“I don’t think you have to worry about Doug coming over and murdering you all in your sleep. The man doesn’t seem to have had a single aggressive thought in his whole life—against people that is. If you’re an animal and in season, watch out! Doug is a serious hunter—deer around here as well as whatever else is in season. And he’s hunted all over the world.”
“Don’t you think most people who kill animals are just a bit more likely to kill people?”
“No, I don’t think there’s any relationship at all. Period.”
Susan opened her mouth to protest.
“I grew up hunting,” Brett said, defeating any comment she might have been ready to make.
“Well, then . . .” Susan paused and looked around for another topic, one that involved neither guns nor Signe. Money, she thought. No, that might lead to Signe. “Did Ashley have any enemies?”
Brett shook his head. “You know as well as I do that that woman could irritate almost anyone in less time than it took to say hello.”
“She was a little bossy.”
“Susan, she was more than a little bossy. She was judgmental, overly critical, completely unable to see anyone else’s point of view, and she could be downright nasty to boot. I just thank God that finding Ashley’s enemies isn’t a problem that fell into the lap of the Hancock Police Department.”
“But . . . then what are we talking about?”
“I thought we were talking about the investigation into Doug’s poisoning. At least that’s what I’ve had on my mind. I gather you were thinking of other things.”
“I . . . I came here because I’m worried about Signe!”
“There’s no reason to worry about Signe. She’s fine.”
“Brett, she’s not fine as long as someone else hasn’t been arrested for her mother’s murder!”
“Susan, I keep telling you that the Hancock Police Department is not investigating Ashley’s death.”
“I know that Signe may be in trouble.” She snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t want to mention Erika’s name. “I understand that there’s been a warrant issued for Signe’s arrest.”
Brett looked up from the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through on his desk. “Really? Where did you hear that?”
“I . . . I just know it! I don’t have to tell you everything I know or why I know it.”
“No, you certainly do not; but whatever you think you know, I can assure you that you are wrong. Signe is just fine. Susan, you really don’t have to worry.”
“How do you know that? You just told me that you have nothing to do with Signe and the investigation of her mother’s murder.”
“I didn’t actually say that.”
“Then what?”
“Susan, I can’t talk about this.”
“But it’s not Ashley’s murder that I’m interested in!”
“Then—”
“I’m worried about Signe!”
“And I just told you that you don’t have to be worried about her.”
“But Erika said—” Susan realized what she had been about to say and snapped her mouth shut. She valued Brett and Erika as some of her best friends. And she believed in their marriage. If anything she did or said damaged either of them or their marriage, she’d never forgive herself.
Just as she was about to panic, a slow smile moved across Brett’s face. “Susan, I don’t know what Erika told you. And I don’t want to. I do know that whatever it is Erika did or said, it came out of her concern about Signe; and I can only tell you what I will tell her when I get home this evening.” He glanced down at his watch. “Which will be soon, I hope. Signe is fine. You don’t have to worry about her. Erika doesn’t have to worry about her. And that is really all I can tell either of you right now.”
“But . . .”
“Susan, I have legal obligations and personal obligations. I plan to honor both of them. That’s it.”
Susan stood up. “Then I guess I’d better leave so you can get home to your wife.”
“That would be nice.” He stood up, too.
“But, Brett, I do have one question.”
“Which is?”
“If someone were going to be arrested for Ashley’s murder, who would do the arresting?”
Brett didn’t have to think to answer that one. “The most likely person to do the arresting would be Peter—Chief Konowitz of the Oxford Landing Police Department.”
Susan was out of the door before he had a chance to say good-bye.
TWENTY-THREE
OXFORD LANDING HAD APPARENTLY CHOSEN FUNCTIONALITY over charm when they looked for a place to house their police department. The one-story cinder block building was separated from the highway by a macadam parking area. Space had been left for a narrow garden between the building and the parking lot; weeds and cigarette butts grew there. Susan walked around the mess and into the building.
Two uniformed officers were chatting, leaning against the wall right inside the door. A young woman was sitting at the radio console, chatting on the phone. Susan hesitated, not sure who to approach. Fortunately, one of the officers noticed her presence.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for Chief Konowitz.”
“Are you a member of the press?”
“No, I’m—”
“Well, he’s busy giving an interview to someone from the press. He can’t be interrupted.” The men exchanged amused looks. “You’ll have to wait, no matter what your business is. There’s a chair over there.”
Susan took the seat offered and looked around for something to read. A coffee table nearby offered a choice between outdated issues of Connecticut magazine and pamphlets concerning such less-than-fascinating topics as Lyme disease, rabies, and West Nile virus. Susan frowned. She should have stuck a paperback in her purse before leaving the house. She pawed through the magazines. Maybe there was an issue here that she hadn’t read cover to cover. Her hands paused over one touting “Inns in Connecticut” on its cover. Hm.
When Peter Konowitz had finally finished his interview and left his office, she was still staring at the magazine article in her lap.
“Mrs. Henshaw? Are you waiting to see me?” he asked after escorting the reporter to the door.
