Elected for Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “I once helped solve a murder that took place in the wine cellar of the inn,” Susan explained, seeing the mystified expression on his face.

  But he didn’t doubt the truth of her assertion when, busy though the inn obviously was, four people left their posts and other customers to greet and find a seat for Susan and her party.

  They were seated in a small booth near the fireplace in the bar. Susan took a quick look around and made sure that Tom was seated with his back to the room. She and Kathleen exchanged glances over the tops of their large menus; they had both noticed the woman slumped across the bar.

  Tom succumbed to Susan’s description of the cheesecake. Kathleen and Susan stuck to decaf cappuccino. Kathleen had barely sipped hers before she took off to do some table hopping and find answers to their questions about the Fall Festival.

  Susan looked at the young man tucking into dessert and decided to try for some answers, too. “I understand how you feel about not revealing your sources, but I was wondering if you had interviewed everyone on the Landmark Commission,” she began.

  “Most of them at least three times,” he answered. “Except for Lyman Nearing. He’s very forthright—and easy to talk to. I felt like I’d heard everything he had to say after we spoke twice.”

  “I know what you mean,” Susan said. “It’s easy to see why he’s such a successful businessman. But what did you think about the other commissioners? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Apparently he didn’t—and he didn’t mind answering either.

  “Strange group is what I thought. Rosemary Nearing and Foster Wade worship Penelope Thomas and will approve any request that she makes. Lyman’s not like that—almost the opposite, in fact—but he’s been so uninvolved that he actually gave his vote away.”

  “Apparently he’s taking it back,” Susan interrupted, and explained Nearing’s intention of attending the meeting tomorrow. “And what about Erika Eden?” she then asked. “I didn’t get the impression that she’s an automatic stamp-of-approval type of person.”

  “Not at all. She’s an extraordinary lady. Did you know that she built a tiny little store downtown into a major player in the natural-products market? She travels all over the world to do most of her own importing.”

  “And she’s beautiful,” Susan reminded him as if he didn’t know.

  “I’ll say. And it was very generous of her to volunteer to serve on the Landmark Commission—being as busy as she is and all. Of course you must know her real well—being friends with Brett Fortesque like you are.”

  “We’ve met,” Susan admitted, thinking rather about two things. Had Brett intentionally kept the two of them apart? After all, everyone else seemed to have known about their relationship. And why, for heaven’s sake, had a young, single, beautiful, busy businesswoman wanted to be on the Landmark Commission anyway? She sipped her cappuccino and considered the questions. And decided that, maybe, there was only one question. She had been in Maine most of the summer and, since then, the election had dominated her life. She hadn’t seen much of Brett, but she hadn’t seen much of any of her friends, she realized.

  “It is interesting that Erika Eden doesn’t seem to be considered a major suspect in her ex-husband’s death,” Tom said. “You don’t think it’s a sign of police corruption here in town, do you?”

  Apparently it was an interesting enough thought to cause him to ignore the last quarter of his cheesecake and Susan was glad Kathleen’s return caused a distraction. She didn’t want an exposé of Erika Eden on tomorrow night’s news show.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Kathleen said, sitting back down at the table.

  “Tell,” Susan insisted.

  “She—” Kathleen stopped and stared seriously at Tom. “This is completely off the record.”

  “Fine.”

  “This was told to me by a friend—and if it’s published or reported in any way, I’ll know exactly where it comes from,” she said slowly.

  “I know what off the record means.”

  “Tom’s okay. I’m sure he won’t report on this,” Susan insisted. She was dying to know what had gotten Kathleen so excited.

  “The reason the HEC manned a booth at the Fall Festival was that Penelope Thomas had made some sort of promise to the Chamber of Commerce that this last Fall Festival would be the best ever—meaning it would have the largest number of participants apparently. And when the HEC turned her down and explained that we don’t participate in events in the fall, she threatened to have part of the park system declared a landmark.”

