Susan, startled, looked around.
“Your leotard,” explained Martha Hallard, pointing to Susan’s pink Lycra-encased legs shining from below her coat.
“I’d forgotten all about that,” Susan admitted, taking the largest bottle of calamine lotion that the store offered off the shelf.
“I don’t suppose that’s for poison ivy at this time of the year.”
“Chicken pox,” Susan replied, getting some Tylenol liquid also.
“Oh, no. Dan told me that there were some cases around, but I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go through another round of that disease this spring.”
“Hasn’t Charlie had it yet?”
“Years ago, but it’s so difficult to get anything done once a real epidemic gets started. No one can make it to meetings; everyone’s either tired from being up at night with their kids, or else bored to death after staying at home with them. And March is a rotten month anyway. The doldrums or something. I heard on the radio that another storm is coming in tomorrow. And the snow from last Friday still hasn’t melted. I hate this weather.”
Susan, who had always thought of Martha as very self-disciplined and unlikely to be affected by anything as minor as the weather, was surprised to hear this. “What are you working on now?” she asked, knowing her neighbor always had a committee or two busy with a community project as well as running her house and real estate business.
“Very little,” came the surprising reply. “Did you hear that the police found my jewelry?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No, how wonderful! Where was it? That means they must know who the burglars are.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then how … ?” Susan began.
“It was found in the possession of some fence up in Hartford. As I understand the story, the police acted on an anonymous tip—sounds like a movie, doesn’t it?—and they found everything that was stolen that night in this guy’s apartment. And get this: It had been mailed to him from New York City. No return address, just the cancellation stamp to tell them where it came from. The fence says he has no idea who sent it. That a box arrived yesterday in the regular mail and, when he opened it, he was as surprised as anyone to find that it contained valuable jewels.”
“No one asked for money for it? I thought that fences paid burglars for the goods and then resold them. At least that’s what they do on TV,” Susan qualified her statement.
“Guess not. The officer who talked to me said that they don’t have any proof that his story isn’t true.” Martha shrugged, and took a large ornate jar of English bath oil from the shelf in front of her. “I wonder if this is any good?” She twisted off the cap and put it to her nose for a sniff.
“But why steal the stuff if you aren’t going to make any money from it?” Susan protested, seeing that she was losing Martha’s attention.
“What?” Martha stopped sniffing and looked at her friend.
“They didn’t get any money from the fence so why did they steal the things if not for profit?” Susan asked, grabbing at the bottle of calamine lotion, which was in danger of falling to the floor.
“How should I know?” Martha put the bottle she had opened on the display and took an unopened one. “I think I’ll buy this for my mother. She loves junk like this and her birthday’s coming up.”
“Mrs. Henshaw. Mrs. Henshaw.”
“I think someone’s calling you,” Martha said, nodding at the girl behind the pharmacist’s counter.
“Chad’s prescription must be ready. Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Susan ended the conversation, seeing that Martha had lost interest. “Glad to hear that you’ve got your jewelry back.”
“Who got it back? They have to keep it until the fence’s case comes to trial. Could be months before I wear my jewels again.”
The girl behind the counter looked interested, but Martha had moved on to the row of shampoos and cream rinses. Susan charged her purchases and, waving to her friend, left the store. The sidewalk, slippery where melting snow from the roof had made a puddle on top of yesterday’s ice, was hazardous and she walked carefully to her car.
“Susan!” A deep male voice from behind her startled her and, ceasing to pay attention to what she was doing, she slipped and fell, her packages dropping onto the hard cement beside her.
“Well, I’ve had women fling themselves at my feet, of course, but never with such wild abandon.”
Susan didn’t have to look up to identify Richard Elliot. What was he wearing on his feet? Red wellingtons? she wondered, being in a good position to notice such apparel.
“Let me help you with your package, my dear,” he offered, bending down slowly. “What is that pink stuff oozing all over everything?” he asked, picking up the leaking paper bag. “What sort of repulsive mixture are you carrying? ‘Baboon’s blood’ or something similar?”
Susan assumed the allusion was literary and let it pass. “Calamine lotion,” she answered, poking around in the dripping bag to see if anything else was destroyed.
Richard helped her to her feet and then, cape swirling, left her alone on the sidewalk. “Back in a moment,” he promised over his shoulder.
Susan held the sticky mess away from her clothes until he returned.
“Here.” He held out a plastic bag with large purple print that she couldn’t read. “Put that mess in here before it takes over the world and let’s go get some coffee somewhere. I need desperately to talk to you.”
“I’ll have to call home first. Chad is sick and …”
“Of course, the maternal instinct. By all means, make your call and clear your mind of all distractions.” By now, he was guiding her down the block in the direction of the bakery Kathleen and Maureen had eaten in the day before. “I know there’s a phone here that you can use,” he assured her, opening the door to the sweet-smelling shop.
Susan spied the phone on the wall at the back of the room between two red-striped awnings, and quickly called Kathleen to check on Chad’s condition.
