Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Surely—” Susan began to protest.

  “Really, he’s become obsessed with winning. When he started talking about running, we thought he would just walk in to the mayor’s seat. After all, how many people really want to be mayor? We thought we could do so much good.” She inhaled and exhaled a few times before continuing. “And then this Landmark Commission thing came up and Bradley Chadwick decided to run. But we probably could have beaten him, and Anthony just did what he always does when he wants something—he worked harder. And then Ivan Deakin threw his hat into the ring and Anthony began to think that with the vote split three ways, he might lose. He couldn’t bear it. He started coming up with all sorts of foolish plans.…” She began to cough and took a sip of her untouched, and by now lukewarm, tea.

  “Like what?” Susan asked when Theresa had regained control.

  “The first one was that we would hire someone to look into Ivan’s background and see what sort of scandals might be there.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Sort of. I don’t think Anthony got that far with his thinking.”

  “And did he hire anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. I don’t think Anthony would even know how to go about finding someone to delve into a person’s past.”

  “You said that was just the first thing,” Susan said, wondering if Anthony could simultaneously be as helpless as his wife implied and as brilliant as her husband believed.

  “It was. His second idea—or was it his third? I keep getting confused. Well, I think the next idea was that I should become friends with the ex–Mrs. Ivan Deakin and discover the details about their divorce.”

  “Isn’t this just a variation on the first theme?”

  “Not exactly. You see, Anthony had decided that Ivan must have some sort of financial interest in those houses up on the hill that spurred him to get involved in this election. The ex-wife was supposed to know all about that sort of thing because of the financial terms of her settlement.”

  This was sounding less crazy by the second. If Ivan Deakin was going to benefit financially from the election, certainly the voters had a right to know. “And the next plan?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember!” Theresa said, growing impatient. “He just keeps brainstorming about all this. He wakes me up in the middle of the night with these crazy ideas for getting elected. And then last night …”

  “What happened last night?” Susan asked when Theresa seemed to run out of steam.

  “When he came in last night … or early this morning … when he came in, he seemed so relaxed. Almost happy.”

  “Happy that Ivan was dead?”

  Theresa nodded slowly. “He was happy like a man who had accomplished what he set out to accomplish. I haven’t seen him like that since the day he received his doctorate. Or in the operating room right after Terry was born.”

  “Terry is your daughter?”

  “Our son.”

  “I didn’t know you had children.”

  “He’s away. At school.”

  Susan was interested in other things. “Did you and Anthony talk about the murder? Or did either of you know that Ivan had been murdered at that point?”

  “We both knew. I had turned on the radio as soon as I got home and it was announced sometime after midnight. That’s actually why I was still awake when Anthony got home. And Anthony said he had heard it on the radio, too.”

  “In his car?”

  “That’s just it! I don’t know. I was sitting up in bed when he got home and he came right upstairs and told me that Ivan Deakin had been poisoned. And then, of course, I told him I knew that from the radio and I asked him if he knew anything else. He said he didn’t. And then I asked him where he had been for the past four hours and he … he said he had been driving around, thinking.”

  “And you don’t think that’s possible?”

  “He didn’t come home to talk with me.” Theresa looked stunned by the very memory. “It’s not like Anthony to stay away from me when something is bothering him. We’ve been married for almost thirty years. We’re very close.”

  “Maybe he thought he was protecting you from something by not telling you what he had been doing,” Susan suggested.

  “That’s it exactly,” Theresa said, a sad look on her face. “That’s the real reason why I think Anthony killed Ivan Deakin. That’s why he won’t talk to me. He’s protecting me. He doesn’t want to involve me in the cover-up.”

  “But that’s not the only explanation for his behavior, not by a long shot,” Susan insisted. “There are dozens of things that might be going on that you know nothing about. Jed and I are close, but I certainly don’t believe I know everything about his life. Maybe you should try talking to him again.”

  Theresa frowned and pushed herself back from the table. “Maybe you’re right. But there’s something else you should know. It’s the reason I’m here.”

  What else? Susan wondered. Certainly nothing could be worse than thinking that your husband was a murderer.

  “Anthony told me this morning that he was thinking of withdrawing from the race. He doesn’t want to be mayor anymore. And he’s going to propose that Jed lead the ticket.”

  “Lead the ticket?” Could that possibly mean what she thought it did?

  “Run for mayor,” Theresa explained.

  NINE

  Theresa’s announcement stunned Susan so much that she walked her to the door, said good-bye, returned to the kitchen, and ate every bit of cheese on the table without a second thought. She was starting on the crackers when the phone rang. She answered it without thinking.

  “I understand Theresa Martel has been at your house,” Brett began without any preamble.

  “Yes, but—how do you know?” Susan interrupted herself to ask.

  “Susan, surely you know that we keep certain people under surveillance after a murder.”

  “Does that mean she’s a suspect? Or do you subscribe to the notion that someone is killing off all the candidates for office?” Susan asked, realizing that she was talking about her husband.

  “Neither. We’re just keeping track, like I said,” he answered.

  Susan noticed that he wasn’t saying very much—or explaining anything. “So … ?”

