An Anniversary to Die For (17 page)

“Good morning, ladies. What can I do for you?” His voice was deep, and he brushed graying hair off his forehead as he spoke.

“We’re looking for the newspaper office.”

“Well, then you’re in luck. You’ve found it. I’m Sam Redman, editor in chief. What can I do for you? Announcements of upcoming events have to be submitted at least a week early. All press releases should be submitted in writing. Advertising rates are reasonable and posted on the door of my office upstairs.” Sam was tanned, and when he smiled, the deep wrinkles that formed around his light blue eyes only added to his considerable charm.

Susan introduced herself and Jinx before continuing. “I’m afraid what we want is a bit more complicated than any of those things.”

“Well, I can deal with that. Since I don’t seem to have a steady supply of customers down here, why don’t we all go up to my office where we can sit down, be comfortable, and you can just tell me what you want.”

“Great!” Jinx said, just a bit too enthusiastically. “You lead the way,” she continued, grabbing Susan by the sleeve.

“Wha—” Susan looked at Jinx as Sam Redman started up the stairs.

“He isn’t wearing a wedding ring. See if you can move the conversation around to whether or not he’s married,” Jinx whispered.

“Why me?”

“It will be less suspicious coming from you!”

“What happened to that liberated woman you’ve become?”

“She tends to vanish in moments of stress.”

“I’m sorry? I didn’t hear what you were saying.”

“I was just telling Susan what an interesting store this is,” Jinx lied. “Not that I know anything at all about stuff like camping and so on. I’m more of a city girl myself.”

Sam Redman turned and smiled at Jinx. “If there’s anything I love, it’s trying to teach a city girl to appreciate the great outdoors. Right this way, ladies.”

Susan and Jinx glanced at each other and hurried after him.

The office of the
Oxford Democrat
was the entire top floor of the sporting goods shop. There were three worn, golden oak desks and two large printing presses. “We’re modern. We don’t lay out the paper in hot type anymore,” Sam explained. “My grandfather used to run the paper, and I grew up in this office. I can’t bring myself to get rid of the presses.”

“Have you ever thought of doing small press runs of handmade books?” Jinx asked, walking over to the closest of the huge machines. “There’s not much money in that type of business, but—”

“Sounds like just the thing for me, then. I specialize in doing things that aren’t profitable—which is why I run a sporting goods shop and newspaper without a whole lot of help. I can’t tell you how many times a day I run up and down that stairway.”

“What about the taxidermy part of the business?” Jinx asked, glancing at the animals in front of the windows.

“Friend of mine does that. Can’t get too excited about stuffed dead animals myself,” Sam Redman answered.

“Then we won’t take up too much of your time,” Susan said. “We’d like to go through your files. We’re doing research on some . . . uh, events and people in Oxford Landing.”

“You’re welcome to see what you can find. You are here because that Ashley Marks was killed at your anniversary party, aren’t you?”

“Well, sort of,” Susan admitted, hoping she wouldn’t be forced to explain further.

“Tell you what. You can scrounge through my files as much as you want to—with two conditions.”

“What?”

“Everything has to be put back where you found it— exactly. Every time I let someone look around in here, I end up regretting it. I’d like this time to be different.”

“It will be!” Jinx assured him. “What else?”

“I’d like an interview with Mrs. Henshaw for the next issue of the paper. A lot of the social life of Oxford Landing takes place at the Landing Inn, and the murder of a guest there is big news.”

Susan frowned. “Okay. I guess . . .”

“You talk with Susan, and I’ll take a look at your files,” Jinx suggested, heading toward the largest desk. An IBM computer sat on top, its screen saver displaying species of freshwater fish.

Sam Redman spoke up. “Not there. Over there.” He nodded toward the back wall of the room. Neither Susan nor Jinx had noticed before that it was lined with floorto-ceiling file cabinets. “Unless you’re looking for the second week of May 1971, every issue of the
Democrat
ever printed is in those cabinets.”

“Where’s the missing issue?” Susan asked, staring at the file drawers.

