run the paper, and I grew up in this office. I can’t bring myself to get rid of the presses.”
“Have you ever thought of doing small press runs of handmade books?” Jinx asked, walking over to the closest of the huge machines. “There’s not much money in that type of business, but—”
“Sounds like just the thing for me, then. I specialize in doing things that aren’t profitable—which is why I run a sporting goods shop and newspaper without a whole lot of help. I can’t tell you how many times a day I run up and down that stairway.”
“What about the taxidermy part of the business?” Jinx asked, glancing at the animals in front of the windows.
“Friend of mine does that. Can’t get too excited about stuffed dead animals myself,” Sam Redman answered.
“Then we won’t take up too much of your time,” Susan said. “We’d like to go through your files. We’re doing research on some . . . uh, events and people in Oxford Landing.”
“You’re welcome to see what you can find. You are here because that Ashley Marks was killed at your anniversary party, aren’t you?”
“Well, sort of,” Susan admitted, hoping she wouldn’t be forced to explain further.
“Tell you what. You can scrounge through my files as much as you want to—with two conditions.”
“What?”
“Everything has to be put back where you found it— exactly. Every time I let someone look around in here, I end up regretting it. I’d like this time to be different.”
“It will be!” Jinx assured him. “What else?”
“I’d like an interview with Mrs. Henshaw for the next issue of the paper. A lot of the social life of Oxford Landing takes place at the Landing Inn, and the murder of a guest there is big news.”
Susan frowned. “Okay. I guess . . .”
“You talk with Susan, and I’ll take a look at your files,” Jinx suggested, heading toward the largest desk. An IBM computer sat on top, its screen saver displaying species of freshwater fish.
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