“Don’t worry, Susan. He’s still asleep and I think the Tylenol has taken care of his fever. I’m sitting here in your bedroom going through the pile of magazines that was on the floor next to your side of the bed. At least, I assume it’s your side of the bed; or does Jed like to peek through Vogue and Family Circle before dropping off to sleep?
“Listen,” she continued, “you talk to Richard. He might give you some valuable information. If all else fails, ask the pompous idiot why Dawn and he stayed married!”
“But you’re sure you’ll be all right with Chad?” Susan persisted, still worrying about leaving her son.
“Give me the number you’re calling from and I’ll let you know if anything changes here. Okay?”
“Great!” Susan read out the number and hung up. Returning to the table, she found that Richard had already ordered for them both, and the food was awaiting them. “That looks good,” she said, as he pushed a cup of coffee toward her.
“Adequate,” was as far as he would go to agreeing with her.
Susan wondered how she was going to begin the conversation, forgetting, that with Richard Elliot, uncomfortable silences weren’t a problem.
“Susan, Susan,” he began and for a moment she thought he was going to take her hand, but he was just reaching across the table for a pastry. “ ‘I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratched.’ ” And he took a bite of pastry.
“You mean Dawn’s death,” she said.
“Yes.” And he sighed deeply before taking another bite. “The loss of one’s wife, of one’s dearest companion, of the woman who was always by my side …” He paused, and Susan wondered if he was thinking about how little his wife had been at his side, or even in the same state much of the time. “And then to be questioned over and over by the police as to where I was when she died, what our relationship was like, as though they consider me a suspect in her murder! It’s a low point in an otherwise remarkable life.”
There was a profoun
d silence while Susan tried not to laugh. But his next words solved that problem.
“I think, dear Susan, that the police consider your husband and myself the main suspects.”
“Why? Why do you think that?” Susan swallowed her food and told herself to calm down.
“Because they are fools!” And Richard displayed that ability to enunciate and project that had made him famous in theaters too poor to afford adequate public address systems all over the country. The girl behind the counter looked over at their table, startled.
“The Hancock police are incapable of doing anything other than looking at the obvious: They suspect me because I’m the husband. As though I would do something so inferior, so mediocre, so pedestrian, so third-rate mystery storyish. Why, I’ve never even played in The Mousetrap.”
“And Jed? Why do they suspect Jed?” Susan asked anxiously.
“Because she appeared in your garage, of course. I told you the obvious: propinquity.”
“Is that what they told you?”
“That is what I deduce.” And he lowered his head and looked at her with cocked eyebrows. “We are dealing with fools, Susan. And I think it is time we took matters into our own hands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We must investigate this crime on our own. But I think, yes, I think we need some help.”
Susan watched as Richard Elliot took on a series of unique mannerisms: head bent to one side, jerky movements, a series of startling twitches with his shoulders as he spoke. “Help?” she repeated.
“That charming woman I met at your home the other night. What was her name? Kathleen, I believe? Isn’t she a private investigator or something?”
“She was a police detective; she’s running a security company now,” Susan explained, deciding not to tell him that Kathleen was already involved.
“And she is your friend and will help us solve this crime and find the true murderer,” Richard said. “You probably wonder how I know this.”
“Uh, yes,” Susan lied.
“Elementary, my dear. Elementary …”
He continued, but Susan wasn’t listening. She was too busy watching him mimic a good actor’s characterization of Sherlock Holmes, creating a dreadful bastardization that was almost laughable. Or sad; he was so terrible. Momentarily she wondered if Dawn had stayed married to him out of pity. Well, she decided, she might as well get one person’s viewpoint.
“Richard,” she interrupted his rambling explanation, “why did you and Dawn get married?”
“Why did we—?” He broke off, surprised by the question. “Susan, that is just the type of question that the police have been asking me. I thought you were different. I’m terribly disappointed.”
“But you must meet so many interesting women in the theater and, of course, many of them would be interested in you. I just wondered why you chose to get married and …”
“This is ridiculous, Susan.” He stood up abruptly. “I am not going to sit here and listen to your suspicious questions. I am very disappointed in you, Susan. Very!” And he flung his cape over his shoulder and stalked from the room.
Susan sat there and stared at the uneaten food on the table. “If you’re not going to finish that, I can wrap it up and you can take it with you,” offered the counter girl helpfully.
“Thank you, but I really don’t want it,” Susan answered, taking her own coat off the hook on the wall and starting to put it on. She was gathering up her purse and purchases when the girl spoke again.
“Someone is going to have to pay for all that, even if it didn’t get eaten, you know.”
“You mean he didn’t … ?”
“Him? Nope. He just ordered and took it to the table. Said you might want something else. He never pays for anything. Probably can’t afford it.” She shrugged, and brushed her too-long bangs out of her eyes.
