Silver Anniversary Murder Page 7

  “Let’s ask the expert,” suggested Hawley, greeting Lucy with a smile. “She’s a writer, after all.”

  “And I rely on spell-check,” admitted Lucy, with a smile. “But I do believe there’s only one p in redemption.”

  “It’s two to one, I yield,” said Reverend Marge. “Is Redemption Possible?”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Lucy, somewhat shocked at the question. It was only a matter of spelling, after all.

  “Of course it is. It’s the title of my sermon. And the theme, too.”

  “Marge’s sermons are brilliant,” said Hawley, adding the final question mark and stepping back to admire his work.

  “Good job, Hawley.” Marge gave her husband a loving pat. “Let’s go in and have a cup of tea and chat with Lucy. And behave yourself. We’re supposed to be an example of a loving couple.”

  “So far, so good,” said Lucy.

  They gathered in Reverend Marge’s study, which was a small, book-lined room. Instead of a desk, Marge worked at a table she’d placed in the center of the room, which was surrounded with a half dozen chairs. The table was covered with books and papers, arranged in neat piles. A plate of cookies was added, and they were soon seated in a cozy group with their mugs of tea.

  “So how did you two meet?” asked Lucy, beginning the interview.

  “At a civil rights march,” said Hawley. “Some cops were dragging Marge away rather roughly and I—”

  “He punched one of them,” said Marge, smiling at the memory, “even though it was supposed to be a nonviolent demonstration.”

  “I don’t know what got into me.” Hawley’s round face was glowing and his eyes were gleaming naughtily.

  “The next time I saw him we were in court. We’d spent the night in jail. I was terribly worried they’d charge him with assaulting an officer or something, but he apologized and the judge let him go with a warning.”

  “She came over to make sure I was okay. By then I had a black eye thanks to the cops, and I asked her out.”

  “I wasn’t thanking him. I told him he should be more restrained in the future. . . .”

  “But you did agree to have coffee with me.”

  “Only because I felt sorry for you.”

  Hawley chuckled. “It worked. We’ve been married for twenty-five years.”

  “What’s the secret?” asked Lucy. “They say almost half of all marriages end in divorce.”

  “Well, we have the same values, the same beliefs, and we treat each other with respect,” said Marge.

  “It’s the sex,” said Hawley, with a wink. “I’m in it for the sex.”

  “God’s plan,” said Marge, grinning and reaching across the table to take his hand. “Allelulia.”

  Lucy was smiling when she left the Harveys to go to her next interview. They were a cute couple, she thought, and not at all what she expected. But then, Reverend Marge was nothing like the stern minister of St. Andrew’s when she was growing up, who focused on sin rather than redemption. And the thought came to her, Reverend Marge was nothing like Beth’s first husband, Father Gabe, who demanded complete obedience from his flock of believers and his wife.

  Next up was the optometrist Phil Shahn and his wife, Betty, who Lucy had arranged to interview in the comfortable antique house built by Captain Isaiah Cook in 1823. Dr. Shahn’s office was in an ell on the back of the house, but Lucy was invited into the kitchen, where Betty was browning a pot roast.

  “That smells delicious,” she said, seating herself on a stool at the kitchen island. “Is that your secret? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

  “Sure is,” said Phil, joining her at the island. “Betty’s a great cook and we’ve been married for forty-seven years.” He was wearing a white lab coat over a button-down oxford and a pair of gray flannel slacks, and had a pair of chunky, black eyeglasses perched on his nose.

  “Phil does a lot of the cooking,” said Betty, setting the lid on the pan. She took off her apron, revealing a blue jean skirt and pale pink polo shirt. “He often pops in from the office to stir a pot.”

  “You must be together a lot since the office is in the house. Does that pose any special challenges?”

  “It did when the kids were little. They’d wander in when he was examining someone, which some people didn’t appreciate. But now they’re all grown and I have to admit, I like having him close by. It’s good to know that if I have a problem, like a spider in the sink, I can call him.”

