Valerie Wolzien - Death in a Beach Chair

“This isn’t the way to the embassy, is it? We don’t seem to be going downtown,” Susan called back when she could sit up again.

“Not embassy. Not downtown. Ms. Adams. You wait. You’ll see.”

For the first time the possibility of kidnapping occurred to Susan. Who had told this driver where to take her? She was alone in a foreign country. No one knew where she was. She could vanish, and no one would ever be the wiser. Jed would look for her. Kathleen would look for her. She wouldn’t have succeeded in helping Jerry, and he might rot in a foreign prison. She was busily creating a plot for a B movie, when, pulling the steering wheel sharply to the right, the taxi driver flew between two large stone columns and entered paradise.

It was, quite simply, the most beautiful place Susan had ever seen. Deep green lawns were bracketed by wide beds where tropical flowers rioted. The white pebble drive led up to a pale peach stucco house fronted by a wide mahogany veranda. White stone steps led down to the ground, and Susan could imagine Cole Porter, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, martini in hand, descending to greet his guests.

Instead Frances Adams, in well-worn jeans, a white linen camp shirt, and pink plastic flip-flops on her feet, appeared at the top of the stairs, waved, and called out a greeting.

The cabdriver slowly approached the house, got out, and opened the door for his passenger. Susan fumbled around in her purse.

“I pick you up. You pay me then.”

“That’s fine, but how will I call you?”

“Ms. Adams knows how,” he explained, and climbed back in his cab and drove off.

“I like that driver,” Frances Adams said. “He doesn’t make a mess of the drive the way many of the other drivers do.”

“This is incredible,” Susan said, looking around. From the vantage point of the house, the garden seemed almost to embrace them. “And absolutely gorgeous.”

“It had what gardeners call good bones when I arrived; the main beds were laid out and most of the walls built. The house was in disrepair, but still very beautiful. I’ve lived here for sixteen years and put most of my free time and much of my money into this place. Gardening is a passion.

“But we’re not here to talk about me. Come inside. We’ll have some tea and talk.”

Susan followed her hostess up the broad stairs, through open French doors, and into a spacious hall that ran straight to the rear of the house. The doors at the far end of the hallway were also open, and Susan spied a small swimming pool in the middle of another even more beautiful garden.

“The living room is that way.” Frances Adams pointed to the right. Susan saw an elegant room with formal furniture and a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “But I usually only use it for official functions. Let me show you my bolt-hole, my library.”

They turned to the left, crossing the highly polished hallway and through more French doors into a large room, lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Two large, worn deep couches covered in claret linen faced the wide windows on the fourth side of the room. Behind one couch, a scarred table supported a computer, printer, and a mess of papers and books. Frances Adams nodded at the computer. “My downfall. I am addicted to books-all books, but my particular passion is old gardening books. It was bad enough when letters and catalogues from stores and dealers around the world arrived by mail. But the Internet, alas, has made it all too easy for me to indulge.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“Not really,” Susan admitted.

“Then how about a drink? I have some rum that is made in the hills on an unnamed island. It’s not completely legal to make and is never exported. We drink it in very small glasses. It’s quite a treat and something few tourists get to sample.”

“How could I pass that up?” Susan said, wandering around the room and examining the books, as her hostess walked over to a small table set between the windows and poured two tiny drinks from a cut-crystal decanter.

“Here is yours,” she said, offering one to Susan.

Susan tore herself away from the bookshelves and sat down on the closest couch. She picked up her glass of dark hazel liquid and took a sip, suddenly nervous.

“Wow! That’s amazing,” she exclaimed, blinking.

“It is, isn’t it? Now, what did you come here to see me about?”

“I’m-this is going to sound silly,” Susan started.

“It’s about the murder, I assume? And your friend, Mr. Gordon?”

“Yes. You see, Kathleen, Kathleen Gordon, his wife-you’ve met her.”

“Many times. A lovely young woman. Go on.”

“She was assaulted today.”

“Good heavens. Where?”

“At Compass Bay. She was sitting on the beach when someone came up from behind and hit her on the head with something. It knocked her out. She was unconscious for a while before I found her.”

“You found her?”

“Yes. You see, I was looking for her, and I saw something lying next to one of the kayaks-they’re kept on the beach during the day-and it turned out to be Kathleen.”

“Who had been unconscious for a while, but no one else found her before you.”

“Exactly, and when we called the police, they refused to do anything. Assault is a crime. And Kathleen and I think that it’s possible that the person who killed Allison hit her, so if only the police would look-” She stopped talking. The expression on Frances Adams’s face puzzled her: Frances Adams looked skeptical. And she looked very, very sad.

“Your friends are lucky to have someone like you who cares so deeply about them.”

“I don’t just care about them. I know them. Jerry is not a killer.”

“You have much more experience with this type of thing than I do. And I can’t say I’m sorry about that. But my understanding is that you have found murderers among your friends and neighbors.”

“Yes. I-” Susan glanced back at the computer. “The Hancock Herald is on-line. You looked me up!”

“Yes. You have quite a bit of experience. So perhaps you will understand my next question. Do you believe we are all capable of murder?”

“Perhaps… under the right circumstances… mothers protecting their children… You think Jerry killed Allison!”

“I have, in fact, absolutely no opinion about that. Well, that’s not true. I believe he’s a very nice man and I hope he didn’t kill her. But, no, I can’t be sure he’s innocent. And the police are convinced he’s guilty. Your story about Kathleen’s assault must sound suspicious to them.”

“But-”

“Think about it. Compass Bay is a small resort. I understand the cottages are two-thirds full right now. So say there are close to thirty guests there. And full staff is twenty-seven…”

No wonder everything flowed so smoothly, Susan thought, distracted by the statistics.

“… so you’re telling me that almost sixty people were close by Mrs. Gordon lying on the beach and they did not spy her body. You, on the other hand, just happened to be there and find her.”

“You think I’m lying to you!”

“No, I don’t. But I think Mrs. Gordon loves her husband very much, and she is trying to direct the attention of the police away from him and came up with this fake assault to do so.”

“I can’t believe-” Susan started.

“I am perfectly aware of the fact that you don’t believe that. But, I’m afraid that’s what the police believe and the facts certainly can be read that way. Mrs. Henshaw… Susan… you had better work very hard and very quickly to find the real murderer. Because right now, everything points toward Jerry Gordon as the guilty party.”