Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Karo syrup, food coloring, and maybe something else,” the police officer announced from upstairs. “I collected a sample for the lab.”

  “Good.” Brett nodded. “You look a little pale. Do you want to sit down?”

  Susan glanced up at the other officer.

  “I was talking about you,” Brett said, chuckling.

  “I’m … I guess I’m fine if it’s not blood.” She started up the steps, mumbling, “I want to see it again.”

  Both policemen followed her back up the narrow stairway. Susan took a deep breath, but knowing that the stuff on the bed wasn’t blood made it easier to walk into the room. All the lights had been turned on and the scene before her now seemed more like an amateur stage set than a murder scene. She walked over to the bed and began to put her hand into the damp mess.

  “This really doesn’t look much like blood, does it?” she asked, beginning to feel foolish.

  “It fooled all of us when we first saw it,” Brett reminded her.

  “Why do you think she would do this?” Susan asked him.

  Brett looked at her. “You mean Erika? Erika didn’t do this.”

  “I’ll go call for the crime kit.” The other officer started back down the stairs.

  “Smart kid,” Brett muttered as the young man disappeared. “I’d stay as far away from this one as possible if I was in his position, too.”

  “You were saying that Erika didn’t do this,” Susan reminded him.

  “Erika is a classy lady. Does this look like something a classy lady would do?”

  Only if she were smart enough to know that you would say that, Susan thought. “Why would anyone do this?”

  “Damn good question,” Brett said. “It’s more like an adolescent prank than part of a criminal investigation.”

  “I gather this wasn’t here before? You did come upstairs, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, and it wasn’t here. I wouldn’t have sent you if it had looked like this.” He glanced up at her. “You didn’t notice anything else, did you?”

  “I didn’t really look,” Susan said. “I could now, of course.…”

  “Just don’t touch anything,” Brett warned her. “We have no choice but to regard this as a crime scene—even if it turns out to have nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Are you going to try to find out if anyone was seen around here tonight?” Susan asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe someone at the party saw something,” she said, wandering around the small room.

  “We’ll check that out.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job.” Susan nudged open an unlatched closet door. “She didn’t take many clothes with her, did she?”

  “What do you mean?” Brett asked, standing up.

  “There’s only one empty hanger here.… Look.”

  Brett did just that.

  “Of course, maybe she didn’t plan on staying away for very long,” Susan suggested.

  “Or maybe,” Brett said, “she didn’t plan on going away at all. Maybe she was kidnapped. Damn it!” He slammed his hand down on the tiny bedside table, smashing it to the floor. “I’ve been an idiot. She could have been kidnapped. I’ve been trying to protect her and I could be protecting someone who wishes to harm her.… What am I saying? There’s a murderer loose out there. She might have been murdered.” He dashed from the room, leaving Susan alone once more.

  Frowning, Susan opened the closet door more fully. The closet was as well organized as the rest of the house, each article of clothing hanging on a padded hanger, herbal sachets tied up in corners, fabric-covered boxes arranged by size on the shelf. Shoes and boots were lined up on the floor; it looked like one pair, at the most, was missing. Puzzled, she returned the door to its previous position and tiptoed to the stairway. Silence from below encouraged her to believe that she had more time alone. Despite Brett’s admonition to disturb nothing, she quickly went through the dresser drawers. Like the closet, they suggested that either Erika was a marvelous example of traveling light or she hadn’t planned to stay away for long.

  If, Susan reminded herself, she had planned this absence at all. Could Erika have been kidnapped, as Brett suggested, she wondered. Or possibly murdered? But by whom? Why would anyone kill Ivan Deakin and then kill the woman who had divorced him years and years ago?

  She wandered into the bathroom, thinking over these questions. As before, the room revealed little of the personality of the person who lived here. Susan thought about her own home. She had built the bathroom of her dreams a little over a year ago. And there were frequently towels on the floor, stockings drying in the shower, makeup and soaps lying around—and that was just her mess. Jed’s apparent belief in the decorative value of his worn socks never ceased to surprise her. Susan opened the medicine cabinet, wondering if anyone could possibly be this neat all the time or if it was Erika’s housekeeper who cleaned up after her.

  Interesting question, she realized, sliding the door closed. And it should be fairly easy to answer. Certainly the woman living in the large house would know the schedule of Erika’s cleaning woman. Susan glanced out the tiny bathroom window. The party was still going strong. She noticed Brett standing on the side porch of the house, talking earnestly with another man.

  It was time to go home. The Henshaw males would be done with their pizza feast and Jed, at least, would be at home, possibly worrying about her. She had accomplished little by coming here. She went downstairs and let herself out of the carriage house. “I have to go,” she called to Brett as she passed him by.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he replied, waving rather absentmindedly.

  Susan found her car keys, got in her car, and drove home quickly. The front porch lights were on, as were the lights in her bedroom. She let herself into the house, noticing with amusement that Clue was completely uninterested in her entrance. “You’re a wonderful advertisement for a burglar alarm system,” she commented, bending down to pat the dog’s head.

