An Anniversary to Die For

by Valerie Wolzien

  Sam Redman spoke up. “Not there. Over there.” He nodded toward the back wall of the room. Neither Susan nor Jinx had noticed before that it was lined with floorto-ceiling file cabinets. “Unless you’re looking for the second week of May 1971, every issue of the Democrat ever printed is in those cabinets.”

  “Where’s the missing issue?” Susan asked, staring at the file drawers.

  “Up on the wall.” Sam nodded to four large framed sheets on the wall over the desks. “That’s the week my grandfather died. The issue was devoted to him and his life. No ads. I keep it up there to remind me and any stringers I happen to hire what sort of traditions the paper has to keep.”

  Jinx had been staring silently at the files. When she spoke it was in a quiet voice. “I don’t suppose there’s an index?”

  “Can’t say that there is.”

  Susan looked around. The drawers were dated in a precise hand, but looking for anything related to Ashley and Doug didn’t seem possible. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother,” she began.

  “I’ll go through everything,” Jinx interrupted in a firm voice. “I have the time, and I love old magazines and newspapers. It will be fun.” She stood up and strode purposefully to the back of the room.

  Sam Redman’s eyes followed her. “A woman who thinks going through old newspapers is fun and and needs to learn about the outdoors. Who would have thought she would walk right in my front door today?”

  Jinx must have heard him, for she spun around, a smile on her face. “Are you married?”

  “Nope. What about you?”

  Jinx’s smile turned into a grin. “Nope,” she said before opening the first drawer and sticking her head inside.

  Susan tried to look serious. Jinx really had come a long way from the slightly insecure, recently divorced middle-aged woman she had been when they met. She couldn’t wait to read her book. “So what do you want to ask me?” She turned her attention to Sam Redman.

  He waved to a chair near the largest desk. “Have a seat.”

  “I don’t know much about the murder,” Susan warned him. “I don’t even know Ashley all that well. She and her husband just moved into our neighborhood about a year ago.”

  “That’s what I understand. Of course, I have a fair amount of background on her. She’s a local, you know.”

  “I . . . that’s right. I’d forgotten they lived around here for a while.”

  “The Markses lived all over the world: Hong Kong, Switzerland, New York City. But Doug grew up here and his parents lived here. We’ve seen a lot of the Markses over the years.”

  “Then you probably know a lot more about them than I do.”

  “Don’t know squat about the murder, though.”

  “Well, we found her—”

  “Mrs. Henshaw, my readers don’t fall into any one category. Some grew up around here and have been farmers—mostly tobacco or dairy—all their lives. And some were big deals in New York or D.C. and moved here to get away from it all. We even have the remnants of a hippie commune up north. They’ve sold out and become one of the largest and most prosperous providers of organic produce on the East Coast. What I’m saying is, there are lots of different levels of education in our readership. But there are some things I suspect all of them will want to know.”

  “What?”

  “Just how did Ashley turn up in your bed, what was she wearing, and what did you and your husband do when you found her?”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Rumor around here is that she was naked.”

  “Good heavens! No, she was dressed the same way she had been at the party, in a silk dress. It was peachy colored. She had had shoes dyed to match. She was wearing them, too! She most certainly was not naked.”

  “Too bad. That would have made the story a whole lot more interesting. And it might have encouraged some of the young men in the area to get interested. Keeping our youth reading the news was one of my grandfather’s favorite causes.”

  “Fully dressed,” Susan repeated firmly.

  “Alas. Perhaps we can run a dirty limerick contest. Just kidding.

  “So, Ashley was lying on your bed, fully dressed, when you and your husband returned to your room after the party was over.”

  “Underneath our presents.”

  “I heard there were presents involved somehow. Surely, she wasn’t completely covered with these presents.”

  “Yes. Completely. We had no idea she was there when we entered the room.”

  “You have very generous friends,” Sam said.

  “We requested no gifts. It was on the invitation.” Susan was beginning to wonder just how many times she had repeated this.

  Sam chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting that you were greedy or anything. Just commenting.”

  “Of course. They were generous. Unexpectedly so. If we had known we were going to be given so many gifts, we would have prepared a place for them to be stored. As it was, sometime during the party, Alvena Twigg spoke to me and my husband about the number of gifts we’d received and I suggested that they be placed in our bedroom. Jed agreed and . . . well, when we went upstairs and unlocked the door . . .” She stopped speaking.

  “Mrs. Henshaw, you were saying that when you and your husband went up to your room . . .”

  “We found all the surfaces covered with gifts—not only the bed. We were quite surprised.”

  “So you took all the gifts off and found Ashley.”

  “Sort of. I mean, that’s not the way it really happened. I was tired, and Jed, my husband, suggested I take a bath and, while I was doing that, he’d clear the bed. I guess I was in the tub when Jed found her.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, I know I was. It’s just that he didn’t say anything right away. I got out of the tub and came back into our bedroom and Jed was standing next to the bed, talking on his cell phone.”

  “And Ashley was lying in your bed?”

  “Yes. We were both shocked, of course. Jed was on the phone with the police. They arrived, asked a few questions, and we went home. It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid.”