  “So the HEC would lose control over their gardens,” Susan said, nodding.

  “Exactly.”

  “Blackmail!” Tom stopped eating and pursed his lips.

  Both women had no trouble discerning how the word thrilled him.

  Susan just smiled at his enthusiasm.

  “Not quite,” Kathleen argued. “It was more an implied threat. Because no one said that the gardens would be destroyed—or anything else—just that the HEC would lose control.”

  “Hmm. So the important thing here is how much Penelope Thomas had to lose if the Landmark Commission wasn’t given the power it requested,” Susan added.

  “And she was going to lose it if Anthony Martel won the election,” Tom added.

  “So she had a lot to lose if Ivan Deakin hadn’t been killed,” Susan added. It was an interesting thought.

  Kathleen just nodded.

  “God damn this town! No matter where I go, people are talking about my husband. You know what they say, ‘In the rooms, the women come and go, talking of Anthony Martel-angelo.’ ” The loud voice rose above the general conversation in the room.

  “Oh, shit. I thought she was dozing.” Susan grabbed Kathleen’s arm. “Help me get her out of here.” She jumped out of her seat.

  “ ‘I grow old. I grow old …’ ”

  “Nice poetry,” Susan said, putting her hand under one of Theresa’s elbows.

  “Why don’t we check out the ladies’ room?” Kathleen suggested, assuming a position on the other side of the intoxicated woman.

  Theresa shook herself like one of the golden retrievers she didn’t like and stood up a little straighter. “I may be drunk, but I can still walk,” she insisted, taking a step forward and landing on her ankle.

  “Why don’t you take Mrs. Martel upstairs to the office,” the bartender suggested. “There’s a couch up there and she’s probably tired after all the campaigning. I know I would be,” he added to the room at large.

  “Thanks. We’ll do that,” Susan said.

  This time they gave Theresa no choice but to go with them. With an obliging waitress bringing up the rear, they herded her up the stairs to one of the small rooms in which the business of the inn took place. There, on a chintz-covered couch, they deposited Theresa.

  “Maybe I should bring up a pot of black coffee?” the waitress offered.

  Kathleen nodded. “A large one.”

  “And maybe a tray with some pastries?” Susan asked. “Well, we’re going to be here for a while, aren’t we?” she added in response to Kathleen’s change of expression.

  The waitress hurried out of the room, whether to get on with her task or to avoid being part of any conflict, they would never know.

  “Now what are we going to do?” Kathleen asked, looking down at the prostrate woman.

  Theresa opened her eyes and looked straight up at Kathleen. “Bury it in a hole,” she answered before closing them again.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Kathleen muttered.

  “Kath!” Susan elbowed her in the ribs.

  “A hole. A hole. A hole. A hole,” Theresa repeated in a singsong voice. “So why does it keep coming back?”

  Susan looked at Kathleen. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “We get her out of there. What else can we do?” Kathleen replied.

  “You’ve done everything possible. I’ll take over from here.” Anthony Martel entered the room, a st
eaming coffeepot in his hands.

  “This election has been quite a strain for all of us,” Susan said.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing it looks like I’m going to lose. Who knows what the strain of being the mayor’s wife might do to her.” He knelt down by the couch. “And Cassandra Chadwick was here before—she’ll probably make sure everyone knows about this.”

  “I’m sure Theresa’ll be all right,” Susan repeated inanely. “And it’s possible that Cassandra won’t say anything.”

  “If there’s anything we can do …” Kathleen’s hand was on the doorknob.

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  “Then we’ll get going,” Kathleen said. She and Susan started back down the stairs.

  “You know what I’d like to do?” Susan said as they arrived at the ground floor.

  “What?” Kathleen asked.

  “I’d like to go and take a good look at the Women’s Club.”

  “Returning to the scene of the crime?” Tom asked, coming up to them.

  “It’s where the murder took place and more than a few strange things happened that night.”