  Clue opened one eye and resumed snoring. Susan started toward the kitchen, remembering a bag of leftover Halloween candy. She could use a Snickers bar or two.…

  Or a dozen, she thought, turning around and heading up the steps. After midnight, she had no self-discipline when it came to sugar. If she started, she wouldn’t stop. The only alternative was not to start.

  The television was on, but Jed was asleep, snoring loudly. Susan headed into the bathroom and, a little later, was slipping into bed when she realized that Jed had been watching a videotape. Curious and trying to stop thinking about those candy bars, she punched a few buttons on the remote. What appeared on the screen was her interview with Tom Davidson earlier in the evening.

  She sat up and watched carefully. Starting out talking about the dog did, in fact, seem a little strange. Perhaps she should have mentioned Nixon and the Checkers speech—not that she wanted to be compared with Richard Nixon. Although there were days when she could feel a growing empathy for Pat—and Betty; and Rosalind; and Barbara; and Hillary; and whoever was to become their first lady in January.

  She watched with a growing feeling of relief that the cable station had few viewers. It wasn’t that she was terrible, but she didn’t exactly help Jed’s chances at winning. The show ended and a homebody-type woman came on the air, promising viewers an opportunity to see a fascinating show about knitting featuring the “ever-chic Cassandra Chadwick.” Susan was glad the tape had ended.

  No one would ever refer to her as “ever-chic” she realized, turning off the light and snuggling down next to her husband. It had been a long and difficult day, and she expected to be asleep in minutes.

  Half an hour later she was sitting at her kitchen table, a pile of candy wrappers before her. She had been wrong. It wasn’t Snickers that she needed, it was Butterfingers. Or, she thought, reaching into the large wooden bowl of candy, both.

  A loud commotion in the hallway announced her son’s arrival.

&
nbsp; “Hey, you’re still up,” Chad said, walking into the room and opening the door of the SubZero.

  Susan wondered, for the millionth time, if her son was capable of entering the kitchen without checking out the refrigerator. Or drinking something out of a container—as he was doing now. “Chad, please don’t.…” she began her traditional protest.

  “Hey, candy!” he said, seeming to notice what she was doing for the first time. He reached out and grabbed two Baby Ruths. “Do you know what I’ve always wondered?”

  “No. What?”

  “Did you and Dad steal Halloween candy from me? You know, when I was a kid and all.”

  “I wouldn’t say steal,” Susan began. “Sometimes we borrowed a bar or two. When you were young. You used to spend hours and hours trick-or-treating, even coming home and emptying your plastic pumpkin before going out again—and you had more candy than anyone could possibly want.”

  “Hey, I don’t mind,” Chad said cheerfully, grabbing another handful of candy and sitting down at the table. “I was just curious. Say, do you think Dad is going to win?”

  “He sure deserves to,” Susan said. “Did he say anything about it to you at the pizza place?”

  “Yeah, but just the normal father-type stuff. You know, the best man will win and he’s glad that he’s given it his best shot and if he doesn’t win he’ll still feel like he’s benefited from the experience. That type of stuff—it’s supposed to inspire me to run for president or something.”

  “You know that we don’t want to influence you to do things you don’t want to,” Susan lied. In fact, they wanted him to do absolutely nothing without checking it out with his parents first. They were probably lucky that Chad had always been too independent for such silliness.

  “Sure, Mom.” He was grinning. “Well, it’s late. According to the coach, I should have been in bed two hours ago. Big game tomorrow, you know.”

  “Who are you playing?”

  “McKnight Prep. I hear they’re pretty good, too. The captain of their soccer team is the kid whose father is running against Anthony Martel.”

  “Really?” Susan asked, suddenly interested. “You mean Bradley Chadwick?”

  “Yeah. They call the kid Junior like in some old black-and-white movie. But he’s supposed to be a monster on the field. Cheats, too, I hear.”

  “Really?” Susan wondered if it ran in the family. Then she had another thought. “Did you mention that to your father tonight?”

  “You mean about Junior being the captain of the other team?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Why? Do you think he would be interested?”

  “Yes. In fact, I think tomorrow should be a family day—and we should both come and watch you play.”

  “You’re not going to scream loudly like you did when I was a kid, are you?” her son asked suspiciously.

  “Of course not. I’m going to be completely dignified and … and ‘ever-chic.’ ”

  Chad looked as though he thought she had gone crazy.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was a beautiful day for a soccer game. Huge hardwood trees, their leaves scarlet, maize, and burnt sienna, lined the soccer field. The sky was brilliant blue, the air crisp, windy, and brisk. In the tradition of the Connecticut suburbs, parents wore wool crew socks under their Docksides, and navy pea coats were draped with tartan scarves. Susan had abandoned her usual blue jeans and was wearing camel-hair wool slacks with a favorite red Guernsey sweater that she had bought in Bermuda a few years before. She might not be ever-chic, but this was the first time she could remember wearing full makeup to one of the high-school playing fields.

  Over a huge breakfast of pancakes, sausage, and baked apples, Jed had greeted her idea of campaigning by the playing field with limited enthusiasm. “At least I’ll get to spend some time outside,” had been his comment. But Susan noticed that he seemed to be having a wonderful time cheering on Chad and his teammates.

