by Mary Daheim
“Maybe,” said Joe, counting T-shirts. “Just in case, I’ve asked that a patrol car cruise by every so often while I’m gone.”
Joe and Bill had tickets on a ten-thirty flight and Judith and Renie planned to accompany their husbands to the airport. Ordinarily, Judith’s guests finished breakfast by nine. It was now eight forty-five. Renie and Bill were coming by about nine-fifteen. So far, only Schutzendorf, Plunkett, and Tippy de Caro had come down to the dining room. Judith gave an anxious glance at the clock on the nightstand. Either she’d have to cancel the trip to the terminal, or ask Arlene to come over and fill in.
Joe was going through the closet, his movements growing increasingly impatient. “Where’s my red-and-white checked sport shirt?”
Judith had been admiring what was literally the last rose of summer, a yellow bloom she’d picked that morning and put in a bud vase on the dressing table. Suppressing a sigh, she joined Joe at the closet door. “Right there.” She pointed to the shirt, hanging about eight inches from his nose. Since their marriage, the closet had been divided down the middle, with Judith’s wardrobe to the left, and Joe’s on the right. The bedroom’s cheerful yellow and white decor, with its chintz curtains and dormer windows, had taken on a more masculine air. Especially, Judith thought with a little grimace, when Joe left his shoulder holster draped over the chair in front of the dressing table.
“I may have to renege on going to the airport,” Judith said with a doleful expression. “The Pacettis haven’t come down yet.”
Joe was going through the bottom drawer of the maple bureau. “Can’t you set breakfast out for them so they can dish up by themselves? Hey, where are my light blue socks?”
“No, it’s bratwurst and grössita. You know the grössita has to be served hot, right out of the frying pan.” Judith bent down to point to Joe’s light blue socks, which were almost touching his left hand. “Grössita’s like any other pancake, except you fill the pan with batter, then cut it up in little pieces when it’s almost finished frying. But if it sits, it turns into a big glop of glue.”
Putting his socks into a large black suitcase, Joe gave Judith a wistful look. “I’d hoped you could see me off. My first trip without you. Who then will kiss poor Joe farewell at the concourse exit?”
“Let me see if I can discreetly roust them,” said Judith, starting for the door.
“Hey, Jude-girl,” Joe called after his wife. “Where’s my gun?”
Judith gnashed her teeth. During her four years of widowhood she had forgotten how men, even sharp-eyed homicide detectives such as Joe Flynn, couldn’t find a bowling ball in the bathroom sink. Suppressing the urge to tell her husband to look in the vicinity of his backside, Judith opened her mouth to reply. But Joe had spotted the holster and was grinning with the pleasure of discovery.
“Hey, how’d it get there?” he asked in surprise.
“Gee, I don’t know, Joe. I suppose it grew little leather feet and walked, meanwhile tossing socks and shirts every which way. Are you taking that with you?” It was Judith’s turn to evince surprise.
But Joe shook his head. “No need. I’ll ditch it in the closet. Or what about that little safe you’ve got?”
Judith rarely used the safe, but considered it an excellent repository for Joe’s .38 special. “It’s in the basement, behind the hot water tank. I think.”
“Right.” Joe was filling his shaving kit; Judith headed out into the little foyer which served as a family sitting room. On her left, the door to Mike’s room was closed. On her right, the door to Gertrude’s former room stood ajar. As if, Judith thought with a pang, it was expecting Gertrude Grover to return at any moment. Judith consoled herself that by Monday she might have some good news for her mother. If the Swedish carpenter’s estimates were relatively reasonable and his schedule wasn’t too busy, Gertrude might be home for Christmas. Of course Judith must discuss it more fully with Joe, but not now, with his departure at hand.
She had just descended the short flight from the third floor when she heard a tremendous crash and a piercing scream. The sounds emanated from the front bedroom. Judith raced down the hallway and pounded on the door.
“Mr. Pacetti! What is it? What’s wrong? Mr. Pacetti?” Judith’s heart thumped along with her fists. Fleetingly, she wondered if her insurance agent had already increased her coverage as she’d requested the previous day. It was a callous thought, she realized, since Mario Pacetti might be in a lot more trouble than she was.
Amina Pacetti, clad in a flowing peach peignoir edged with black osprey feathers, yanked the door open. Her dark eyes were wide and her golden hair was not as neatly coiffed as usual. “My husband fell out of bed! He is killed!” She leaned against the open door, a hand flung across her eyes.
Judith tensed, then grimly entered the room. To her relief, Mario Pacetti was far from dead. He was wallowing around on the carpet, his legs tangled up in the sheets. Bending down, Judith tried to extricate him.
“Help! Help! I suffocate!” Pacetti clawed at his throat, though nothing bound him in that region. “Tonight, I sing! Where is Plunkett?”