Susan almost dropped the magazine. “I . . . yes, of course, I was,” she answered. Then, hoping no one noticed the theft, she dropped the magazine into her purse.
Peter Konowitz either wasn’t paying attention or could have cared less about petty theft in the station house. He turned to the woman seated at the console. “Any messages?”
She handed him a pile of papers, and he glanced through them before returning his attention to Susan. “I have to return a few of these calls, but you may as well come in now.”
“. . . Okay, thank you.” She leapt to her feet, pulled her purse up on her shoulder, and followed him into his office, pleased that he wasn’t going to force her to wait outside. Maybe she’d learn something from his calls.
Chief Konowitz’s office was . . . well, Susan tried to think of the appropriate word. It was startling—amazing— an astonishing display of ego. Undeterred by the cinder block construction, dozens of photographs had been affixed to the walls. Susan leaned forward. There were three presidents: both Bushes and Clinton. Susan recognized a governor of Connecticut, a mayor of New York City, and—maybe—three or four senators or representatives from neighboring states. There were a few females too—one nun and three queens from assorted beauty pageants. Some photos were in black and white, some in color. Some had obviously been taken by professional photographers. Some were blurred enough to assume that an amateur had stood behind the lens. All of them featured a grinning Peter Konowitz. Over the years the uniform had changed, but the expression on his face was the same. Look at me, he seemed to be saying. Look who I’m with!
Susan crossed and uncrossed her legs. She didn’t know what to do, and she was having a difficult time appearing as though she wasn’t interested in what was being sai
d on the phone. The messages that Chief Konowitz was answering seemed to be from reporters interested in learning the latest in the investigation of Ashley Marks’s murder. Since that was Susan’s main interest also, she finally just sat back and listened.
And learned nothing. Like the photographs on his office walls, everything centered around Peter Konowitz. Susan, imagining Signe wasting away in a cell somewhere in the back of this bleak building, became more impatient the longer she listened.
Chief Konowitz assured each caller that he was not only in charge of the investigation, but “on top of it.” Apparently Susan wasn’t the only one who wondered exactly what that meant, because the next answer—she could only guess at the questions—was always something about sorting through evidence, interviewing people who were related to the victim or the place where she was killed, and finally a vague mention of forensics, which could have meant absolutely anything. Susan got the impression that Chief Konowitz was having as difficult a time as she was getting a handle on this investigation.
Caller after caller may not have asked the same questions, but caller after caller got damn near the same answers. Susan was wondering if perhaps Peter Konowitz wasn’t wasting his talent as police chief in a small town in Connecticut. She had no trouble envisioning a fine future for him in national politics—perhaps as a spokesman for one of those people in the photographs on the wall. She was just going over the possibilities when Signe’s name came up.
“. . . Not to worry. Being in custody is as good a place as any for the moment. . . . No, it certainly is not my place to comment on that, but I will say that a professional police department is unlikely to make that sort of mistake. . . . Well, yes, but that was an exception. . . . Listen, I’m doing you a favor by even talking to you. It certainly wouldn’t be to my benefit to answer that. . . . If you feel that way, perhaps I shouldn’t waste my time speaking with you. . . . No, thank you.” Putting down the receiver with a bang, Chief Konowitz tossed the rest of his messages in the overflowing wastebasket by his desk, then looked up at Susan and smiled graciously. “And what can I do for you, Mrs. Henshaw? I assume you’ve gotten over the shock of finding a body in your bedroom at the Landing Inn?”
Susan was surprised by the question. “Ah . . . yes.”
“But I’m forgetting. That was not the first time you’ve discovered a body, was it?”
What was he getting at? Susan wondered. “It’s not something you get used to,” she said.
“No, I guess not. So . . .”
“So what?”
“So why are you here?”
“I . . . um . . . I was over at the Hancock Police Station and . . . well, I’m looking for Signe. Signe Marks,” she added when he didn’t respond.
“And?”
“And . . . well, I do want to see her.” Susan wondered if she sounded as foolish as she felt. Why didn’t he just come right out and tell her whether or not it would be possible to see Signe?
“Of course.” There was a smile spreading across Chief Konowitz’s face.
Susan wanted to smack him. “Yes. Well, I was . . . you know, wondering if I could.”
“You’re asking me if you can see Signe Marks?”
“Yes. I’m her friend. She’s my friend. I mean . . .”
“You’re friends. I get the idea.”
“Yes. So I should be able to see her.”
“Do you know anything about the law, Mrs. Henshaw?”
“Yes, of course.” Well, not much, if she was being honest. She knew she shouldn’t drive through red lights or rob houses—the general concepts, you might call them.
“Then you know that a person who has been arrested for a serious crime—and matricide is a serious crime, I think you would agree—cannot be prevented from seeing her lawyer. But I don’t believe the right for friends to pop in for tea, as it were, has been upheld by the Supreme Court.”
“I didn’t say anything about tea.”
“Signe is a prisoner.” He paused and grinned before continuing. “And that’s all there is to it, Mrs. Henshaw.”
