“Kathleen…”
“You know my grandmother raised me…”
Susan nodded. Friends for over a decade, the two women had spent many hours discussing their lives.
“And did a good job of it, if I do say so myself. She was old, but she was healthy and strong. Not everyone is lucky enough to age like she did,” Kathleen added. “When I was working I saw a lot of old people who needed protecting. And I was helping do just that until… well, until I moved here, got married, and gave up police work.” She shook her head and her long blond hair shimmered.
“You’re raising two fine children.”
“I’m not questioning the value of my life now. I’m just wondering if perhaps I should get more involved, be more hands-on or something.” She paused and Susan waited patiently for her to continue. “Maybe do some volunteer work outside of the schools.”
“That’s a great idea…”
“And we’ll talk more about it after we figure out who killed Nadine,” Kathleen finished, returning her focus to the problem at hand. “You said Shannon is worried about her cousin. Has she seen him since he left Perry Island?”
“That’s just it.” Susan looked over her shoulder to make sure no one overheard her. “She’s seen him since she came here.”
“In Hancock?”
“Yes, he actually appeared at my house.”
“When?”
“The day Nadine was killed.”
“How did he know Shannon was living with you?”
“She says he’s been keeping in touch with her by phone. You know, he called her on her cell…”
“From where?”
“Well, from his cell…”
“And so she doesn’t know where he is. Unless he told her.”
“She said she didn’t ask him. She said she was so relieved to hear from him that she didn’t even think of asking anything other than how he was doing.”
“And you believe her.”
“I do. I wouldn’t swear that she’s telling me the complete truth about everything, but she does believe Mike is not involved in the murders. She told me that the next time he calls, she’ll ask him to talk with me. After all, I’m trying to help her.”
“And she’s trying to help her cousin. But, Susan, while you may have decided to trust Shannon, Shannon may not have decided to trust you.”
Susan thought that one over for a moment. “You could be right, of course, but…”
“But you’ve decided to believe what she’s saying and you’re sticking to it.”
“I don’t think I have any other choice while Chrissy is depending on her so much-Hi!” Susan interrupted herself to greet a young woman in a peacock blue designer suit and high heels-more than slightly overdressed for a small suburban town.
“You’ve been looking at our current listings for an awfully long while now. I was wondering if I might be of help to either of you.” Perfectly groomed down to her long shocking-pink fingertips, she made the offer without bothering to smile.
“We’re not-” Kathleen began.
“Actually I’m here because Donald Baines sent me. His secretary has something for me,” Susan said.
“Are you Susan Henshaw?”
“Yes.”
“I think I saw an envelope with your name on it on Mr. Baines’s desk. Would you like to come in while I look?”
“That would be nice. It’s getting a bit chilly,” Susan said, tugging on Kathleen’s sleeve.
“If you’re interested, there are more listings posted inside,” she added to Kathleen.
“Actually, I am,” Kathleen said. “Do you have any more information on the house on the Sound? The third from the left in the top row,” she added, pointing.
A smile appeared. “Yes, that’s one of my listings. It’s a wonderful home, has all the amenities and it’s one of the largest properties in Hancock. Six bedrooms, eight and a half baths, huge living room connected to an equally large sunporch, library, den, media room, eat-in kitchen, full dining room, and a three-room maid’s suite. It’s been professionally landscaped, of course. There’s an indoor swimming pool, a hot tub, and two clay tennis courts on the property if you’re athletic-as well as a professionally designed putting green in the basement and an exercise room, of course. There’s also a small pool house with a gorgeous bar-perfect for entertaining at summer pool parties. The garage has space for four cars. And the circular driveway is equipped with an embedded heating system to prevent snow and ice from sticking. The current owner shows championship keeshonds so there are kennels as well as a guesthouse with room for the dogs’ handler right behind a charming knot herb garden that was featured in an issue of a very popular garden magazine last spring. “
“If you could just find the papers Mr. Baines left for me,” Susan prompted. She wondered why Kathleen was pretending to be interested in a property far out of her price range. But Kathleen whispered her strategy as they followed the woman back into her office. “I’ll keep her busy. Maybe you can find someone to ask about Nadine’s relationship with Donald-or with his mother!”
