Kathleen had finished explaining her absence to her son’s hosts and was going into minute detail as to his requirements for meals, so Susan continued to poke around.
Kathleen had dialed again and seemed to be speaking to someone official down at the municipal building. “Brett’s checking out Z’s address with the tax office. He thinks that’s the place to start.”
“Start what?”
“The murder investigation.”
Susan stared at the cheerful room with a sad look on her face. “How was he killed?”
Kathleen looked around, making sure they were alone before she answered. “He was strangled. Probably last night. When the back doors of the van were opened this morning, dozens of balloons flew out.…”
Susan had seen the Mylar balloons, shaped and colored like stars, Christmas trees, wreaths, bells, ornaments, even decorated gingerbread men. “Weren’t they tied down in some way?”
“They are usually. But whoever put Z in the bottom of the van just stuffed him in. When the door was opened, the balloons took off into the sky, and there he was … colored ribbons tied around his neck …”
Susan cringed. “Oh God.”
“Yes.” Kathleen nodded, and both women were silent for a few moments.
“Where did Z live?” Susan asked, hoping the change of subject would erase the image in her mind.
“An apartment—second floor of a house near here—142 Chestnut. Susan, you’re not planning on investigating this murder, are you?”
“Why not? I’ve done it before,” Susan replied indignantly.
“You weren’t quite so connected with the victim before.”
“Z and I weren’t emotionally involved,” Susan insisted. “We were just …” She stopped and thought for a moment. “We weren’t even friends. He was working for me, that’s all. He was just like someone that Jed might have hired to mow the lawn in the summer. That’s all.”
“I have to get back to Brett. But, Susan, I’m your friend, and I really think you should stay away from this investigation.” Kathleen turned to leave the room. “Coming?”
“In a second. I’m going to leave a message on my answering machine in case anyone gets home early,” Susan answered as the door closed behind her friend. She made the call quickly, looking all the while for paper and a pen. She just wanted to write down that address before she forgot it. There was a scrap of paper being used for a marker in this month’s Gourmet on the table, and she pulled it out and wrote quickly, stuffing it in her purse when she was done. Then she, too, left, closing the door behind her.
“Damn!” She was back in the large workroom before she realized that she didn’t have her own car.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie Potter asked, busy scraping burned meringue from a dark metal cookie sheet.
“I don’t have my car here. I came with my friend, but there’s someplace I have to go. I don’t think it’s far from here.…”
“Where?”
“Chestnut Street.”
“It isn’t. Just about five blocks. It’s an easy walk. I know. My aunt lives there.”
Susan perked up. “Then you can point me in the right direction.”
“Sure. I’ll be going over in about half an hour myself if you want a ride.”
“I think I’ll get going,” Susan insisted, thinking that she had been effectively cut out of the action here—and she felt she had to do something.
“Well, then. Turn left at the end of the driveway. Then right at the first corner. Then just five blocks to Chestnut. Maybe I’ll see you there later.”
Susan just smiled and pulled her coat closer around her neck. “Thanks,” she added, moving toward the door.
“Be sure to turn at the house decorated like a Christmas present,” Jamie called after her.
Susan had no trouble finding the home Jamie had described. On the corner of Elm and Chestnut stood a white Colonial house, square and imposing, wrapped in monster red ribbons tied in a gargantuan bow above enameled double doors. A pseudotag was attached to the bow, wishing the world a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from the Albertson family.
The Albertsons lived at 438 Chestnut. Susan turned right hoping to find 142. The blocks in this part of Hancock were square and filled with gracious traditional homes with large lawns and garages tucked out of sight around back. Flakes of snow were beginning to fall as Susan arrived at 142, a yellow Victorian with electric candles in each of its numerous windows. A sidewalk led straight from the street to the porch. Susan hurried up the path and onto the porch, where she was confronted by a pastel wreath that seemed to have been fashioned from plaster worms.
She had just realized that they weren’t worms, but dyed pasta, when the front door opened and an elderly lady appeared. Susan took a step backward, almost tripping over a cement Santa Claus that she hadn’t noticed before. “I’m afraid … I guess I’ve come to the wrong house …,” she stammered.
“No. You’re looking for Z, aren’t you?”
“Well, sort of,” Susan admitted.
“Did he tell you to meet him here?”
Susan had just noticed the poinsettia the other woman wore on her pink sweater. Like the wreath it seemed to be made of something strange.… She leaned slightly closer.
“Bread dough.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re admiring my pin, aren’t you? It’s made of bread dough.”
“Amazing,” Susan said truthfully. “Where do you find something like that?”
“Oh, my goodness! Everywhere! This came from the Presbyterian’s Holly Mart. And I bought the wreath at the Episcopal’s Mt. Bethany Bazaar. There’s also the Hancock library’s Holiday Fun Fair. And the Seventh Day Adventist Oh Little Town of Bethlehem Craft and Garage Sale …” She was leading Susan into her home as she spoke, and Susan could tell her hostess was a serious supporter of the events she was listing. Not only were her rooms filled with crafts of extraordinary garishness, but in the bay window of the living room stood a fake balsam with an amazing collection of ornaments hanging from its synthetic boughs.