  Hancock High was winning, much to her delight. Chad had made two goals—and it was only halftime. Bradley Chadwick, Junior, had not yet scored—and had fallen down and gotten a bloody nose.

  Susan was walking up and down the lines, chatting with friends and neighbors, expressing optimism about the election on Tuesday, and listening to various people discuss Ivan Deakin’s murder.

  It was interesting, she thought, waving at her son’s math teacher, how the murder had transformed the town. Only a week ago every single citizen over the age of twenty-one had seemed to be obsessed with the Landmark Commission; now all anyone seemed to want to talk about was who had killed Ivan. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought that Ivan Deakin had been killed to deflect attention from the election and its primary issue.

  She was thinking about that when Lyman Nearing approached her.

  “Mrs. Henshaw. Susan. How nice to see you here. I’ve been admiring your son’s athletic abilities all fall,” he said.

  “How nice of you to say that.” She beamed. “Do you come to a lot of the games?”

  “All of them,” he replied. “I love soccer. My son played it when he was at Hancock High and also was junior varsity up at Cornell for two years. Nearing Rings now offers a scholarship for a deserving player. And two of my managers are very involved in the fund-raising efforts of the high school team.”

  “That’s right. You said that you encouraged your employees to get involved in community activities, didn’t you?”

  “You have an excellent memory. Not that I’m surprised. Still can’t get over the fact that you don’t take notes during your investigations. Amazing.”

  Susan smiled modestly.

  “And how is your investigation going? Found the murderer yet?”

  “No.”

  “But I bet you’re getting closer, aren’t you?”

  Susan frowned. “I don’t think so,” she admitted. “In fact, I don’t seem to be going anywhere. Ivan lived a very odd life, systematically going through his inheritance by starting unsuccessful restaurants, but he didn’t seem to invest other people’s money or make a lot of enemies along the way.” She paused and then continued speaking as the teams resumed the field. “In fact, the only person who seemed to hate Ivan Deakin was his ex-wife, and she’s disappeared.”

  “So she’s your primary suspect?”

  “Not actually,” Susan admitted. “There are … reasons that we don’t believe she killed him.”

  He nodded, not appearing to expect her to say more. “What about the speech?” he asked.

  “What … Ivan’s speech!” Susan exclaimed, remembering that she had gone to the police station for it, but came up empty-handed. “You know, I really should start writing things down. I had forgotten all about the copy of the speech. Thank you for mentioning it.”

  “Anytime. Maybe I’ll put on my thinking cap and I can be of more help.”

  “Great. You know, there was something else that I was wondering about,” Susan said, “but I don’t remember.”

  “Give me a call anytime,” Lyman said. “I’d be happy to help. Just don’t call tomorrow night. I’ll be at the commission meeting.”

  “The Landmark Commission?”

  “Yup. It’s the last scheduled meeting before the election. I wasn’t even notified, but I noticed it on the original schedule that was sent out months ago. After your visit to the factory, I decided I had been avoiding my responsibilities by turning my vote over to my wife, so I’m becoming more personally involved. Besides, it might be interesting to see exactly what they want to push through before the election.”

  “You’re right. It should be very interesting. I don’t suppose the public is invited?”

  “Commission meetings are, by law, open to anyone who wants to attend. Although I don’t think there are usually many spectators. Most people are willing to postpone their protests until an issue comes before the town council.” He looked at her curiously. “Are you planning to attend?”

  “It might be interesting.” Su
san was scheduled to spend the evening on the phone, schmoozing with potential voters, but maybe she could get that done in the afternoon.

  “Maybe you would accompany me?” he surprised her by suggesting. “Then, if anyone objects to your presence, I would be right there with the appropriate city ordinance to quash their protests.”

  Susan smiled broadly. “That would be wonderful.”

  “So I’ll pick you up at your home at seven-fifteen.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She started to move away and then had another thought. “Do you think it would be a good idea to notify the media about the meeting? I was thinking of Tom Davidson. He’s been covering the election for the cable channel in town.”

  Lyman nodded slowly. “It’s an excellent idea. But why don’t I do it? After all, no one in my family is running for office. We don’t want people to think you’re arranging these things—like Cassandra Chadwick.”

  “Good thought. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The teams were dashing up and down the field with renewed energy as Susan and Lyman went their separate ways. Susan, remembering her son’s admonition, moved behind a group of onlookers to cheer him on anonymously. Lyman Nearing stood so close to the line that an official asked him to move back.

  As the game continued Susan decided it was time to join her husband when she overheard Brett’s name. The speaker also mentioned Erika Eden. Susan froze, pretending to be intent on the game and hoping to hear more.

  “I’ve been calling and calling, but all I get is her answering machine,” one woman was saying.

  “But I had no idea that she was once married to Ivan Deakin—and I’ve known her for years,” the other woman replied. “It’s so strange.”

  “Maybe, but they were married for so short a time … and so long ago.”

  “But why isn’t she answering the phone?”

  “I’m more interested in knowing why she never mentioned that she and that sexy Brett Fortesque were dating.”

  “Hmmm … My husband accused me of stealing bicycles from our own garage just so I would get a visit from him.”