Death In Duplicate

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Hi,” Susan began.

  “You must be Susan Henshaw. I’m Sophie Kincaid. Please come in and tell me how dear Donald is doing. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.”

  Susan smiled and followed Sophie through the foyer and into her living room where a small plasma screen television had been hung in the place of honor over the formal fireplace. They continued on through what Susan assumed would be called the library (shelves and books lined the walls and a television was set upon a walnut console), to the media room (massive plasma screen television on one wall, a complicated looking music system on the other, CDs and DVDs everywhere), through the media room and into a playroom (toys of all shapes and sizes shared the room with a big screen television and a cabinet filled with more videotapes than she had ever seen collected in one place outside of Blockbuster Video), through the playroom and into a sunroom where a tiny white television was tucked on a shelf beneath a wrought iron table draped with a brightly striped tablecloth. Each room had been opulently decorated. She probably wouldn’t even have noticed the televisions if they hadn’t all been turned on.

  Sophie Kincaid sat down on a couch upholstered in a brilliant tropical print and Susan perched on a chair nearby, a surfeit of pillows making it impossible for her to lean back comfortably.

  “This is a huge house,” Susan said.

  “Yes, six bedrooms, seven full baths.”

  “Really? How many children do you have?”

  “One. But he won’t bother us. He’s away at boarding school.”

  Before Susan had an opportunity to comment on this, Sophia asked a question. “How is dear Donald holding up?”

  “He seems to be fine.” The image of him jogging down the street popped into Susan’s mind.

  “I’ve called and left messages, but he hasn’t called me back. I don’t blame him. I know he must be devastated, losing Nadine like that and now the police investigation into her death. It’s just too much for a sensitive man.”

  “I’m sure it’s difficult-,” Susan began, but Sophie Kincaid raised one hand to shush her and reached for the remote control lying on the coffee table with the other.

  “I have to watch this,” she said and turned up the volume.

  Susan looked over her shoulder at the small television screen where a press conference was being held. A short dark-haired man leaned on a podium and answered questions about an international monetary fund for about three minutes until the shot changed to one of a perky anchorperson explaining that two of the most beautiful actors in Hollywood were getting a divorce and that interviews with both would be coming up momentarily.

  “My husband,” Sophie stated, picking up the remote and turning it off.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Susan saw the screen on the television in the playroom flicker and turn black. “Does that control two televisions?”

  “Eleven. All the TVs in the house. It’s some sort of whole house system,” Sophie explained rather vaguely.

  “And that was your husband?”

  “Yes. He’s in Bruges… or maybe Zurich… or possibly Munich today. I can’t always keep up with his schedule.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s involved in international relations-banking. He works all over the world.” Sophie waved her hands in the air, perhaps to indicate her husband’s all encompassing job. “Right now he’s working for our government… I think… You know how it is-after you’ve been married for a while, you just don’t listen as closely as you once did.”

  Susan nodded. She did know, although this woman’s ignorance seemed to be remarkably complete. “Does he travel a lot?” she asked.

  “Constantly. I used to go with him, but sitting around in rooms in four-star hotels is so boring, don’t you think?”

  Susan, who was here to get along with this woman, merely nodded. “And you don’t find it lonely to stay here alone?”

  “I do now. Things were different before Donald moved, of course.”

  Susan, who had been assuming Sophie would be reluctant to discuss her affair, was stunned. “You and he… you two spent a lot of time together?”

  “Naturally. Donald always said he couldn’t get along without me.”

  Susan couldn’t help asking the next question. “How did your husband feel about that?”

  “I just told you. He travels a lot.”

  Susan wondered if her eyes could possibly open any wider. “So he didn’t know about you and Donald?”

  “I told him, of course, but it’s like we were just saying-after a while, you don’t listen as well as you used to. When I first started with Donald, I got the impression that my husband was relieved. He knows I like to keep busy.”

  “Your husband must be very… unselfish… generous…” Susan wasn’t sure what word to use.

  “Oh, he is. He bought this house from Donald for me.”

  Susan was speechless; fortunately Sophie decided to expand her explanation. “And even though I was working for Donald at that time, my husband didn’t even ask for a discount on the price. That’s how generous he is.”

  “You sell real estate?”

  “Oh, no. You have to go to classes and be licensed for that. I was what Donald called ‘a finder.’ ”

  “What exactly did you find?”

  “Houses. Building lots. Whatever Donald was looking for.”

  “So your relationship was professional.”

  “Well, Donald didn’t pay me anything but he gave me lovely gifts.” She looked around the room as though expecting to find an example of Donald Baines’s generosity hanging on the wall.

  “You said your husband bought this house for you-from Donald Baines, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you knew him before you moved here, before he became your neighbor.”

  “Oh, yes. Donald and I have known each other for years and years.”