  “Like the person who followed you around the balcony,” Kathleen added.

  “And I’d like to check out the sequence of events. Who was where at what time,” Susan explained further to Tom. She thought he looked impressed.

  “Then let’s get going,” he suggested.

  “Still off the record,” Kathleen reminded him.

  “Fine. But how are we going to get in? It’s Saturday night. There isn’t any political event scheduled there.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll manage,” Susan said with more assurance than she felt.

  “I guess someone who can get a seat here on a busy night like this can go anywhere in town,” he said enthusiastically, following the women out of the inn.

  Kathleen and Susan weren’t so sure.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Aren’t we rather casually dressed to blend in with this group?” Kathleen commented, peering out the window of Susan’s Jeep at the crowd strolling up the broad steps into the Hancock Women’s Club.

  The club was decked out for a party. Arches of silver and gold balloons framed the sidewalk to the front door. Banks of bronze and white chrysanthemums were visible inside. A banner proclaimed congratulations to Babs and Bobby. “Looks like a wedding reception,” Susan said. “A very formal wedding reception.”

  “And we’re not dressed for something like that,” Kathleen repeated. “And we really can’t just walk inside and ask to look around. Maybe we should come back tomorrow morning.”

  Susan thought for a moment. “I have a couple of silk blouses and some scarves in the back. I took them along with me to Tom’s station when I was going to be on the air and I haven’t had a chance to take them into the house. And, you know what?” she asked, remembering that she hadn’t managed to get to the dry cleaner either. “Jed’s good navy suit is there, too—and about a half-dozen ties.” She glanced over at Tom. “He’s not as thin as you are, but you’re about his height—it might fit.”

  “You think we should put on this clothing and go in there acting like guests?” Tom looked dubious.

  “Why not?” Kathleen asked.

  “People are going to be wandering around, eating and drinking. We certainly won’t be bothering anyone,” Susan assured him.

  As she suspected, the idea of food got to him. “Well, I suppose …”

  “You’ll be doing a lot stranger things than getting dressed in someone else’s clothing and socializing at the reception of someone you don’t know if you’re going to be a reporter,” Kathleen said.

  “Well …”

  “Good.” Susan took his hesitation as acquiescence. “Everything is in the back. I’ll just pull the car up into a dark spot and we can find a large bush and change behind it.”

  It was easier said than done. The Women’s Club was in the middle of a residential section of town. Any and all dark corners had been illuminated (and eliminated) by expensive security companies. The trio was finally forced to change in the car.

  Kathleen was wearing a silk skirt that, fortunately, matched the red silk blouse Susan had almost worn to be on TV. Susan, still in the camel slacks she had worn to the game this morning, put on the other shirt: a tailored white silk. She didn’t look terribly festive—but Tom looked wonderful. Luckily, he had been wearing a beige dress shirt and Jed’s suit looked fabulous on him. He would look just like all the other guests at the reception—as long as no one glanced down at his feet. Double-breasted Armanis aren’t usually accessorized with old, slightly shabby hiking boots.

  “Are we ready?” Kathleen asked.

  Tom fell right into the role. “Ladies?” He offered his arms to them.

  Kathleen took his arm immediately.

  They made a charming couple, Susan thought. “Why don’t you two go on without me?” she suggested. “You look great together and I’ll just blend in with a larger group.”

  “You’re sure?” Kathleen asked.

  “Definitely. I may even try to get in the back way. Tell you what.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll meet you up on the balcony in fifteen minutes.”

  “Why—” Tom began.

  “I want to figure out how much can be seen from one side or the other. And how visible someone would be going up and down the stairway. Stuff like that.”

  “Then we’ll be there in fifteen,” Kathleen said, gently tugging Tom in the direction she wished him to go. “I don’t want to wear my old car coat and I’m getting a little cold, Tom.”

  “Oh. Yeah. We’ll be up there in fifteen minutes.”