“Up on the wall.” Sam nodded to four large framed sheets on the wall over the desks. “That’s the week my grandfather died. The issue was devoted to him and his life. No ads. I keep it up there to remind me and any stringers I happen to hire what sort of traditions the paper has to keep.”

Jinx had been staring silently at the files. When she spoke it was in a quiet voice. “I don’t suppose there’s an index?”

“Can’t say that there is.”

Susan looked around. The drawers were dated in a precise hand, but looking for anything related to Ashley and Doug didn’t seem possible. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother,” she began.

“I’ll go through everything,” Jinx interrupted in a firm voice. “I have the time, and I love old magazines and newspapers. It will be fun.” She stood up and strode purposefully to the back of the room.

Sam Redman’s eyes followed her. “A woman who thinks going through old newspapers is fun and and needs to learn about the outdoors. Who would have thought she would walk right in my front door today?”

Jinx must have heard him, for she spun around, a smile on her face. “Are you married?”

“Nope. What about you?”

Jinx’s smile turned into a grin. “Nope,” she said before opening the first drawer and sticking her head inside.

Susan tried to look serious. Jinx really had come a long way from the slightly insecure, recently divorced middle-aged woman she had been when they met. She couldn’t wait to read her book. “So what do you want to ask me?” She turned her attention to Sam Redman.

He waved to a chair near the largest desk. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t know much about the murder,” Susan warned him. “I don’t even know Ashley all that well. She and her husband just moved into our neighborhood about a year ago.”

“That’s what I understand. Of course, I have a fair amount of background on her. She’s a local, you know.”

“I . . . that’s right. I’d forgotten they lived around here for a while.”

“The Markses lived all over the world: Hong Kong, Switzerland, New York City. But Doug grew up here and his parents lived here. We’ve seen a lot of the Markses over the years.”

“Then you probably know a lot more about them than I do.”

“Don’t know squat about the murder, though.”

“Well, we found her—”

“Mrs. Henshaw, my readers don’t fall into any one category. Some grew up around here and have been farmers—mostly tobacco or dairy—all their lives. And some were big deals in New York or D.C. and moved here to get away from it all. We even have the remnants of a hippie commune up north. They’ve sold out and become one of the largest and most prosperous providers of organic produce on the East Coast. What I’m saying is, there are lots of different levels of education in our readership. But there are some things I suspect all of them will want to know.”

“What?”

“Just how did Ashley turn up in your bed, what was she wearing, and what did you and your husband do when you found her?”

“What was she wearing?”

“Rumor around here is that she was naked.”

“Good heavens! No, she was dressed the same way she had been at the party, in a silk dress. It was peachy colored. She had had shoes dyed to match. She was wearing them, too! She most certainly was not naked.”

“Too bad. That would have made the story a whole lot more interesting. And it might have encouraged some of the young men in the area to get interested. Keeping our youth reading the news was one of my grandfather’s favorite causes.”

“Fully dressed,” Susan repeated firmly.

“Alas. Perhaps we can run a dirty limerick contest. Just kidding.

“So, Ashley was lying on your bed, fully dressed, when you and your husband returned to your room after the party was over.”

“Underneath our presents.”

“I heard there were presents involved somehow. Surely, she wasn’t completely covered with these presents.”

“Yes. Completely. We had no idea she was there when we entered the room.”

“You have very generous friends,” Sam said.

“We requested no gifts. It was on the invitation.” Susan was beginning to wonder just how many times she had repeated this.

Sam chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting that you were greedy or anything. Just commenting.”

“Of course. They were generous. Unexpectedly so. If we had known we were going to be given so many gifts, we would have prepared a place for them to be stored. As it was, sometime during the party, Alvena Twigg spoke to me and my husband about the number of gifts we’d received and I suggested that they be placed in our bedroom. Jed agreed and . . . well, when we went upstairs and unlocked the door . . .” She stopped speaking.

“Mrs. Henshaw, you were saying that when you and your husband went up to your room . . .”

“We found all the surfaces covered with gifts—not only the bed. We were quite surprised.”

“So you took all the gifts off and found Ashley.”