  “When I walk through the door”—Phil indicated the connecting door with a tilt of his head—“I leave work behind. Whatever problems I’ve been dealing with stay on the other side, in the office and examining room. Home is home.”

  Lucy looked around the newly renovated kitchen, with its white cabinets, quartz counters, and pendant light fixtures, noticing the family photographs arranged on the wall and the childish art displayed on the double-doored stainless steel refrigerator. “You have a big family. . . .”

  “Four kids and seven grandkids,” said Phil, a note of pride in his voice.

  “We’re going to be great-grandparents soon, thanks to Lulu. She’s the one with the big bow in her hair.”

  Lucy saw a photograph of a smiling blond toddler, dressed in overalls and cradling a large marmalade cat.

  “She’s all grown up now, and is going to have a little boy,” continued Betty, clearly pleased as punch with this exciting development. “I can’t wait.”

  “Any tips for newlyweds?”

  “Get a good pot roast recipe,” said Betty.

  “And when she’s not looking, doctor it up,” said Phil, grinning and ducking the dish towel his wife tossed at him.

  As she drove to her next appointment, with artists Ben Melfi and Willa Stout, Lucy thought about the Shahns’ marriage. She suspected that their devotion to their family, their kids and grandkids, was a major reason for the success of their relationship. Or maybe, she thought, it was the other way round. Maybe it was their easygoing, accepting attitude that allowed them to produce their large and much-loved family. Money also played into it, she decided. It wasn’t the answer to all problems, but it was an undeniable fact that a professional with a specialty like optometry made a very good income and that income made life a lot more pleasant. The photos of the Shahn family included numerous vacation snapshots at ski resorts and expensive theme parks. She didn’t doubt that they’d had their share of difficulties—everybody encountered problems, especially when kids were involved—but having the financial resources to deal with those hurdles made a big difference.

  Artists Ben and Willa obviously had a much different lifestyle, she decided, as she pulled into the driveway at their combined home and studio and braked beneath an enormous wooden sculpture that was a modern version of a totem pole. Instead of the naturalistic images on a traditional totem pole, this version featured the faces of various advertising mascots including Ronald McDonald and Mr. Clean.

  Willa greeted her, emerging from the garage that served as a studio, dressed in paint-spattered jeans and shirt, and wiping her hands on a rag. “Hi, Lucy. I’d offer to shake hands but I’m elbow deep in paint.”

  “No problem,” said Lucy. “What are you working on?”

  “C’mon in and I’ll show you.” Lucy followed Willa into the studio, which was cluttered with paintings and props. The work in progress stood on an easel and depicted a household angel, a harried woman with wings and halo attempting to cope with a sink full of dirty dishes, a squalling infant, an angry husband, and numerous cats. An easel with a half-finished self-portrait stood in the corner. “I’m calling it Herding Cats.”

  “It’s very clever.” Lucy grinned ruefully. “It could be my life.”

  “Let’s go in the house. Ben is taking a break from sculpture today. He’s got tennis elbow and it’s acting up.”

  “I love the totem pole,” said Lucy, as Willa opened the door leading to the kitchen. The room was a colorful riot, with kitchen cabinets painted
in various bright colors, patchwork curtains, and dozens of plates hanging on the wall in no particular order.

  “How ’bout some tea?” offered Ben, rising from his chair at the kitchen table, where he was sketching.

  “Lovely.” Lucy sank into the old-fashioned chair he offered, thinking it was exactly like the ones in her grandmother’s kitchen except that Nanny’s were painted black and one usually had her enormous gray cardigan hanging on the back, handy in case she had to run outside. This chair was purple with pink polka dots.

  Soon the three were gathered at the table, sipping on chamomile tea and chatting like old friends. After agreeing to disagree on the virtues of a proposed wind farm, and agreeing on the fire chief’s decision to refurbish rather than replace the town’s aged ladder truck, Lucy got down to business. “Does the fact that you’re both artists pose special challenges in your marriage?” she asked.

  “We work in different media,” said Willa. “He sculpts and I paint, so it’s easy to be supportive of each other. It’s not like we’re competing, y’know?”

