Valerie Wolzien - Death In Duplicate

Susan thought that one over for a moment. “You could be right, of course, but…”

“But you’ve decided to believe what she’s saying and you’re sticking to it.”

“I don’t think I have any other choice while Chrissy is depending on her so much-Hi!” Susan interrupted herself to greet a young woman in a peacock blue designer suit and high heels-more than slightly overdressed for a small suburban town.

“You’ve been looking at our current listings for an awfully long while now. I was wondering if I might be of help to either of you.” Perfectly groomed down to her long shocking-pink fingertips, she made the offer without bothering to smile.

“We’re not-” Kathleen began.

“Actually I’m here because Donald Baines sent me. His secretary has something for me,” Susan said.

“Are you Susan Henshaw?”

“Yes.”

“I think I saw an envelope with your name on it on Mr. Baines’s desk. Would you like to come in while I look?”

“That would be nice. It’s getting a bit chilly,” Susan said, tugging on Kathleen’s sleeve.

“If you’re interested, there are more listings posted inside,” she added to Kathleen.

“Actually, I am,” Kathleen said. “Do you have any more information on the house on the Sound? The third from the left in the top row,” she added, pointing.

A smile appeared. “Yes, that’s one of my listings. It’s a wonderful home, has all the amenities and it’s one of the largest properties in Hancock. Six bedrooms, eight and a half baths, huge living room connected to an equally large sunporch, library, den, media room, eat-in kitchen, full dining room, and a three-room maid’s suite. It’s been professionally landscaped, of course. There’s an indoor swimming pool, a hot tub, and two clay tennis courts on the property if you’re athletic-as well as a professionally designed putting green in the basement and an exercise room, of course. There’s also a small pool house with a gorgeous bar-perfect for entertaining at summer pool parties. The garage has space for four cars. And the circular driveway is equipped with an embedded heating system to prevent snow and ice from sticking. The current owner shows championship keeshonds so there are kennels as well as a guesthouse with room for the dogs’ handler right behind a charming knot herb garden that was featured in an issue of a very popular garden magazine last spring. “

“If you could just find the papers Mr. Baines left for me,” Susan prompted. She wondered why Kathleen was pretending to be interested in a property far out of her price range. But Kathleen whispered her strategy as they followed the woman back into her office. “I’ll keep her busy. Maybe you can find someone to ask about Nadine’s relationship with Donald-or with his mother!”

It had been decades since Susan had been in a local real estate office and it was immediately obvious that there had been substantial upgrades over the years. Decorated less like a place of business than a living room, chintz-swathed sofas were grouped on Oriental carpets. Brilliant watercolors of historical and scenic spots in Connecticut hung on the walls. A top-of-the-line Italian espresso maker topped a cherry credenza that had been rigorously distressed in an attempt to make it appear antique. Spindle-legged desks supported discreet notebook computers, the only visible connection to the world of buying and selling.

The Realtor courteously directed Kathleen to the nearest love seat and gave her a small booklet that, Susan assumed, described the beachfront property in even more detail. Susan, relegated to the status of nonbuyer, was pointed to Donald’s desk where she was expected to find on her own the information Donald had left for her.

She was happy to do so when she realized that lying next to the envelope, which did indeed have her name on it, was a list-a very long list-of telephone messages for Donald. Susan skimmed through it. There were, of course, many messages from clients and acquaintances expressing sympathy for Nadine’s death. And more than a few messages from news reporters requesting an interview or “an opportunity to clarify some of the details of their story on Nadine’s murder.” Heading the list were three calls from his mother. They had urgent written next to them. How strange, Susan thought, that Donald’s mother would call him at the office instead of at home or on his cell phone. She glanced up. Kathleen was pointing to something on a sheet of paper and the real estate agent was staring down at it. Susan opened the envelope with the names of Nadine’s Christmas list on it, slipped the other list inside, and tucked it underneath her arm. Donald was a grieving widower; most people would understand if he didn’t return their phone calls.

“I think I have everything I need here,” Susan said brightly-and honestly.

Kathleen stood up immediately. “Then we’d better be going.”

“But I have other properties that you might be interested in, and we could go see this one any time. I just have to call the owners first.” The agent reached out and almost grabbed Kathleen’s arm in her attempt to forestall their escape.

“If I could take a copy of this to show my husband and then get back to you…,” Kathleen said.

“That would be wonderful. And I have your phone number. If you don’t call me in a day or two, I’ll just call you.”

Susan realized the smile on Kathleen’s face was a bit strained. “We really have to go,” she explained and pushed her friend out the door in front of her. “Thank you for all your help,” she called back over her shoulder. “You’ll never guess what I found,” she whispered when she was sure they could no longer be overheard.

“It better be worth being put on a list of potential buyers of a seven-million-dollar estate,” Kathleen whispered back,

“Seven million!” Susan was momentarily sidetracked. “Do you think you qualify for an adjustable rate mortgage?” she added, grinning.

SUSAN HAD PLANNED TO GO OVER THE TWO LISTS-THE ONE she had been given and the one she had stolen-first thing in the morning. And she did, although “first thing” in this case described 3 AM rather than her usual wake-up time four hours later. She had arrived home to find a nervous Shannon, two babies with what experience suggested was garden-variety colic, Chrissy frantic with worry that the new pediatrician didn’t know what he was talking about, and Jed and Stephen enjoying a pepperoni, mushroom, spinach, and extra garlic pizza-which didn’t, as she had expected, keep either man from sleeping right through the night.

One baby crying is difficult to ignore, two even more difficult, but Susan had been making an effort to do so when there was a knock on the bedroom door. Jed’s response was to move one leg a quarter of an inch closer to the edge of the bed and ratchet up the volume on his snoring. Susan got up, grabbed the robe she had left on a nearby chair and, gently nudging Clue out of her path, left the room, closing the door behind her. The hallway was deserted and she hurried to the nursery, praying nothing was seriously wrong.

Nothing, she discovered, was wrong with Ethan or Rosie. Both twins were drifting off to sleep, bottles of formula in their mouths. As Susan had planned, the matching rocking chairs were being used by Shannon and Chrissy. But nothing else in the room looked as she had planned it. The wastebasket was on its side, tissues spilling onto the floor. The diaper pail lay nearby; fortunately Susan had purchased one with a tight top. Receiving blankets were tossed around the room as though someone had been playing a game with them. Dirty baby clothing overflowed the pretty wicker hamper and CDs had not been returned to their spots on the shelves. In fact, Susan wondered if someone had misplaced all the CDs as the music coming from the high-tech speakers sounded more appropriate to a college dorm room than a baby nursery. “Someone knocked on our door. Do you need me for something?” she asked.