  Susan watched them join the now thinning line going through the door. She looked down at her clothing and decided to try to sneak in through a side door. In the midst of all the glitter and gold lamé, she would stick out like a sore thumb going through the receiving line.

  She headed around the right side of the building. The first windows she passed were apparently rest rooms and the glass was frosted. The next window peeked through two lines of furs and dress coats out to the large floor where dozens of tables were set with crystal, silver, and massive flower arrangements rising from dozens of shimmering brass votive-candle holders. Susan continued on along an unbroken wall until a door appeared before her. It was unlocked.

  And led right into the middle of the kitchen. A very large and very busy kitchen. Susan had only limited experience with caterers, but it was obvious even to her that a crisis of some sort was going on here. She moved against the wall, not wanting to get in the way of the people rushing around, full trays held above their heads.

  “Where the hell have you been? And what are you doing dressed like that? Did you think you were here to wait on tables?”

  Susan blinked and stared at the plump woman standing before her. “Excuse me?”

  “I hope you brought an apron, at least.”

  Susan looked over her shoulder, wondering if this person could be speaking to someone who had followed her into the room. She was alone. “Excuse me?” she repeated.

  “You better get going. We don’t have much time to waste.”

  Susan shrugged. She was inside. She was about to explain that she was a guest when she was interrupted by a rather hysterical waitress. The young woman’s appearance answered one question: she was wearing camel slacks and a tailored white shirt. Just her luck, she was dressed like the help tonight, Susan thought.

  “I can’t believe it! There are more security people in here than at the White House!” the young woman cried.

  “Those wedding presents are worth big money,” the bossy woman who had greeted Susan explained.

  “I—” Susan started.

  “But I’ve never been fingerprinted for a job before,” the young woman continued. “Who are these people?”

  “I don’t know. But they’re wealthy enough to pay for a big spread like this and you better pick up a full tray and start to circulate. I don
’t know.…” She seemed to notice Susan again. “What are you doing? Why haven’t you begun decorating those platters?”

  Before she could start to explain, a burly man in a uniform walked in the door. “Who’s she?” he asked, nodding in Susan’s direction.

  “The pastry chef we hired for the evening. Your employer wanted ‘congratulations’ written across little chocolate boxes full of chestnut mousse. She’s the person we hired to do it.”

  Susan smiled. She had taken a course in cake decorating. She could do that and be upstairs in fifteen minutes—twenty at the most.

  “Did she pass the security check?” he asked, looking at her like he couldn’t believe such a thing was possible.

  Susan started to answer, but he continued before she could utter a word.

  “ ’Cause if she didn’t, I have orders to call the police.”

  “I better get to work on those desserts.” Susan didn’t want to end up explaining her presence to anyone. She’d just decorate those little chocolate boxes and get on with it.

  “That wall.”

  Susan glanced over at the speckled counter that ran from one side of the room to the other. “Where—” she began to ask before realizing that she was looking at them. Every single speck was a small box created from six chocolate squares. “How many?” was what she changed her question to.

  “Three hundred and forty-seven. You better get busy. You only have a couple of hours.”

  “You expect me to write ‘congratulations’ in tiny print three hundred and forty-seven times?” Susan asked, astounded. How could anyone do that?

  “It’s what you were hired to do, isn’t it?” the guard asked her.

  Susan just frowned and walked over to the counter. She’d spend a few minutes doing what was expected, and when everyone was busy—or when the real pastry chef arrived—she’d head up to the balcony. She frowned.

  Her immediate problem was how to turn one class in cake decorating at the local gourmet shop into practical experience. She’d never worked on anything so small.…

  The next time Susan glanced at her watch, twenty minutes had passed, fifteen boxes were complete, and a couple of dozen were in the garbage can. The chocolate was thin and a single slip or bump caused the delicate boxes to crumble. She looked around the room—no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. She slipped out of the apron she had been loaned and took off.