It had been decades since Susan had been in a local real estate office and it was immediately obvious that there had been substantial upgrades over the years. Decorated less like a place of business than a living room, chintz-swathed sofas were grouped on Oriental carpets. Brilliant watercolors of historical and scenic spots in Connecticut hung on the walls. A top-of-the-line Italian espresso maker topped a cherry credenza that had been rigorously distressed in an attempt to make it appear antique. Spindle-legged desks supported discreet notebook computers, the only visible connection to the world of buying and selling.
The Realtor courteously directed Kathleen to the nearest love seat and gave her a small booklet that, Susan assumed, described the beachfront property in even more detail. Susan, relegated to the status of nonbuyer, was pointed to Donald’s desk where she was expected to find on her own the information Donald had left for her.
She was happy to do so when she realized that lying next to the envelope, which did indeed have her name on it, was a list-a very long list-of telephone messages for Donald. Susan skimmed through it. There were, of course, many messages from clients and acquaintances expressing sympathy for Nadine’s death. And more than a few messages from news reporters requesting an interview or “an opportunity to clarify some of the details of their story on Nadine’s murder.” Heading the list were three calls from his mother. They had urgent written next to them. How strange, Susan thought, that Donald’s mother would call him at the office instead of at home or on his cell phone. She glanced up. Kathleen was pointing to something on a sheet of paper and the real estate agent was staring down at it. Susan opened the envelope with the names of Nadine’s Christmas list on it, slipped the other list inside, and tucked it underneath her arm. Donald was a grieving widower; most people would understand if he didn’t return their phone calls.
“I think I have everything I need here,” Susan said brightly-and honestly.
Kathleen stood up immediately. “Then we’d better be going.”
“But I have other properties that you might be interested in, and we could go see this one any time. I just have to call the owners first.” The agent reached out and almost grabbed Kathleen’s arm in her attempt to forestall their escape.
“If I could take a copy of this to show my husband and then get back to you…,” Kathleen said.
“That would be wonderful. And I have your phone number. If you don’t call me in a day or two, I’ll just call you.”
Susan realized the smile on Kathleen’s face was a bit strained. “We really have to go,” she explained and pushed her friend out the door in front of her. “Thank you for all your help,” she called back over her shoulder. “You’ll never guess what I found,” she whispered when she was sure they could no longer be overheard.
“It better be worth being put on a list of potential buyers of a seven-million-dollar estate,” Kathleen whispered back,
<
br /> “Seven million!” Susan was momentarily sidetracked. “Do you think you qualify for an adjustable rate mortgage?” she added, grinning.
EIGHTEEN
SUSAN HAD PLANNED TO GO OVER THE TWO LISTS-THE ONE she had been given and the one she had stolen-first thing in the morning. And she did, although “first thing” in this case described 3 AM rather than her usual wake-up time four hours later. She had arrived home to find a nervous Shannon, two babies with what experience suggested was garden-variety colic, Chrissy frantic with worry that the new pediatrician didn’t know what he was talking about, and Jed and Stephen enjoying a pepperoni, mushroom, spinach, and extra garlic pizza-which didn’t, as she had expected, keep either man from sleeping right through the night.
One baby crying is difficult to ignore, two even more difficult, but Susan had been making an effort to do so when there was a knock on the bedroom door. Jed’s response was to move one leg a quarter of an inch closer to the edge of the bed and ratchet up the volume on his snoring. Susan got up, grabbed the robe she had left on a nearby chair and, gently nudging Clue out of her path, left the room, closing the door behind her. The hallway was deserted and she hurried to the nursery, praying nothing was seriously wrong.
