Death in a Beach Chair (9 page)

SIXTEEN

A timid knock on the louvered door to the cottage interrupted their discussion. “Mrs. Henshaw? Mrs. Gordon?”

“We’re both here. Come on in,” Susan called out as Kathleen opened the door to admit a mousy woman in her mid-fifties.

“Hi. I don’t want to bother anyone, but I think I might be able to help you—I mean, your husband. I’m Rose Anderson? I wrote you a note?”

Rose Anderson had a bad haircut, topped by an even worse highlighting job, and styled by someone who thought curlers were still in fashion. Her skin was dry and uncared for. Her blush was too bright and her lipstick too dark. And her clothing was an example of the very worst of some designer’s “cruise line.” She wore wrinkled periwinkle linen capri pants with a hideous pastel plaid gauzy big shirt, and brown leather sandals adorned with clunky gold rings. Gold earrings, three copper bracelets, a watch, and two silver and turquoise necklaces completed her ensemble. She was a mess. An expensive mess, but still a mess.

“Of course. It’s good to see you,” Kathleen said.

“I was wondering if we could talk for a few minutes,” Rose said. “There’s something bothering me. Something that doesn’t make sense and in so many mystery novels—especially the English ones—what doesn’t make sense is what turns out to be important, isn’t it?”

Susan realized the smile on her face was beginning to fade. Jerry was under arrest. Their vacation was supposed to end in less than a week. Regardless of Lila’s wishes, they didn’t have time to listen to the theories of people playing detective. It might meet with Lila’s approval, but for the first time, she realized just how difficult it was going to be to get credible information from people she didn’t even know. But what else could she do? “We certainly never know what will turn out to be important,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us about it?” Susan pointed to the batik-covered rocking chair in the corner and sat down herself on the edge of the bed. Kathleen leaned against the dresser and waited for Rose to begin.

“First, I should tell you that I am the type of woman people confide in. Complete strangers tell me about their lives. It happens in the strangest places. Just last month, I was in the Amsterdam train station waiting for my train to Germany when a woman came and sat down next to me. It turned out that she was waiting for a train to take her to Zürich. Her schizophrenic daughter was in a clinic there and she was going to visit her.”

“Heavens, people really do tell you about their lives,” Kathleen said.

“Exactly. So I can’t say I was at all surprised when Allison sat down next to me the day after I arrived and started talking about herself.”

“What did she say?”

“I’ve been going over this in my mind all morning long trying to remember exactly. I do want to get it right.”

“Just take your time,” Kathleen urged, in her best police-officer manner.

“Well, she started out by telling me her name and asking if I’d been here before. I haven’t, so we didn’t have a whole lot to discuss about that. I had been out snorkeling and we discussed that and other activities available here. She said she’d been snorkeling on St. John’s a few years ago. We talked about that a bit. I hadn’t known that there was a national park there—I’m sorry. You’re not interested in that. We chatted a bit about the various vacations we’d taken. She was very well traveled, you know. Every place I mentioned, it seemed she had been there before me—and been able to do all the right things. Which is not what happens when I travel, alas.”

“What do you mean?” Susan asked.

“Oh, you know how it is. I get to Florence on Tuesday with plans to leave on Saturday. And it turns out that Sunday and Monday are the only two days an important museum is open.”

“I’ve had that happen to me, too,” Susan said.

“I thought it happened to everybody—until I met Allison. She said that when she went somewhere for a limited time, she made sure everything she wanted to see would be open while she was there. Always.”

“Sounds like a smart woman,” Kathleen said.

“What else did she tell you about herself?” Susan asked.

“Well, she talked about her career. I think advertising and illustration are very exciting fields myself, but she was thinking of doing something else. She said if her book was a success, she might even retire.”

“What book?” Kathleen asked.

“Allison wrote a book?” was Susan’s question.

“Yes. It’s going to be published next fall. She was quite proud of it. And she was using part of her advance to pay for her time here.”

“Did she tell you anything about the book?” Susan asked.

“Yes. She talked about it a lot. It’s a novel, but she may have based many of the characters in it on her own life and the people she knew.”

Susan looked across the room at Kathleen. Kathleen looked back. Each of them knew what the other was thinking.

“What’s the title?” Susan asked.

“That’s the problem,” Rose said. “I don’t know. And I don’t know how I’m going to find it. She’s not using her own name. But I don’t know what name she was going to be using.”

“But you said she talked about the book a lot,” Kathleen pointed out. “Didn’t she mention its title?”

“She must have, but I just don’t remember. And it didn’t worry me until she died. She carried around the big beach bag and there was a notebook inside. She took my name and address and was going to send me some publicity information when she got home. I didn’t think it made any difference whether or not I knew the title.”

“What exactly did she tell you about the book?” Susan asked, suppressing a sigh.

Rose’s eyes lit up. “Well, it was sort of a modern-day Cinderella story. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. There were these two sisters. I guess Cinderella has three sisters, but . . .”

“That doesn’t matter,” Kathleen assured her. “Go on.”

“Well, these two sisters grow up competing with each other. They competed for their parents’ attention. Apparently the parents were a busy couple who didn’t spend much time with their children. They competed to see who could get the best grades in school, the highest SAT scores, get into the best college, get the best job,
and
to see who could get married first!

“Of course, I didn’t think anything at all about this at the time. Frankly, I thought it was probably just fiction. You’re always hearing about how writers get ideas and then write about them. I mean, the book doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the writer’s real life. But Allison kept dropping hints.”

“Hints? What sort of hints?” Susan asked.