  “Your styles seem to complement each other. You both seem to be interested in critiquing modern life.”

  Ben nodded and grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “Some folks see Ronald McDonald and think I’m making a statement about consumerism. Others see Ronald as a beloved figure from their childhood. I’m okay with either, if it gets them to buy the darn thing.”

  “Righto,” agreed Willa. “It’s not easy making a living in the arts. We seem to be either madly rich or completely poverty stricken.”

  “But we’re talented and inventive.” Ben pointed to the rainbow-colored cabinets. “Willa’s idea. She used some leftover paint.”

  “That was my cheap and cheerful phase,” admitted Willa. “Nobody was buying my work—my studio was filling up with unsold pictures and it was too discouraging to paint more—so I took a break.”

  “You have control of your time. . . .”

  “Absolutely,” said Ben, interrupting her. “That’s the best part. We have plenty of time to be together.”

  “For the record, how long have you been married? And how did you meet?”

  “Gee, it’s close to thirty years now,” said Ben. “We met on the overnight train from Paris to Nice. We were both kids, backpacking in Europe.”

  “We still love traveling,” added Willa, bestowing a loving look on her husband, “and since we’ve got a credit card that gives us free miles and now we’ve discovered Airbnb we can stay at all these fabulous homes. We’ve been meeting other artists, getting lots of inspiration and ideas. It’s very affordable and it’s opened up the world to us. We’re going to Morocco next month, staying at some English antique dealer’s place. I can’t wait.”

  “I’m jealous,” said Lucy, envying the artistic couple’s freedom.

  “I have a question for you,” said Willa, turning the tables on Lucy. “Are you going to be in the Silver Anniversary fashion show, wearing your wedding dress?”

  “Uh, no. I’m sorry to say it doesn’t fit. Are you?”

  “Yeah.” Willa was beaming. “I don’t have that problem since I wore a sari. Bright pink. But I’m not sure Sylvia will approve.”

  “She issued an open invitation to all women married for twenty-five years or more. I don’t think she can stop you.” Lucy was closing her notebook and picking up her bag, ready to go. “She’s my next interview. Do you want me to ask her?”

  “No,” said Ben, squeezing his wife’s hand. “Let’s surprise her.”

  Back on the road, Lucy wrestled with the challenging problem that faced her. How was she ever going to portray the Bickersons—no, the Bickfords—as a happily married, loving couple? It was clearly an abusive relationship, with Sylvia constantly belittling and scolding Warren, and she didn’t want to give readers the impression that such behavior was acceptable.

  True to form, Sylvia was quick to take charge when Lucy arrived. Warren had greeted her at the kitchen door—nobody in town ever even thought of knocking on the front door—but Sylvia quickly intervened and insisted on being interviewed in their living room. Lucy was whisked through the antiseptic operating room that was their kitchen and quickly installed on a vinyl-covered couch in the very formal living room.

  She hadn’t been in a room like this in years, she thought, noticing the white rug, the crystal sconces, and the stiff arrangement of sofa and two chairs placed with mathematical precision on either side of a coffee table adorned with a bouquet of fake flowers. She bent down to retrieve her notebook from her bag and was embarrassed when the movement resulted in a fart-like noise as her skin on her thigh pulled against the sticky vinyl slipcover.

  “It happens,” said Warren, with an apologetic grin. “I’ve asked Sylvia to get rid of that sticky vinyl, but she always says—”

  “ ‘Do you want to have nice things or not, Warren?’ That’s what I say and he knows it’s because he’s such a slob that we need the covers.” Sylvia was perched on a rather stiff armchair, also covered with clear vinyl, and was wearing a tailored dress with a straight skirt. Her stockinged knees were pressed tightly together and her ankles were crossed. “Men!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes and patting her tightly curled hair. “They just seem to bring dirt with them. Raised in a barn, that must be it. If it weren’t for us ladies, insisting on civilized behavior, they’d just wallow in beer and pizza and girlie magazines. Don’t you agree?”

  Lucy didn’t want to impugn the men in her life, her husband and son Toby, so she merely shrugged. “They do produce a lot of laundry, but so do my girls.”