“You’re admiring my tree, aren’t you?”
“Who would have thought so many different things could be made from clothespins,” Susan said honestly.
“It is remarkable, isn’t it?” her hostess replied complacently.
“Z lives here? Z Holly?”
“Yes. Well, not here, of course. Upstairs. It’s a completely self-contained apartment. Not exactly legal, perhaps, but who’s to know?”
In a few hours Hancock’s chief of police would, Susan thought. But she didn’t say anything. Brett would have more important things to worry about.
“Would you like to go on up? Did he ask you to meet him there?”
“I’d like to go up,” Susan answered slowly, wondering if strange women appeared frequently with the same request.
“Then follow me. It’s not locked, and you can wait for him there.”
“Thank you.” Susan scurried up the stairway behind the surprisingly spry woman. Shopping in church halls must be excellent exercise.
SEVEN
The door opened and Susan found herself in an apartment remarkably unlike the rest of the house. This entire floor had been gutted, and except for three freestanding brick chimney flues, the area was open, decorated in shades of beige, brown, and ecru with a minimum of handcrafted fruitwood furniture placed strategically on handwoven area rugs. Only the electric Christmas candles peeking from behind rough cotton curtains betrayed any connection with the scene downstairs.
Susan walked around slowly, glancing at mail left on a small sideboard near the door and admiring the collection of copper pans hanging over the counter that divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room. An elegant daybed stood near a window and Susan noticed it was unmade, an Ed McBain paperback peeking out from the Ralph Lauren sheets, a Christmas card marking the reader’s place. Susan picked it up and read the inscription. It promised eternal gratefulness that the sender
’s daughter’s wedding had been so successful, with much love from a woman who lived on Fifth Avenue in New York City.
The card wasn’t the only symbol of the season in evidence. A Mexican tree of lights stood on the sleek marble mantel, candles extinguished halfway down. Susan couldn’t help but contrast this with all the tinsel and glitter for which The Holly and Ms. Ivy were known. But, she decided, the fact that Z’s private life wasn’t identical to his professional side wasn’t all that unusual. And maybe there wasn’t that much contrast after all. Z’s parties were examples of great style, creative and unusual. The same could be said of his apartment.
Susan wandered around, picking up bowls and magazines, then putting them down, wondering what she was doing here. Brett had wanted Z’s address. He must think this place had some sort of significance. Maybe Z had been murdered here, and the police crime unit would … She stood still as the implications of the rest of the thought struck home. They would come here and collect fingerprints—hers among the rest.
And the casual manner of the landlady’s greeting implied that she was accustomed to the presence of strange women … women who were strangers, she amended, walking over to the nearest window and peering out. Neighborhood children, drawn by the snow, were gathering in the middle of a lawn a couple of doors down. One red-jacketed child optimistically pulled a wooden sled across the frozen grass. Another waved an elaborately embroidered mitten and called out a greeting to the baby blue Volkswagen Bug moving down the street … and stopping at the curb in front of 142 Chestnut.
Susan’s mouth fell open as Jamie Potter got out of the car and trotted up the sidewalk toward the Victorian. She looked around the apartment, realizing immediately that the urge to hide was absurd. After all, the woman downstairs knew that she was there. Had even let her in. There was no rational reason for the guilt she was feeling.
Which changed to embarrassment when the door opened and Jamie Potter walked into the room followed by the landlady.
“Hi!”
Susan opened her mouth and then closed it again without speaking as she realized what she was seeing. “You two look alike.…”
“I told you my aunt lived on Chestnut, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t tell me she was Z’s landlady.”
“You didn’t tell me that you were coming to this particular address on Chestnut, did you?” Susan realized this was said in a friendly manner.
Everyone smiled.
“Why don’t I go downstairs and get us all some tea?” Jamie’s aunt offered, turning to leave.
“We don’t really need very much,” Jamie said quickly.
“I just had lunch,” Susan agreed, thinking she would be saving the older woman some work.
“Nothing like a little something in the middle of the afternoon, I always say. You two come on down as soon as you’re ready.”
Jamie didn’t speak until her aunt had disappeared. “Watch out for the jelly and jam. She buys it all at church sales. You wouldn’t believe what people make conserve from these days.”
“I gather you don’t get ideas for your professional life from your aunt’s purchases.”
“I’d love to see the look on Gwen’s face if I suggested parsnip-and-clove preserve for the English tea we’re preparing.” She walked to the middle of the room and looked around. “Different from downstairs, isn’t it?”
“Did you find him this apartment?”
“Sort of. I came to The Holly and Ms. Ivy about four years ago. I’d just graduated from C.I.A.—the Culinary Institute of America—and I was lucky to find a job right away. And, while I grew up in New Jersey, I had always visited my aunt and uncle here, so I knew what a nice town this is.