“She kept saying that she was writing about something she knew. That she could have put in more details, but had decided not to. And then, this morning, a few of us were sitting around talking and someone said that Allison’s sister was your husband’s first wife. Well, I was amazed! Completely amazed! I knew I had to talk with you both as soon as I could.” Rose fiddled a bit with one of her necklaces before continuing. “I would have been here earlier, but I’m afraid that something I ate last night didn’t agree with me. I had a terrible time getting to sleep last night. And what with all the excitement, you know . . .” She glanced at Kathleen, and her expression changed from enthusiasm to embarrassment. “Not that I think your husband’s arrest is exciting! Please don’t misunderstand me!”

“Please, I do understand what you’re saying. Go on,” Kathleen urged.

“Well, Allison said that one thing had happened in life and something different in the book. That the sister who won the competition in real life was the loser in the book.”

“Do you know which sister won?” Susan asked. “In life or in the book?”

“I got the impression that the narrator—Allison herself probably—wins in the book. So I guess she lost in real life. I can’t be sure of that, of course. Allison talked to me about herself and her life, and she talked to me about her book, but she didn’t exactly explain who the characters in her book were. Today I realized that the two sisters in the book were probably Allison and her sister.”

“That could be significant,” Kathleen said.

“Well . . . I was thinking that the logical person to suspect in the murder is Allison’s sister! It sounds to me as though she certainly wouldn’t want this book published, and—” Rose looked from Susan to Kathleen. “You don’t agree with me, do you? You don’t think that Allison’s sister killed her, but think about it for a bit. Just because her sister isn’t a guest here doesn’t mean that she isn’t on the island. She could be staying someplace else. She could have slipped in under cover of darkness and killed her sister. She could have—”

“No,” Kathleen interrupted. “She couldn’t have done anything. Allison’s sister died in an auto accident years ago.”

Rose turned pale beneath her makeup. “I—I had no idea. I thought your husband and she had gotten a divorce. I never thought she might be dead.” She rocked back in the chair and closed her eyes for a moment. “I thought I would be helping by telling you all this. And it doesn’t matter at all, does it?”

“Of course it matters!” Susan cried, getting up and moving closer to Rose. “We know very little about Allison. Kathleen’s never even met her, and I haven’t seen her in years and years. Anything you tell us about her might lead us to the killer.” That sounded a bit dramatic even to Susan’s ears, and she shut up and perched back on the edge of the mattress.

“Oh, well, then you would be interested in knowing that she was in love. Head over heels in love. Those are her words, not mine,” Rose added quickly, twirling one of her rings around her finger.

“Do you know who the man is? We understood that she was here alone,” Kathleen said.

“She was here alone. She said it was very freeing to be on vacation alone. That she could do what she wanted when she wanted. And she didn’t tell me who she was in love with. She said he was wonderful. The most wonderful man she’d ever met. She—frankly—she talked about him as though she was a teenager and this was her first crush. She said he was handsome, and smart, and rich, and kind.”

“Did she mention any names?” Susan asked.

“No. I’m sure she didn’t.”

Kathleen frowned. “Did she say anything that might help identify him? How long she’d known him? What he does for a living?”

Rose thought that over for a while. “I got the impression that he worked with her. She said they had a lot in common and she could talk to him about anything. But I think the only thing she actually mentioned was some help he’d given her on an account. I don’t know much about advertising, but . . .”

Susan and Kathleen both nodded. “Both of our husbands are in advertising,” Susan explained. “We hear about it all the time. In fact . . .” She paused.

“What?” Kathleen prompted.

“I think it’s possible that Jerry and Allison met at work and she introduced him to June . . . Allison’s sister,” Susan explained to Rose.

“I remember Jerry telling me that,” Kathleen spoke up. “But Allison hasn’t worked with Jed and Jerry for decades, has she?”

“No. She quit around the time June and Jerry were married, and she moved to an agency in Chicago. She came back to visit on holidays, but she was in the midwest for years and years. I think she returned to New York around the time of June’s death.” Susan stopped and considered all this for a moment.

“Do you think that could be significant?” Rose asked, leaning forward. “Because in the book, one of the sisters leaves the country, and moves to Paris, and changes her life—becomes beautiful and then returns home and marries the man of her dreams.”

“Sounds a bit like the script for
Sabrina
,” Kathleen said.

“Such a beautiful movie. It’s one of my favorites,” Rose responded enthusiastically. “I actually bought the videotape so I can watch it over and over again.”

“But it does sound kind of like Allison’s life. She really doesn’t look at all like she did when June was alive,” Susan mused.

“What else did she tell you about her novel?” Kathleen asked.

“She said it had a surprise ending. I could tell that’s what she liked about it the most. She kept saying that readers would never know what hit them when they got to the end. She seemed really pleased about that.”

“What else did she say about her life?” Susan asked. “Did she tell you how she ended up here? How she even knew about Compass Bay?”

Rose thought for a minute before answering. “No. I told her about my wonderful travel agency and how they got me such a great deal here, but I don’t believe she said anything about how she found Compass Bay.”

“When you came in here you said that something Allison said didn’t make any sense,” Kathleen pointed out. “What was that?”

“Oh, heavens. I do get off the point, don’t I? She said that she had thought about writing a murder mystery, but that was too close to her real life. But the murder happened after she told me that. And, of course, it happened to Allison herself. So how could her life be close to a murder mystery without a murder in it? And that’s not all. We were talking about our lives and she said that she had spent much of her life being a victim, but now all that was changing.”

“But it didn’t, did it?” Kathleen mused. “She ended up being a victim. A murder victim.”

“I know.” Rose’s jiggling with her jewelry became almost frantic. “That’s something else that doesn’t make any sense.”