  “Laundry! Don’t even get me started. Warren’s got a limo business, you know, and sometimes he has to change a tire or fiddle with the oil gizmo. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but throw his stained clothes in the trash.”

  “I have to look nice for the customers,” said Warren, by way of explanation.

  “And you have both been remarkably successful in business and in marriage,” said Lucy, resorting to flattery. “Will you share your secret with our readers?”

  Sylvia was quick to answer. “Hard work and determination, that’s all there is to it. People blame failure on everything and anything but themselves. It’s the economy, or the weather, or discrimination. That’s my favorite. Blacks and Hispanics don’t get a fair shake.... Women can’t get credit to start businesses.... The system is rigged against them, on and on they go. Well, I’m a woman and I’ve done very well, if I do say so myself.”

  “Yes, you have, dear,” said Warren.

  “And it’s no thanks to you,” she replied. “Warren is a big wet blanket, always disparaging my ideas. He said a bridal shop would never succeed in a little town like this, but I said if it’s good, people will come from miles away. And they do. Just yesterday I had a lovely girl from New Hampshire. Came all the way, she said, because she heard Orange Blossom Bridal has the most beautiful dresses.”

  “Your two businesses complement each other. . . .”

  “Absolutely. It was my idea. Warren was hesitant. He didn’t want to take on such a big, expensive commitment.. . . ”

  “That’s not quite true, dear.”

  “Oh, shut up, Warren. You know that I’m right.”

  Warren repeated what must surely be the mantra of his marriage. “Sorry, dear.”

  “But I told him you have to spend money to make money, and the limo business is doing very well, though I do have to keep on top of things there, too.”

  “What about your relationship? What is the secret to a long marriage?” asked Lucy.

  Sylvia studied her husband, reminding Lucy of a dermatologist examining a suspicious mole. “You have to make it clear from the beginning who’s boss.”

  Warren cleared his throat and it seemed for a moment that he was going to say something, but he clearly thought better of it.

  Sylvia gave Warren a little pat on the shoulder. “Warren’s a good husband, though like all husbands he’s a work in progress.”

&nb
sp; “Thank you, dear.”

  Sylvia insisted that Lucy leave through the front door, which allowed her to show Lucy the large portrait of herself that hung in the hallway. Sylvia paused beneath the very flattering painting that depicted her in a beaded lace wedding dress with padded shoulders and invited Lucy to snap a photo. Lucy obliged, managing to restrain the laughter that was building and threatening to erupt in a hysterical outburst, and dutifully took the picture. Only Sylvia would choose a wedding portrait that omitted the groom, she thought, as she dashed to her car and finally released the hoots of laughter she’d been bottling up.

  Chapter Six

  As she drove back to the office, Lucy thought about the interviews and the story she had to write. The four couples were very different, but they’d all found a way to make their marriages endure. She wondered if there was any one thing they all had in common, but all she could come up with was the sense she’d gotten that for better or worse they’d committed to the success of their marriage. Even poor Warren, henpecked as he was, must have made a decision at some point that life with Sylvia was preferable to life without Sylvia.

  As often happened these days, her thoughts turned to Beth. Why hadn’t Beth been able to make her marriages work? Was it some failure on her part, or had she simply made a series of bad choices? Lucy remembered reading the confession of some oft-married celebrity, she couldn’t remember who, saying that she entered every marriage absolutely convinced that this time it would be different, this time it would work.

  That was probably also true of Beth, as she careened through life, bouncing from one relationship to another. The problem with that, thought Lucy, was that Beth had expected to find a Prince Charming to save her, and had only come to the belated realization that she had to save herself after her fourth marriage. She would have liked to get to know this older and wiser Beth, and suspected she would have preferred her to the old, dependent Beth, but she’d never had the chance. Beth was gone, but the question remained whether she’d died by her own hand or someone else’s. If only Lucy could get back to New York. Maybe then she could figure out what had really happened to Beth. But that was out of the question since she didn’t have the money or the time necessary for a real investigation.