Nothing, she discovered, was wrong with Ethan or Rosie. Both twins were drifting off to sleep, bottles of formula in their mouths. As Susan had planned, the matching rocking chairs were being used by Shannon and Chrissy. But nothing else in the room looked as she had planned it. The wastebasket was on its side, tissues spilling onto the floor. The diaper pail lay nearby; fortunately Susan had purchased one with a tight top. Receiving blankets were tossed around the room as though someone had been playing a game with them. Dirty baby clothing overflowed the pretty wicker hamper and CDs had not been returned to their spots on the shelves. In fact, Susan wondered if someone had misplaced all the CDs as the music coming from the high-tech speakers sounded more appropriate to a college dorm room than a baby nursery. “Someone knocked on our door. Do you need me for something?” she asked.
“We thought we needed someone to help heat more formula, but I think they’re going to sleep now.” Shannon could hardly be heard over the base beat of the music.
“Then I’ll go back to bed,” Susan said and started to do just that.
“Mom.”
Susan, recognized the exhaustion in her daughter’s voice and turned around at once. “What?”
“I have a sore throat.”
Susan started into the room and would have been at her daughter’s side immediately if she hadn’t stepped on a large stuffed animal. “Oh… What in the world is this?” she asked, bending down and picking up a large black-and-white stuffed animal. “Some sort of zebra?”
“Oh, Mother, it’s not a zebra! It’s a polar bear! Those aren’t stripes-they’re letters. If Ethan and Rosie are exposed to letters right from the start, they’re more likely to read at an early age.”
“Couldn’t you just wrap them up in yesterday’s New York Times?” Susan muttered, feeling a bit cranky. It was, she thought, awfully late for educational lectures. But back to the business at hand. “If you’re not feeling well, I can give Rosie the last of the bottle and you can go back to bed.”
“Ethan. Not Rosie. And I don’t want you to take care of him. I want you to bring me a cup of peppermint tea. You know the kind you used to make me when I didn’t feel well?” Chrissy added plaintively.
Susan had no idea whether that brand of peppermint tea-which she herself thought absolutely disgusting-was still made, but she’d grow the herb and dry it herself before she refused this request. “I’ll just run down to the kitchen and see what I can find. Would you like some, Shannon?”
“Once the babies are settled, I’ll make myself some tea. Thank you, though. “
Shannon sounded even more exhausted than her daughter, and Susan went down to the kitchen determined to find a snack as well as those tea bags.
Fifteen minutes later she was back in the nursery carrying a tray loaded with a plate of blondies, mugs of tea, cream, sugar, and a hastily assembled bowl of fruit salad. Everyone in the room was asleep. The twins had been placed together in one crib, all the dirty clothing and bedding tossed into the other, and, apparently too tired to drag themselves the few feet to their own bedrooms, Chrissy and Shannon were dozing in the rocking chairs. Susan smiled and returned to her kitchen with the snack.
She had put the envelope from the real estate agency in her desk drawer and now, after making herself a cup of decaf, she sat down to examine the papers. The Christmas card list was long and must have included everyone who had ever known the Baineses-or else Nadine and Donald were more popular than Susan had ever imagined. She counted. Three hundred and nineteen names. No wonder Nadine had thought sending the cards out was such a chore.
The list was alphabetical and it took Susan a while to weed out the people who had lived in the same town as Nadine and Donald before their move to Hancock. But she finally came up with thirty-nine names and addresses. She would, of course, wait until daytime to call, but operators (and their computer equivalents) worked all night, so she spent some time collecting phone numbers. Thirty-nine information-only calls later, she had thirty-two numbers. She then turned her attention to Donald’s phone message list.
The messages from his mother interested her the most so she saved them for last.