  “Before you were next-door neighbors?” Susan asked, trying to clarify something.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “My older brother was his roommate in college. I don’t think they were very close, but they did like to do the same things so they spent a few vacations together. I remember my mother being upset when Howard, my brother, went home with Donald for Thanksgiving his freshman year. She thought he should come home, but Howard was intrigued by the fact that Donald had grown up on an island and wanted to see it. You see, we’re from the Midwest and Perry Island sounded very exotic to my brother-and to me when he told me about it.”

  Bingo! Susan hoped she didn’t look as excited as she felt. “I didn’t know Donald grew up on Perry Island.” She spoke slowly.

  “Oh, yes. His mother didn’t have any money at the time. I don’t know all the details but I know she worked in a small real estate office on the island when he was young. Perry Island is a nice place now. At least in the summer months it is. I mean, there’s a small summer colony that has some interesting people who stay there, but when Donald was growing up it was pretty rural. But his mother bought property there and that’s where the family celebrated holidays. My brother loved it. He’s now a national park ranger in Montana. The more rural the better as far as he is concerned.”

  “What about Donald?”

  “Oh, Donald was just happy to have someone around his own age during vacations. Apparently his mother invited colleagues or potential customers for what she liked to callold-fashioned family holidays. They weren’t, of course. And Donald was lonely there as a kid and teenager. The main business on the island back then was this old old-folks home.”

  “Are things so different now?” Susan asked, remembering her drive the previous day.

  “Probably not, but they would be if Blaine Baines had had her way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s been planning for decades to build a development of executive homes out on the point where the old-folks home is.”

  “Are you sure?”

 
“Absolutely. Donald and I’ve talked about it a lot over the years. I keep hoping to find something comparable for him to develop. He’s always been a bit competitive with his mother and that would be quite a coup for him.”

  This new connection between the Blaineses and Perry Island stunned Susan. But Sophie had more to tell. “About a year ago, Donald told me he had a plan, a way to put that old-folks home out of business.”

  “How?”

  “He didn’t tell me that, but he said he was sure it would work.”

  “And then his mother could buy the property and build houses on it?”

  “That was her idea, but Donald said it was old-fashioned. He thinks a multiple-use development would make more sense. Private homes, of course, but also a big hotel, a conference center, maybe a private golf course, a spa.”

  “Sounds like a lot of development for a small island.”

  “Oh, it is. It would change the island completely. Every single home owner would benefit. That’s why Donald’s been buying up every property he can find for the past decade or so.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Nadine was very upset about it. She said they were land poor. She really didn’t understand him.”

  Susan, who had learned more than she could possibly have imagined, decided to bring up Donald and Nadine’s relationship. “Did you get the impression that they had a good marriage?”

  “What is a good marriage? They weren’t headed for divorce court or anything. At least not that I knew about.”

  “Did you ever get the impression that Nadine resented the time you spent with her husband?”

  “Probably. But not because she was the jealous type or anything like that. She resented all the time he spent working. You would think any smart woman would know better than to criticize a man’s work. After all, how did she think Donald provided the lifestyle that she liked so much?” Sophie looked around her room with a satisfied expression on her face and Susan realized that this was a woman who wouldn’t make that particular mistake.

  “When you called here, you said you were going to give a speech of some sort at Nadine’s funeral,” Sophie said.

  “A eulogy at her memorial service,” Susan corrected.

  “But we’ve been talking about Donald, not Nadine.”

  “I know, but you-”

  “You’re going to say that I brought up his name, aren’t you?”

  “You did actually.”

  “I know. I suppose you can tell that I’m nuts about him, can’t you?”

  “I had sort of guessed that.”

  “Yeah, I got a crush on him the moment we met. Unfortunately it was at his wedding to Nadine. My brother’s date dumped him and he asked me to fill in.” She shrugged. “Oh well, I met my husband a few months later and I think I’ve done okay for myself.”

  “I can see that,” Susan agreed.

  “Yes. I don’t believe a woman should be completely dependent on a man. My work for Donald gives me some outside interests and, of course, there are fringe benefits.” She smirked.

  “You are having an affair with Donald.”

  “Perhaps, but that’s not your business and I can’t imagine that that has anything to do with Nadine’s eulogy.”

  “No, I can’t either,” Susan admitted. “But you might be careful about who you tell. After all, Nadine was murdered. Some people just might consider you to be a viable suspect.”

  Sophie stood up. “Ignorant people might, but anyone who knows me would tell you that I know on which side my bread is buttered. And an international authority on almost anything is much more reliable than someone who speculates on real estate-and works for his mother.”

  “I guess I’d better be going,” Susan said, getting up immediately. “Perhaps I’ll see you at Nadine’s memorial service.”

  “Not me. I don’t go to memorial services for people I’d rather forget.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  SUSAN SOON REALIZED HOW LUCKY SHE HAD BEEN THAT HER first two interviews had been located on the same street.

  Immediately after leaving Brampton Lane she became thoroughly lost. She thought she could call for directions, but discovered that she couldn’t get service in this part of the state. Positive she was heading east, she drove into New York State. Turning around, she ended up repeating the route she had just traveled. It was simply dumb luck that she made enough wrong turns to arrive at her intended destination-the home of Edith Kraus, a woman who sounded almost eager to speak with her on the phone.