“I . . .” Susan had no idea what to say. Then . . . “Why didn’t you question me about the murder?”
The expression on Chief Konowitz’s face changed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re in charge of investigating Ashley Marks’s murder . . .”
“As chief of police in the town where the murder took place, I don’t believe I have any other choice,” he said.
“Well, then why didn’t you or one of your men question me about what happened?”
“Happened? I wasn’t under the impression that anything happened. My understanding is that you and your husband discovered Mrs. Marks’s body when you went up to bed. Period.”
“Yes, well, of course, that’s right.”
“And what do you have to add to that?”
Although she was ordinarily a nonviolent person, there was something about this man that made Susan want to jump up and punch him in the nose. Reminding herself that slugging a policeman was stupid, immoral, and definitely illegal, she answered his question. “I also live next door to the Markses.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And does that mean you know who killed her?”
“No, but I do know the family.”
“Yes, you already mentioned your close friendship with Signe Marks.”
“Not close. That doesn’t matter! What I’m trying to say is that I would have thought you would have been interested in interviewing me about her and her family and other people, like her husband. You know,” she ended weakly.
“I do know.” Chief Konowitz had been sitting on the edge of his desk. Now he stood up and towered over Susan. “I know that you are implying a complete lack of professional competence on my part. And I know that I do not like it. I have looked into the murder of Ashley Marks. I have looked into it thoroughly. And I do not like your implication that by ignoring you and your husband, I have not done my job properly. You, Mrs. Henshaw, might consider whether or not you’re being just slightly egocentric. I can assure you that hundreds, maybe thousands of proper murder investigations can and do take place without your intimate involvement.”
Susan, insulted, stood too. “I . . .” She glanced back at the wall of photographs. “You’re calling me egocentric? I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I am not egocentric, and I do not think I must be involved in all murder investigations. But if you think that Signe murdered her mother, you are completely wrong.” She turned toward the door and then looked back at him. “And if Signe is mistreated here, if there is even any hint that she is being mistreated, I will find the best lawyer in the state and sue you, this department, and this entire town!” She spun around and grabbed the doorknob.
“So you think your money can ruin me? That’s typical of a rich—” He paused. “A rich woman like you.”
Susan, who heard the word he didn’t say, jerked open the door and stamped out of the office. She couldn’t remember ever being so angry. She didn’t even acknowledge the officers still sitting around the reception area, but stormed out of the building, got into her Cherokee, and roared out of the parking lot, driving in a manner that would have gotten her a ticket if anyone had been paying attention.
Ten minutes later, calming down a bit, she drove off the road into the lot beside an attractive farm stand. Baskets of squash, tomatoes, corn on the cob, and beans gleamed next to large bouquets of zinnias and mums. Susan realized she was breathing heavily and grinding her teeth. She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Maybe a bit of shopping would help, she decided, spying bunches of gorgeous basil beside little yellow pattypan squash.
Fifteen minutes later she had filled the back area of her car with vegetables, herbs, and even a few jars of locally made blackberry jam. Then she checked the stored messages on her cell phone. There were three, all of them from Jinx.
Susan smiled. Jinx must have found something. Then her smile vanished
. She just hoped it was something that would help rather than incriminate Signe. She dialed the number Jinx had left.
A few minutes later, she was off the phone and on her way to meet her friend at the Landing Inn.
TWENTY-FOUR
“MRS. HENSHAW? IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU, DEAR. BUT I don’t believe there are any more presents for you,” was Constance Twigg’s greeting.
“I’m here for lunch. I’m meeting someone,” Susan added lest the inn’s owners believe she just couldn’t stay away.
“Oh, well, I can recommend the green gazpacho and the avocado salad with grilled shrimp. Both are delicious.”
“Sounds good.” Susan started to go back to the restaurant, and then she stopped and turned around. “I was wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
“About the murder.”
“Perhaps this is not the place to speak of death. Would you like to come into my office?” Without waiting for a reply, Constance Twigg glided off. Susan felt she had no choice other than to follow. She hurried through the foyer, past the small room where guests were checked in and out, through a door marked Private, and into a lovely sun-filled parlor. She looked around eagerly. All the planning for her party had been done in the bar—not because she was interested in drinking, but because that’s where samples of food and decorations had been most readily available. The bar was small and dark and had been cozy in the winter months when she had done the planning.
Constance’s office, however, was made for summer. The wallpaper depicted white trellises covered with lush morning glories. Dense green carpet lay on the wide chestnut planks of the floor. Three complementary chintzes covered the upholstered couches and chairs, accented with elegant petit point pillows. A large fireplace surrounded by blue-and-white delft tiles dominated one wall, while bookshelves ran floor to ceiling directly across the room. Antique English brasses hung on the walls, gleaming with decades of hand polishing. Ruffles of white-dotted Swiss fabric framed the many-paned windows. The only discordant note was the state-of-the-art CD player atop a cherry desk. Constance pressed a button as she passed it by, and Bach filled the air.
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