There were five messages of condolence and Susan cross-checked them with the list of former neighbors. Two matched and she decided she would call them first in the morning… well, later this morning. Three messages were from clients, one seeming to think that the murder might bring down the price of real estate in Hancock. There was a message from someone called Daria, who suggested that dinner at her town house just might assuage his grief. A brief “call me ASAP” from someone named Connie. And those puzzling messages from his mother.
Susan read through the list:
11:45 am-Your mother called and asked that you call her as soon as possible.
1:00 pm-Your mother called again. Says it’s important that she talk with you today.
4:00 pm-Your mother says it is urgent that you call.
Susan stared down at the paper and wondered again why Donald’s mother would call him at his office rather than his home. Of course, they might have kept their personal lives and professional lives separate by calling at the office concerning business affairs and at home when the topic was personal. But such a division seemed awkward and these three messages, all variations on the “call me” theme, sounded more personal than business.
But if the calls had been business related, why hadn’t she mentioned it? Explained that Blaine Baines Executive Homes and Estates was about to buy a house or sell one or something similar and that the deal rested on something that must be done right away?
On the other hand, if the calls were personal, why call the office at all? Why not call his home or his cell phone? Or had she tried that and Donald hadn’t answered or responded? Well, without access to his home answering machine or his cell, she had no way of knowing any of this. Susan picked up a slice of pineapple from the tray she had fixed, then munched and thought.
She was still thinking and munching-in fact, the plate was almost empty-when she heard footsteps on the stairs and Shannon appeared in the doorway.
“Hi.”
Susan swallowed the raspberry she was eating before responding. “Are the babies still asleep?”
“Yes. And Chrissy has gone to bed, too. I have this”- Shannon pointed to a baby monitor tucked into the pocket of her robe-“in case the situation changes.”
“Would you like a cookie? I’m afraid I’ve eaten most of the fruit.”
“Yes, I’m starving. And I’m going to make some tea, but I need to talk to you as well.”
“Now is as good a time as any,” Susan said.
“Good.” Shannon turned and filled the kettle with water. “I spoke with Mike this evening,” she said, placing the kettle on a burn
er and flipping on the gas.
“He called you!”
“Actually, I called him. I’ve been leaving messages in his mailbox for days, but he hasn’t answered. Tonight he picked up.”
“And?”
“We had a long talk. Mrs. Henshaw, I’m afraid Mike may not be as innocent as I thought he was.”
“What do you mean? What did he tell you?”
“He may have been… well, he says he was… he says that he helped someone die.”
“I don’t understand,” Susan said.
“He said it was assisted suicide, that she wanted to die.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Hershman.”
“The woman you found. The woman who was pushed off the roof.”
“Yes. But Mike said that she wasn’t pushed. That she jumped. He… he unlocked the door to the roof for her. That’s what he says.”
“When you told me about the murders, you lied to me about that one, didn’t you?”
Shannon looked astonished. “No, I didn’t! I had no idea that Mike might have had anything to do with Mrs. Hershman’s death! I don’t tell lies!”
“You told me that you went outside to cool off, but you also said you were wearing a sweater. It didn’t make any sense at the time. I don’t think it does now. I’m not accusing you of anything. I thought maybe you were protecting your cousin.”
Shannon sat down at the table and considered the suggestion. “I was,” she answered slowly. “But not because I ever thought he might be involved in killing anybody. I thought he might be using drugs again. I was worried.”
“So what happened that night? You didn’t go outside because you were hot…”
“No, I went out to find my cousin. I was on the day shift-nine to five-and Mike usually worked evenings five to one.”
“Why? Did you choose your own shifts?” Susan asked. She had no idea if this was important information, but she was curious.
“I did. I prefer working during the day. Not just because it’s easier to stay on schedule, but because there is more interaction with the residents. And Mike was hired to work the night shift. He was the only male aide and there was only one male nurse at P.I.C.C. Many of the male residents preferred the help of people of the same sex with some of the more personal aspects of their care-bathing, dressing and undressing-and most of that took place during the night shift.”
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