  “So I was wondering what she said to you about last night.”

  “Does this mean you’re asking me to help you investigate the murder? Is that why you were here earlier?”

  “I’m asking for your help during this part of the investigation. Yes.” He ignored her second question.

  Susan wasn’t used to Brett acting like this, but she was interested in what he knew. “What sort of poison was used?” she asked, thinking of Theresa’s search for an unknown, untraceable, fast-acting poison.

  “Nothing unusual. Cyanide. Killed him before he realized that the water didn’t taste as usual, probably.”

  “So it was in his water glass?”

  “And in the pitcher of water on the lectern.”

  Susan thought for a moment. “So it’s a good thing no one else took a drink.”

  “There was only one glass. Certainly no one would borrow the speaker’s only glass. And what else would anyone do? Lift the pitcher to their lips and take a drink?”

  “Oh. No, I guess not.” She paused and thought for a minute. “Brett, is there something different about this murder? Something more upsetting?”

  “Are you asking me who is mourning Ivan Deakin’s death?”

  “Not really,” she answered hesitantly. How could she explain that she was asking about his attitude? If being abrupt and oblique meant anything, he certainly was acting differently than she had seen him act before.

  “Well, I don’t think we need to look for a murderer in the midst of his family circle,” Brett insisted. “We have enough suspects if we look into the election. And don’t forget that he was killed in a public place before he could make a political statement.”

  “I—”

  “Susan, I
have to go. Just keep anything Theresa Martel said under your hat until we’ve had a chance to talk, will you?”

  “I—”

  But he was off the line before she could utter the sentence.

  Susan frowned and hung up the phone. Her hand was still on the receiver when it rang. She sighed and picked it up. Jed greeted her.

  “Susan, I’m going to be late tonight. Anthony just called and he wants to meet for a short time. He thinks we should make a public statement about Ivan’s death.”

  “Good idea. You could meet here if you want to,” she suggested, looking at her kitchen table and wondering what she might offer any guests to eat.

  “No. We’re going to meet at the Martels’. Anthony doesn’t want to leave his wife alone. He said this murder has upset her terribly.”

  Susan decided she would wait until Jed got home to tell him about Theresa’s visit this morning. But there was something else on her mind. “Jed, do you have a minute?”

  “Just about that. What’s up?”

  Susan told him briefly about Brett’s phone call.

  The policeman’s behavior didn’t seem to be a mystery to Jed. “Susan, technically Brett works for the town council. Not that I think that the next mayor, no matter who wins this election, is going to fire Brett. Nevertheless, in this investigation he’s looking into the life of his potential employer.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that,” Susan said slowly. “And that goes for all the police in town, doesn’t it?” She heard a voice in the background at the other end of the line.

  “Guess so. Listen, hon, I’ve got to run. Sorry about tonight. After this is over, why don’t we go away for a long weekend? Maybe someplace warm.”

  Promises, promises, Susan thought. If he won, wouldn’t he be even busier, what with town council meetings and all? But her husband had given her something to think about as she went to the backyard to collect poor Clue.

  The dog, instead of wasting her time, had dug another huge hole in her dog run. Susan decided that she would fill it in another day and led the dog back into the house. It was occurring to her that she had to help Brett with this investigation even if he didn’t come right out and ask. After all, she wasn’t working for the town government. She had more freedom to act and nothing to lose if she made a few enemies along the way. And she knew exactly where to start her investigation, she decided, heading straight for Jed’s study. What she needed was the names and addresses of the members of the Landmark Commission.

  Jed’s study was one of her favorite rooms in the house. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a built-in bar, stereo system, and comfortable chairs surrounded the large desk. It was used by everyone in the family looking for a comfortable place to nest. Usually, of course, it was neater than it was at present. No one was going to be lounging here now, Susan thought, looking around. Papers had flowed from the desk onto each and every horizontal surface. Susan only hoped that what she was looking for was still around. She shuffled through piles of papers, some printed, others in her husband’s spiky writing. A stack of notebooks fell to the floor, revealing a small booklet printed on bright yellow paper. Eureka!

  The local League of Women Voters published a yearly directory of the elected and appointed officers in Hancock, as well as various other publications that Jed had been studying for the last few months.

  Susan picked up a pile of newspapers from a chair and tossed it on the floor before sitting down. She flipped through the pages of the pamphlet before she found what she wanted. Then, grabbing a piece of paper that was only half-filled with what looked like a draft of a speech Jed was composing, she copied out the five names and four addresses of the members of the Landmark Commission. Except for the commission chair, Penelope Thomas, the names were unfamiliar. Erika Eden, Rosemary Nearing, Lyman Nearing, and Foster Wade. Rosemary and Lymen lived at the same address, so Susan assumed they were married. The booklet didn’t provide phone numbers, so she reached for the phone book.

  On the other hand … The element of surprise was not to be sneezed at, she decided, stuffing the paper in her pocket and leaving the room. She’d change her clothing and drop in on the members of the Landmark Commission.