  “And it’s not the whole story either, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well you and your charming friend are here looking into the murder, aren’t you? Isn’t she going through my files checking to see what stories we’ve run on the Marks family?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Gotta tell you that I hope that’s what she’s doing. It would sure make my job easier if someone else did a little background research for me.”

  “Jinx . . .”

  Jinx joined in the conversation. “I’ve already found one or two references to the Markses. But this is going to take days.” She smiled at Sam Redman, and Susan noticed she had reapplied lipstick while they were talking. “I hope you don’t mind if I hang around for a while.”

  “Why, I always enjoy the company of a smart, good-looking lady. And you’re welcome to any information that helps you find the murderer. Just want to ask one thing.”

  “What?”

  “When you know who did it, you tell me first. It’s been a long, long time since the Oxford Democrat broke a big story.”

  “We’d be happy to do that, wouldn’t we, Susan?”

  “Sure.”

  “And I’ll do you a favor in return. I’ll help Jinx go through those files.”

  “Oh, great,” Susan said, hoping courting and research were compatible occupations.

  NINETEEN

  SUSAN HAD LEFT JINX AND SAM REDMAN PORING OVER newspapers from the last millennium and gone home, Sam having offered to take Jinx to dinner at the Landing Inn; she would be able to retrieve her car when they had tired of their task.

  Her house was unexpectedly, and uncharacteristically, quiet. Clue was asleep on her cedar bed in the kitchen, apparently having abandoned her career as family greeter. A glance out the window explained the unusual calm: The mastiffs were dozing in the shade in the dog r
un that had been built for, and rejected by, Clue. There was a note on the kitchen table.

  Sue,

  Chad and I took the dogs for a run at the nature center and have now headed out for dinner and a movie. Chrissy and Stephen are shopping for a baby present for a friend, then going to dinner at the Hancock Inn. Don’t wait up.

  Love, Jed

  Susan began to smile. A free evening. Just what she needed. She poured herself a glass of V-8 and plopped a bag of low-fat popcorn in the microwave. Once the popping sound had ceased, she grabbed her main course and made for Jed’s study. She loved opening presents!

  . . . Almost as much as she hated writing thank-you notes, she realized two hours later, staring down at the creamy Crane’s note card in front of her. Susan’s sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sweeney, had insisted that starting a thank-you note with the words “Thank you for the . . .” was unacceptable. Susan was on her seventh note before she decided to abandon that advice. By the time Chad and Jed came into the house, still discussing the special effects of the action feature they’d attended, she had a respectable pile of envelopes ready for stamps.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said to her son as he swept by the door.

  “Hi ya, Ma! Did anyone call?”

  “A young woman named Kelly called around nine.”

  “Way cool . . .” If Chad finished that sentence the words were lost in the sound of his feet hitting the stairs as he bounded up to his room.

  “So how was the movie?” she asked as Jed bent down to kiss her fevered brow.

  “Fun, loud, and without a plot. You would have hated it.”

  “What did you have for dinner?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Sounds like an ideal male bonding evening.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Not bad. I ran into Jinx at the inn, and we went on to the office of the local newspaper. As a matter of fact, I left Jinx there. She and the paper’s editor seem to have hit it off.”

  Jed yawned. “Sounds interesting, but I think I’d better go upstairs. I’m exhausted, and I have to get to work early tomorrow.” He started to leave the room and then turned back. “Where do we keep the Pepto-Bismol these days?”

  Susan refrained from commenting about trying to eat like a twenty-year-old at age fifty-five and directed him to the correct corner of their medicine cabinet. “I’m ready to turn in, too,” she added. “It’s been a long day.”

  The next morning, Jinx was on the phone before Susan had finished her first cup of coffee.

  “Sam and I are going to be busy all day,” Jinx announced after a quick greeting. “I’m off to the newspaper office now, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll give you a call as soon as we find anything more.”

  “Great. What did you come up with yesterday?”

  “Just the ordinary press-release stuff, but Sam’s really a good investigative reporter, so . . . Oh, Lord, he’s knocking on the door and I haven’t even got my mascara on. Gotta run.”

  A loud click told Susan that she had been abandoned. Oh well, she had things to do too.

  Susan’s mother and Mrs. Sweeney would have been proud of how promptly she was getting to work on her thank-you notes, she decided about an hour later, backing out of the driveway. Her husband had taken the early train to the city. Chad and Clue had gone for a long run—apparently this Kelly lived on the other side of town. Stephen had driven the mastiffs to Long Island Sound, hoping, he said, a swim would be as good as a bath. Chrissy was sleeping in. Susan smiled. Pregnant women needed extra sleep. Her daughter hadn’t said anything yet, but Susan had begun counting the months. An April baby would be nice, she thought, parking in the lot behind the Hancock Post Office. As usual, there was a line inside; she walked to the end of it, hitched the heavy box of envelopes up in her arms, and leaned against a wall, prepared to wait.

  “Susan! I was just thinking about you!” The professionally streaked hairdo Susan had been admiring turned around; it belonged to Martha Hallard.

  “Martha! I was just admiring your new hair color!”