  She was over an hour late. And starving. The scent of baking bread drifting out of the open window of the house before her made her mouth water. She parked her car on the edge of the white pebble driveway and considered her options. She had passed a McDonald’s earlier today. Perhaps she should try to find it and eat before continuing. Perhaps she shouldn’t even continue. She’d learned a lot-the connection between the Perry Island Care Center and the Baineses must be significant. Maybe she should just go home, get something to eat, play with her grandchildren, and consider what she had learned.

  Or maybe she would greet the woman who had just opened the front door and beg for something to eat.

  Edith Kraus approached the car, both hands extended in welcome. “Susan Henshaw. I’ve always wanted to meet you.” In jeans and a cotton turtleneck with a well-worn cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders and the type of exotic earrings that Susan sometimes bought but was too self-conscious to wear, the woman was smiling.

  “I… Really?”

  “Heavens yes. I’ve read about you for years and I’ve often wondered how you do what you do. And why.”

  Susan, fortunately, didn’t have to answer.

  “But it’s chilly out here. Please come inside. I was just fixing myself some lunch and I was hoping for company. You’ll join me?”

  “Do I smell homemade bread?”

  “And chowder, walnut and orange salad, and my very best lemon pound cake for dessert.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” Susan said, smiling widely.

  “Good. Come on in.”

  She followed her hostess up the path to the front door of a gleaming white Cape Cod cottage. They entered a compact living room dominated by a brick fireplace in which a small fire crackled. Sun streamed through multipaned windows onto wide chestnut floorboards and worn silky Oriental prayer rugs. The furniture was old and looked as though it had been chosen for comfort rather than style. Bowls of blooming blue muscari were a reminder that spring was on the way. “This is wonderful,” Susan exclaimed.

  “Thank you. I’ve lived in many places over the years and this one suits me best. Sit down and I’ll get our lunch.”

  “May I help?” Susan offered, hoping for a glimpse of the rest of the house.

  “Of course. The kitchen is this way.”

  Susan and her hostess passed through a narrow hallway into a tiny old-fashioned kitchen. Cupboards covered with many layers of paint hung on the walls. Blue and white Delft tiles formed the backsplash. Two loaves of bread were cooling on a stained Formica counter and steam was rising from a cast iron soup pot simmering on an old gas stove. “I just have to finish up the salad,” Edith said. “You can wash the lettuce.” She pulled a head of Boston Bibb from the hydrator.

  “Okay. Do you have a salad spinner?”

  “I’m the old-fashioned type. I use dishtowels.” She pulled out a linen cloth, soft from years of wear, and handed it to Susan.

  With both women working, the meal was ready in minutes. At Edith’s suggestion they set up a drop leaf table in the living room and sat down in front of the fire to eat.

  “This is absolutely delicious,” Susan said when she had wolfed down about half of her meal.

  “You were hungry.”

  “I was starving. And you’re a wonderful cook.”

  “It’s fun to cook for someone other than myself. And I’ve never had a famous detective visit before.”

  “I’m not famous-or a real detective either,” Susan
protested.

  “Newspaper stories about the crimes you’ve solved have been amusing me for years. I assume you’re looking into who killed Nadine Baines now?”

  “Yes,” Susan said. “I know I told you that I was here collecting information about Nadine’s life for the speech I’m giving at her memorial service…”

  Edith put down her butter knife and nodded. “But it’s just an excuse.”

  “Yes. Although I do have to think of something to say at the service.”

  “Say she was a fine neighbor and a good friend and be done with it. Most people will probably attend out of curiosity rather than an honest desire to honor her memory-poor woman.” Edith bit into another slice of bread.

  “Why do you call her that? Did you like her?”

  “No, but I felt sorry for her. She had no resources, no interests, and that made her vulnerable. And boring, of course.”

  “How did you know her?” Susan asked.

  “She and Donald used to own this house. I rented it from them-at an exorbitant price, I must add-for years until they decided to finally allow me to buy it.”

  “They owned this house?” Susan looked around. “It’s not at all like their home in Hancock.”

  “It’s not at all like the home they lived in here. And it wasn’t like this when I moved in. They had the whole place tarted up-gingham curtains, statues of roosters scattered about, and all sorts of fake colonial touches. They didn’t touch the basic structure though-for which I’m grateful. I don’t imagine this house suited them very well. They were much more comfortable in the big place they built over there.” She nodded toward the window and Susan spied a large mansion through the trees.

  “That looks like the houses I was in this morning,” Susan said.

  “That’s not surprising. It’s the first house built in Donald’s first development. You see, he bought this house for the land and then, after getting the town’s approval-and I’ll never know just how that happened-he built seven houses on the property. When you called, you said you were talking to former neighbors. I’ve been wondering who-besides me, of course-agreed to speak with you.”