  As she was about to back the car out of the driveway, Susan glanced through the list and noticed that Foster Wade lived on a street she recognized, so she decided to start with him. She drove over to Caldwell Avenue, a long street of small Victorian homes that eventually merged with Hancock’s shopping area. Easily finding Foster Wade’s number, she parked her car in front of his peeling, white three-story home. The sidewalk had been upended by the roots of a large maple nearby and she barely escaped falling. The porch looked like it had been screened in years ago and was now being maintained by someone who either didn’t like to work or loved bugs, or so Susan concluded from the long rips in the screen.

  She climbed the leaf-strewn steps and pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened. No one appeared. Probably, she guessed, because the bell wasn’t working. She peered through the screen at the dark porch and noticed the Halloween decorations that hung around the door. The Wades must use the same decorations year after year: they looked very worn. The skeleton, in fact, did not have its legbone connected to its hipbone.… She must be getting punchy. She pulled herself together and knocked firmly on the screen door—and a foot or so of molding fell on her foot.

  “Are you looking for someone?” A young man who seemed to be in his early thirties stood in the doorway of the house. He was wearing holey gray sweatpants and a Disneyland sweatshirt.

  “I’m Susan Henshaw. And I’m looking for Mr. Foster Wade.”

  “I’m Foster Wade.”

  He stood there, apparently expecting her to make the next comment. “I’m Susan Henshaw,” she repeated, feeling like a fool. “I understand you’re a member of the Landmark Commission.”

  She paused and he nodded.

  “Well, my husband is running for a seat on the town council.”

  “And you wanted to talk to me about the Landmark Commission’s work,” he said genially, opening the door for her.

  Surprised, Susan walked into the house. She was even more surprised by what she found there.

  About twenty-five years earlier, she had attended her first and last fraternity party. Except for the noticeable lack of empty beer bottles, the Wade home looked a lot like that fraternity house in the late sixties. Clothing wasn’t so much left behind as strewn like seeds onto the fertile ground—where they had sprouted. There was no other explanation for the mess. From the banister in the hallway to the mahogany sideboard to the knickknack shelf in front of the window, each and every surface had been used as an impromptu hanger. Susan guessed that all the clothing belonged to Foster. Certainly all of it was casual, dirty, and full of holes, like his attire today.

  But the other surprising thing was the furniture beneath the clothes. Susan had seen it before, too. And not at the fraternity house (which had tended toward broken-down Danish Modern) either. Her grandmother would have felt right at home underneath the layer of laundry. The room into which he had led her was furnished in the fussy style of the late twenties and early thirties. Whatnot shelves hung on walls, and underneath the clothing, tatted antimacassars were pinned to all chair and sofa backs.

  “This is very nice,” Susan said, seeing that her staring was being observed.

  “It’s my parents’ home. In fact, it looked a lot like this right before they died.”

  So it was possible to die from the shock of seeing what a slob your child had become. She must mention that to Chad the next time she was forced to spend any time in his bedroom. “How nice,” is all she said.

  “You wanted to talk with me about the Landmark Commission,” he reminded her, not even bothering to pick up the clothing on the couch before he sat down.

  Susan sat, too, but not before moving a particularly dirty sweater from the velvet chair. “Yes, how did you get involved?” And did you have any reason to murder Ivan Deakin?
she thought.

  “Oh, I was asked to serve,” Foster replied airily. “My family has been in Hancock for years and we’ve always believed in doing our civic duty.”

  “Someone on the town council asked you to … to serve?”

  “No, it was Mrs. Thomas. Penelope Thomas. She’s the chairwoman of the commission. She was always a dear friend of my parents and she’s a very important person in town. Perhaps you’ve met her?”

  Now, Susan had changed into her very best conservative Talbot’s suburban casual outfit to speak with these people today, and she didn’t intend to be talked down to by a man who chose not to dress properly and didn’t even bother to pick up his clothing at all. But her better self kicked in and she reminded herself that after all, Foster Wade was an orphan. “Penelope and I have met a few times,” was her answer.

  “Well, I imagine that I was her first choice for the commission. I have a great interest in preserving older homes.”

  Susan hoped the expression on her face didn’t reveal her thoughts. The man hadn’t even learned to pick up his underwear! And those holes in his screen didn’t indicate an interest in preserving anything!

  But Foster Wade had gotten up and was pacing the floor, removing books from a nearby shelf and shuffling through the pages. “I’ve read all these books,” he continued. “Studied them, in fact. And I feel a deep personal need to take part in preserving the very best of what our forefathers left us.”

  “Of course,” Susan agreed. But Foster gave her no chance to continue. He sat down on the arm of her chair and thrust a book underneath her nose.

  “Look at these photographs! Look!” he insisted as though she had a choice, with anything held so close to her face. “All of those buildings were destroyed to make way for skyscrapers. All those beautiful details smashed to smithereens just so huge impersonal hunks of stainless steel could climb up to the sky! It’s a crime! A real crime!”

  Susan managed to glance at the caption underneath one of the black-and-white photos. “But that’s New York City,” she said. “And there aren’t any skyscrapers in Hancock!” She twisted around so she could see Foster’s face. Was he putting her on?