Susan had had a hard day and it wasn’t even noon yet. “Mr. Elliot is a very wealthy man. He and his family have lived in Hancock for generations and he can certainly pay for a snack at the bakery. He …”
“You can’t tell me anything about the Elliots. My mother used to be their cleaning woman and she says the family lost most of their money in the stock market crash back in the twenties and then the rest of it in the sixties in some sort of oil swindle. I don’t know where Mr. Elliot gets money to live on, but it wasn’t left by his family. Maybe he’s a more successful actor than he looks.” She snickered.
Susan had put her purse down on the table and was taking out her wallet. “How much do I owe you?” she asked, her voice friendly.
“Eleven twenty-five.”
Susan passed the money across the counter. “Are you sure about that?” she asked.
“About the Elliots and their money?” She put away the cash in a drawer under the counter. “That’s what my mother always said and she would have known. My mother always knows what’s going on,” she added, somewhat ruefully.
“That’s interesting,” Susan commented, trying to keep her voice casual. “Did your mother have any idea where Richard Elliot got his money from?”
“Well, my mother,” the girl paused and leaned across the counter, “my mother said that it was from his wife. You know, the woman who died.”
The door opened behind them and another customer entered the shop.
V
“She was not only married to the idiot, but she was supporting him? This is getting more and more interesting.”
“Well, that’s what the girl at the bakery said. We’re just assuming that it’s true.” Susan was in the bathroom off her bedroom, unloading the bag from the pharmacy. “I cannot believe this calamine lotion,” she added, turning on the water and beginning to wash its pink stickiness off the various tubes and bottles.
Kathleen answered from her seat in the bedroom. “Well, some of this stuff we can find out for ourselves.”
“How?”
“Wills are public documents. We can find out how much money the Elliots left behind when they died. When did they die?”
“Sometime in the sixties,” Susan answered. “They were killed at the same time—in an automobile accident.”
“Anything unusual about it?” Kathleen asked.
“Not that I know of. Some teenagers had a party in someone’s home and got very drunk and ran smack into the car that Richard’s parents were driving home from a party. I think that Richard’s father died immediately and his mother lingered on in a coma for a few weeks before dying. But that’s all I know about it. Nothing out of the usual, although it’s sad. Richard was just a teenager, not grown up. I hate to think of parents dying when their children still need them.”
“If there was anything else, I can find out more about it in police records,” Kathleen said. “We also need to know whom Dawn left her money to. If she was supporting her husband while she was alive, did she plan to continue to do so after her death?”
“Won’t the police know that?” Susan asked, entering the room.
“Of course. All we have to do is get them to tell us.”
“Do you think they will?” Susan asked, sitting down at her dressing table.
“Mommy, I itch. I itch all over.” The sleepy but insistent voice of her son came from the middle of the king-size bed.
Susan leapt up and rushed over to him. “Chad? How are you feeling, honey?”
“I told you. I itch.”
“Well, don’t scratch, honey. It will leave scars.” She felt her son’s head. “You know what will stop that itching? A bath. Why don’t I run you a nice cool bath and you can soak for a while?”
“A bath? In the middle of the day?”
Susan smiled. If he had the energy to argue, he wasn’t all that sick. “It will make you feel better. And I’ll sit outside the door and read to you, if you would like.”
“Car magazines?” he requested.
“Anything you want to hear,” she promised.
“You have things to do,” Kathleen said, g
etting up. “And so do I. I think I’ll pay Detective Sardini a call and see how much information he’ll part with about this financial thing. Can I pick up anything for Chad?”
“No, I found another bottle of calamine lotion while I was in the bathroom, so we’re okay for a day or two. Thanks.”
“I’ll stop over this afternoon and bring you a surprise, Chad,” Kathleen said, heading for the door. “And I’ll give you a progress report then,” she added quietly to Susan.
“I’d love the new issue of Four Wheeler,” he suggested quickly.
“Chad!” his mother admonished him.
“That’s okay, Susan. He’s sick. I’ll see what I can find,” she answered him. “To be honest, I didn’t even know that there was a magazine named Four Wheeler. ’Bye.”
“Chad, you really shouldn’t …” She stopped her lecture when she had looked more closely at her son. His spots were increasing every second. “Let me run that tub for you,” she continued. “I know it will make you feel better.”
VI
“All I’m asking for is financial information,” Kathleen was saying to Officer Mitchell, while Detective Sardini, whom she thought to be intentionally ignoring her, was intently reading through a large pile of papers on his desk. “You must know a lot about Dawn Elliot by now: tax information, and personal and medical records besides her financial situation. All I want to know now is what her estate was worth and whom she left her assets to.”
“We’re not obliged to tell you anything,” Mitchell reminded her.
Kathleen couldn’t argue and so said nothing.
“You’re not a member of the department anymore, Mrs. Gordon. You have no more right to information than anyone else in the town of Hancock. Maybe less, in fact, since it is your friend’s husband who is a primary suspect in this case. Since it was your friend’s garage where Mrs. Elliot’s body was found. Since …”
“I know all that,” Kathleen interrupted, unable to restrain herself any longer.
The Fortieth Birthday Body Page 17