“Sort of. I mean, that’s not the way it really happened. I was tired, and Jed, my husband, suggested I take a bath and, while I was doing that, he’d clear the bed. I guess I was in the tub when Jed found her.”

“You guess?”

“Well, I know I was. It’s just that he didn’t say anything right away. I got out of the tub and came back into our bedroom and Jed was standing next to the bed, talking on his cell phone.”

“And Ashley was lying in your bed?”

“Yes. We were both shocked, of course. Jed was on the phone with the police. They arrived, asked a few questions, and we went home. It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid.”

“And it’s not the whole story either, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you and your charming friend are here looking into the murder, aren’t you? Isn’t she going through my files checking to see what stories we’ve run on the Marks family?”

“Well . . .”

“Gotta tell you that I hope that’s what she’s doing. It would sure make my job easier if someone else did a little background research for me.”

“Jinx . . .”

Jinx joined in the conversation. “I’ve already found one or two references to the Markses. But this is going to take days.” She smiled at Sam Redman, and Susan noticed she had reapplied lipstick while they were talking. “I hope you don’t mind if I hang around for a while.”

“Why, I always enjoy the company of a smart, good-looking lady. And you’re welcome to any information that helps you find the murderer. Just want to ask one thing.”

“What?”

“When you know who did it, you tell me first. It’s been a long, long time since the
Oxford Democrat
broke a big story.”

“We’d be happy to do that, wouldn’t we, Susan?”

“Sure.”

“And I’ll do you a favor in return. I’ll help Jinx go through those files.”

“Oh, great,” Susan said, hoping courting and research were compatible occupations.

NINETEEN

SUSAN HAD LEFT JINX AND SAM REDMAN PORING OVER newspapers from the last millennium and gone home, Sam having offered to take Jinx to dinner at the Landing Inn; she would be able to retrieve her car when they had tired of their task.

Her house was unexpectedly, and uncharacteristically, quiet. Clue was asleep on her cedar bed in the kitchen, apparently having abandoned her career as family greeter. A glance out the window explained the unusual calm: The mastiffs were dozing in the shade in the dog run that had been built for, and rejected by, Clue. There was a note on the kitchen table.

Sue,

Chad and I took the dogs for a run at the nature center and have now headed out for dinner and a movie. Chrissy and Stephen are shopping for a baby present for a friend, then going to dinner at the Hancock Inn. Don’t wait up.

Love, Jed

Susan began to smile. A free evening. Just what she needed. She poured herself a glass of V-8 and plopped a bag of low-fat popcorn in the microwave. Once the popping sound had ceased, she grabbed her main course and made for Jed’s study. She loved opening presents!

. . . Almost as much as she hated writing thank-you notes, she realized two hours later, staring down at the creamy Crane’s note card in front of her. Susan’s sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sweeney, had insisted that starting a thank-you note with the words “Thank you for the . . .” was unacceptable. Susan was on her seventh note before she decided to abandon that advice. By the time Chad and Jed came into the house, still discussing the special effects of the action feature they’d attended, she had a respectable pile of envelopes ready for stamps.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said to her son as he swept by the door.

“Hi ya, Ma! Did anyone call?”

“A young woman named Kelly called around nine.”

“Way cool . . .” If Chad finished that sentence the words were lost in the sound of his feet hitting the stairs as he bounded up to his room.

“So how was the movie?” she asked as Jed bent down to kiss her fevered brow.

“Fun, loud, and without a plot. You would have hated it.”

“What did you have for dinner?”

“Pizza.”

“Sounds like an ideal male bonding evening.”

“How was your day?”

“Not bad. I ran into Jinx at the inn, and we went on to the office of the local newspaper. As a matter of fact, I left Jinx there. She and the paper’s editor seem to have hit it off.”

Jed yawned. “Sounds interesting, but I think I’d better go upstairs. I’m exhausted, and I have to get to work early tomorrow.” He started to leave the room and then turned back. “Where do we keep the Pepto-Bismol these days?”

Susan refrained from commenting about trying to eat like a twenty-year-old at age fifty-five and directed him to the correct corner of their medicine cabinet. “I’m ready to turn in, too,” she added. “It’s been a long day.”