  The women hugged as much as they were able, each holding a large box at the same time.

  “What’s that?”

  “Thank-you notes. What are you mailing?”

  “You know those wonderful spice blends for seafood that they sell at the market here? I can’t get them in Arizona. I’m stocking up! Next I’m heading to that tea shop on Main Street. Their chamomile mint tea is one of the things I miss most about Hancock—that and our wonderful old neighbors like you and Jed.”

  “Believe me, you can’t possibly miss us as much as we miss you!”

  “Oh, Susan, I told Dan we should have held out for a different buyer! But the Markses paid cash, and Dan was anxious to move before winter set in and he couldn’t get his damned daily golf game!”

  “Didn’t Dan tell me that you were going to take up the game once you got to Arizona?”

  “He may have told you that. He may even have believed it. But I had no intention of following a little ball around a golf course in a tiny cart. You know that’s not my idea of fun.”

  “So what are you doing in your retirement?” Martha had been one of Hancock’s most successful realtors.

  “Having a ball. I’m docent at the local botanical garden two days a week. I’m taking weaving classes from a woman who was taught to weave by her Navaho grandmother. I belong to two reading groups at the library. I teach Sunday school at our church. And I’m collecting antiques to furnish our home. I want everything to be southwestern, but special.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful life.”

  “It is. And it’s been a lot of work, but I’ve taken the time to keep up with the trial and all.”

  “That’s right. Dan said you get the local paper sent to you there. Martha, what do you think of it all?”

  “You’re asking me? I thought you’d have the scoop on the Markses. After all, you live right next door.”

  “They never really mixed with the rest of the neighborhood,” Susan started to explain. “Ow!” She spun around to see what—or who—had run into her spine. A tall young man dressed all in black and sporting tattoos where his clothing failed to cover him looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry, lady. Didn’t mean to hurt you. But I’m in a bit of a hurry. The line’s moving, and you two aren’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen each other in so long. We were catching up.”

  “Why don’t you come to the tea shop with me? We can walk. It’s only a few blocks away. We can have a snack and talk,” Martha suggested, hurrying toward a suddenly free postal clerk.

  “Great.” Susan moved up to the counter as the next clerk became free. “One hundred first-class stamps.”

  “We only have the pasted variety,” the young woman behind the counter stated flatly.

  “Fine with me. I’ll just wash down the taste of the paste with iced tea.”

  “This place is sensational!” Susan said, looking around. The tearoom was lined with dark linenfold walnut paneling, but every flat surface—counters as well as tables—was covered with polished copper. Copper urns boiled water, and copper knobs made it possible to get into the many drawers of tea. The effect was rich and comforting.

  “You’ve never been here before?” Martha sounded amazed.

  “You know me. I’m a coffee drinker. Although this iced herb tea just might change my mind. What’s in it again?”

  “Ginger, hibiscus, and orange peel, but we’re not here to talk about the tea. I’m dying to know more about the Markses.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me about them. Like where did they get all the money they needed to pay cash for your house? Eight-fifty was the asking price, right?”

  “Yes. And they paid it. Said the house was exactly what they were looking for and they had the money and wanted a quick closing. Suited Dan just fine. I wasn’t quite so happy. I’d have liked to spend more time sorting and packing. I can’t tell you how many boxes of junk went
to Arizona from Hancock and then just had to be thrown away there.”

  “Do you know where it came from?”

  “What? The junk? I suppose years and years of living—”

  “Not the things you took to Arizona. The Markses’ money! Where did they get all that cash?”

  “I understand they owned a farm somewhere upstate which they had sold to a developer. It must have been a large farm. I got the impression that money wasn’t going to be a problem for the rest of their lives—or the lives of their children, for that matter.”

  “Well, that’s not good news,” Susan said, thinking of Signe.

  “I don’t agree. Now that that awful woman is dead, Doug has the time and money to find someone else and live a nice life.”

  “Wow! You really didn’t like her.”

  “Couldn’t stand her. I remember the first time we met. She and Doug came to an open house that we gave the weekend the house was put on the market. There were lots of people milling around, but she made a definite impression on me. She hardly looked at the house. Actually, I was a bit surprised when they made an appointment to come back. They struck me as the type of people who would look at a lot of houses, wasting a realtor’s valuable time, and then vanish into the world of ‘we’re not ready to buy just yet.’ ”

  “How can you tell?”

  “In the first place, most of those people are incredibly critical, stupidly so. They make appointments to see a perfectly restored Victorian and then they wander from room to room comparing it—unfavorably—to a custom-built contemporary. Most serious buyers only look at homes they would consider buying. Of course, there are buyers who don’t know what they want—modern, colonial, whatever—but those types tend to be exceptionally uncritical. They love the old-fashioned fireplaces in the colonial homes and the open plans of the contemporary. They talk about what they would do if they lived in a Queen Anne Victorian with lots of stairs or how they can understand the reason most fifties ranches have almost nonexistent dining rooms upstairs and huge rec rooms in the basement. They’re my favorite kinds of shoppers. The ones who are smart know what they can afford and how many beds and baths they need. And many times they stumble right into the perfect fit without worrying about the style of architecture.”