“When I moved here, I stayed with my aunt, naturally. Uncle John had died years ago, and she was thrilled to have the company. Hancock is a pretty safe town, but she had gotten older, and worried about living alone, so she really enjoyed having me. So much that she wanted me to stay, offering to turn her second floor into a separate apartment.”
“And you offered it to Z?”
Jamie crumpled up her nose. “Sort of. I love my aunt, but I really wanted to live on my own. And Z was moving out of Gwen’s house so …”
“I didn’t know he and Gwen used to live together.”
“Yes. They rented a house near downtown and ran the business from their basement. But they’d just bought the carriage house, and Gwen was moving to a house down by the water, and someone said that Z was looking for a place of his own. So I told him about this place, and when he seemed interested, I introduced him to my aunt. Z looked around, charmed her, charmed an entire company of house renovators into working overtime and … And he’s been living here ever since.”
“Charmed your aunt so much that she preferred him as a tenant to her own niece?”
“It’s not that she preferred him; it’s just that he made sure she wouldn’t mind me living my own life. He probably made her think that it was her own idea.”
“Really? How did he do that?”
“How well did you know Z?”
“Just professionally,” Susan said, as she heard a voice call them from downstairs.
“I think my aunt’s ready for us. You don’t mind, do you? She’s going to be very lonely without Z.…” Jamie grabbed Susan’s arm. “You didn’t tell her that he was murdered, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. Then I will, but let’s go have some tea first. I called Auntie’s minister from the carriage house. He said he’d be here in about an hour. I’ll tell her before then.”
Susan was thinking about how impressed she was by the young woman’s consideration for her elderly relative as she followed her down the stairs.
“I’m back here in the kitchen, Jamie.”
“If it’s fluorescent, don’t eat it,” Jamie whispered, opening a white door on which hung a large stuffed angel with a malevolent grin embroidered on her face.
The kitchen could have served as a photo layout for a magazine offering an article entitled “50 Things to Make for the Holidays (Directions Inside).” Susan was drawn to a wall covered with swags, wreaths, and hangings fashioned from fragrant herbs and spices.
“This is fantastic,” Susan enthused, gently touching a wreath made entirely from cinnamon sticks, anise stars, and gilded nutmegs.
“Congregational Church over near Stamford. Sit down at the table and have something to eat. Jamie is so thin, and she works around all that food. I worry about her.”
Susan sat down on the oak chair offered. She would have examined the cross-stitched tablecloth if it hadn’t been covered with food: a pot of tea and three matching mugs, a plate of buttered toast, and over a dozen tiny bowls of jam. Jamie had been right; one or two of the choices were shades popularized by Day-Glo paints.
A local radio station was playing Christmas carols, and Jamie’s aunt reached across the counter to turn down the volume before she began pouring out the tea. “Did you find what you wanted?” she asked Susan.
“I …” Susan had no idea what she was going to say and was relieved rather than annoyed when Jamie interrupted.
“Mrs. Henshaw just wanted to look around Z’s apartment, Aunt Flo.” Jamie was piling sour-cherry jam on a slice of toast as she spoke. “This looks good,” she added.
“Probably is. Methodist,” her aunt replied.
“Do a lot of women want to see where Z … Z’s apartment?” Susan asked, trying to phrase the question without using the past tense.
“Oh, yes. He frequently sends them here for some reason.” The woman Susan had come to think of as Aunt Flo spooned a remarkable amount of golden honey into her tea as she spoke. “I always kid him about it.” She took a sip of her tea and smiled. “Z and his women. We all love him, don’t we?”
“I don’t know him all that well …,” Susan began.
“Oh, that’s what all his women always say. But we do love him, don’t we?” Aunt Flo insisted.
“But why?” Susa
n asked, thinking she might as well get what information she could.
“Because he made himself so lovable, of course. Oh, there’s the front door.” The elderly woman again popped up with a display of energy that Susan envied.
Jamie grabbed her aunt’s arm. “Aunt Flo, before you get that, there’s something you should know.”
“Why, dear, what could it be?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to tell you like this.” Jamie looked around as though hoping an answer might pop out of the air. Then she took a deep breath and continued. “Z is dead, Aunt Flo. He was … The police think he was killed.”
“Killed? Who would kill Z? Everyone loves him.” The doorbell rang again. “Maybe you could get that for me, dear. I think I need to sit down.” And she did.
“Go ahead,” Susan insisted, worried by the loss of color on the elderly woman’s face. “I’ll take care of your aunt. That’s probably the police at the door.” She moved her chair closer to the elderly woman as the door closed behind Jamie. “I know Jamie didn’t want you to learn about Z’s death this way.”
“That’s because she thinks old people are fragile,” Aunt Flo surprised her by answering. “Of course, I’m upset at losing a friend, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. I’ll miss Z though.” She smiled, but Susan noticed tears in her eyes. “He was such a charmer, always ready with a kind comment, always trying to please. And he did it all without seeming to be false or cloying. It was just the way he was. Do you know what I mean?”
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