Valerie Wolzien - Death in a Beach Chair

“They’re probably in their cottage.”

“Then we-”

“We are going to go sit down and eat breakfast-in public. Maybe once Kathleen and Jerry see where we’re sitting they’ll come join us,” Jed said, taking her elbow and guiding her over to a table beside the pool.

“Why here?” Susan asked. Then suddenly, and without benefit of a second cup of coffee, she realized what was going on. “We’re sitting here because Kath and Jerry can see us by looking out the window of their cottage, right?”

“Yes, and we’re as far as possible from the police as we can get,” Jed added.

Susan looked over her shoulder and spied the group of uniformed men sitting around a large table next to the bar.

“They’re policemen? They’re certainly not acting like policemen. They all seem to be drinking rum punch. Don’t you think that’s a little unprofessional so early in the morning?”

“I think we don’t know anything about the police force on this island. They could be highly qualified and professional or just the opposite. I don’t know which possibility is the worst.” Jed stood up abruptly. “I’m going to go see if I can find someone to serve us.” He walked off, leaving Susan to worry about what all this meant. She and Jed had been married for years, and as far as she knew, he had never known more about the private lives of their friends and neighbors than she did. But in this case, at least, she had apparently been wrong. She turned around in her seat and studied the other guests. Who was missing? Who had she failed to recognize as the sister of Jerry’s first wife yesterday?

Jed returned, accompanied by a waitress she hadn’t seen previously.

“This is Trina. She’s helping out in the kitchen today. I told her we’d understand if she took a little more time than her experienced colleagues.”

The young woman giggled until her hair, wrapped in dozens of braids bound with little silver beads, flew out in all directions. “My cousin… he work here always, but today with the death, they expect big crowd and he call me to help out.”

“Big crowd? You mean people will come here from other parts of the island? Other resorts?”

“Maybe. My cousin say Lila might hire me if I do well in emergency. I don’t want to work other places. I want to work here.”

“Oh, what-”

“I’m starving. Tell Trina what you want for breakfast, Sue,” Jed interrupted, sitting down across from her.

Susan was beginning to wonder if she knew her husband at all. “I’ll have the pecan pancakes with coconut syrup and bacon… and coffee… and some fresh fruit, please,” she answered, glaring at him.

“I’ll have the same,” he agreed. “And you’ll remember to tell our friends that we’re out here if you see them?”

“Of course. I see them. I tell them. And I bring your breakfast back here faster than you can believe.”

“We can only hope,” Jed said when they were alone together again.

Susan was still examining the guests. “Except for Kath and Jer, I don’t know who else is missing-That gorgeous blond. The one who was carrying that beautiful scarf! I thought she looked familiar. She is-she was-that was Allison?”

“Yes.”

Susan tried to accept what she was hearing. It had been at least ten years since she had last seen Allison McAllister. She remembered that day well. She sat back in her seat, stared out at the clouds making way for the returning blue sky and the sparkling sun, and remembered.

June Gordon and her two children had been killed when the car she was driving had spun out of control and careened off a raised bypass on the highway right outside of Hancock. She had been an excellent driver, and no one had ever known what caused the accident, although Susan often wondered if June had taken her eyes off the road to check on one of her children-something every mother did but usually without fatal results.

Jed had been on a business trip, and Susan had accompanied a stunned Jerry to the trauma center morgue to identify the bodies of his wife and children. She had had nightmares about that event for years afterwards. Seeing June had been bad, but the children… Susan shook her head and sat up straighter. It was Allison’s death she should be concerned with now, not something that happened over a decade ago.

She had last seen Allison about six months after June’s death. Jerry had readily accepted Susan’s offer to help. He had asked her to clean out his children’s rooms, and she had done that, sending boxes of clothes to the local women’s shelter and their toys and books to the state Head Start collection agency to be distributed where needed. She had also gone through June’s closets, removing clothing and personal items and donating them to charity after checking with family members and friends to see what, if anything, they wanted.

June’s parents were both dead and she had only one sister: Allison was an artist who made a living by freelancing. Most of her work, Susan remembered, was done for various advertising agencies. Allison didn’t want many of her sister’s possessions. She lived in a loft on the Lower East Side. Susan remembered her describing it as high rather than wide. Allison had spent a few days helping sort through her sister’s possessions and then, claiming the call of work, returned to the city, leaving behind a small shoe box filled with June’s possessions. Less than a year later Jerry put the house on the market and Allison arrived to claim that box. Susan, hearing from Jerry of the proposed visit, had made a point of being at his home while Allison was in town.

Jerry had thought Susan was being unselfish, but actually the opposite was true. She wanted to speak with Allison about the bracelets. June and Susan both had small children they adored-and desperately wanted to escape for a few hours once or twice a week, so they had started going to craft fairs held in local church halls and featuring items like stenciled pot holders and Christmas tree ornaments molded from bread dough. Then they had moved up to juried craft fairs featuring artists who worked in gold and diamonds. At one of these fairs, June found and fell in love with a pair of rose gold and diamond cuffs. Susan had dutifully reported this love affair to Jerry, who tracked down the artisan and gave the cuffs to June the Christmas before her death. They had been the one thing Allison wanted from her sister’s estate. They had not been found. Not that Susan hadn’t looked. After searching through June’s personal possessions, she rummaged through kitchen cupboards and drawers, thinking June might have removed the bracelets while cooking. When she found nothing there, she had searched around the washer and dryer in the laundry room, on the shelves near June’s gardening equipment in the garage, and, finally, in the tote bag where her tennis togs lay. Nothing. Susan finally concluded that June had been wearing them when she died and that they had been stolen between the time her body was cut from the car and she arrived at the morgue.

But she had always suspected that Allison didn’t believe her theory. She had even gotten the impression that Allison didn’t trust her. And that was what she wanted to discuss with her on that last day in Hancock. But Allison had swept through town, picking up her box of reminders of her sister’s life, and left, only waving to Susan as she got into the taxi to take her to the train and back to New York City.

And now she was dead. Susan shook her head. It all seemed unbelievable.

“It seems unbelievable, doesn’t it?” her husband said, echoing her thoughts.

“Yes… but… oh, here’s our breakfast.” She smiled, but wondered if she still had an appetite.

Jed hadn’t lost his, picking up his fork and digging in as soon as Trina put his plate on the table.