Plunkett, in fact, was at the doorway, along with Joe Flynn. Both had heard the commotion and come running to the second floor. Seeing the holster in Joe’s hand, Amina screamed again. “We’re all going to die! It is the Mafia! Our blood will be on their hands! Aaaay!”
By reflex, Joe went for his badge. “I’m a policeman, remember? Now shut the hell up.” Joe moved swiftly to help Judith with the struggling Pacetti.
At last they had the tenor free and sitting on the bed. He appeared shaken, but otherwise unharmed.
“What happened?” inquired Judith in as solicitous a tone as she could muster.
Pacetti eyed the bedclothes as if they had betrayed him. “I was attacked. Someone came in this room and tried to strangle me.” His round brown eyes darted from Judith to Joe to Amina and finally rested on Plunkett. “Where were you when I needed you?”
Before Plunkett could respond, Amina flew across the room in a billow of peach chiffon and black feathers. “Caro! It was I who came in! To wake you! You must have been dreaming.”
“What?” Pacetti’s eyes narrowed as he focused on his wife. “No! It could not be…” Though he sounded certain, a shadow of doubt passed over his face. “There was no one else here?”
With a quick, anxious look over her shoulder, Amina shook her head. “No.” She spoke in rapid Italian, apparently soothing her husband. At last, he rose from the bed. “Well. Then I shave and shower.” With an imperious twitch of his pajama-clad shoulders, Mario Pacetti trotted off toward the bathroom.
Winston Plunkett, looking faintly frustrated, withdrew discreetly. Joe, pocketing his badge, followed, presumably heading for the basement to stash his gun. Judith waited for Amina to collect herself.
“By the way,” said Judith, “do you own a white, short, lace-trimmed negligee?” In all the confusion that had ensued after the Pacetti party’s arrival, Judith had forgotten about Arlene’s find.
“Short negligee?” Amina wrinkled her nose in scorn. “I never wear short. Always long. Like this.” Her hand fluttered over the peach chiffon.
Judith stepped aside as Amina exited the bedroom, heading for her own quarters next door. Hurrying downstairs, Judith put the bratwurst under the broiler and reheated the frying pan for the grössita. From the living room, she could hear Schutzendorf growling at somebody, either Tippy or Plunkett.
But it was Tippy who poked her head into the kitchen a few seconds later. She was holding her coffee cup and wearing a black bustier with bright green skintight pants and a pair of long earrings that looked like ice picks.
“The pot’s empty. Is there any more coffee out here?”
Judith poured from the carafe she had reserved for herself and Joe. After offering cream and sugar, she posed the same question to Tippy that she had asked of Amina.
Tippy looked befuddled. “White? No. When I sleep, I like to go barefoot—all over.�
� She giggled into her coffee cup.
Judith turned away so that Tippy couldn’t see her hostess roll her eyes. Above her, the kitchen clock showed five minutes after nine. Her chances of going to the airport with Joe were dwindling.
“Have you worked for Mr. Plunkett very long?” Judith asked, since Tippy showed no signs of leaving the kitchen.
“Oh, yes,” replied Tippy with vigor. “Much longer than for anyone else. It’s been over four months now.”
Judith blinked. “Really. What do you…uh…do?”
It was Tippy’s turn to roll her eyes. “Everything.” She set the coffee cup down and hopped up on the counter. Judith winced, remembering the endless number of times she had scolded Mike for doing the same thing. “Files. Records. Documents. Lists. Notes. I could go on and on. And they all have to be in alphabetical order.” She heaved a big sigh, which did strange things to the bustier.
“Wow,” remarked Judith, gratified to hear footsteps on the front staircase. “That sounds rough.”
“It is. And sometimes I have to answer the phone. Or even make calls. It just never ends. But,” added Tippy on a brighter note, “it’s kind of interesting, though.”
“I should think so,” said Judith, peering into the dining room. Both Pacettis were sitting down at the table, and Judith uttered a sigh of relief. She might yet make it to the airport. “It isn’t everyone who gets to be around a celebrity like Mario Pacetti.”
“Mmmmm.” Tippy didn’t sound impressed. “I don’t like opera all that much. They sing so high up and you can’t understand a word they’re saying. Plus, they always die. It’s depressing.”
Judith, who was furiously turning large chunks of German pancake in the frying pan, gave a little shrug. “You either like it or you don’t, I suppose. Still, there must be perks being connected to someone like Pacetti.”
“Oh—yeah.” Again, Tippy wasn’t very enthusiastic. “I saw Robert De Niro once in New York. And Geena Davis in L.A. She was in a boutique on Rodeo Drive.” Tippy pronounced “Rodeo” as if it were a horse show instead of a street.
Judith began to despair of bolstering the merits of Tippy’s job. It sounded as if she was a glorified file clerk, but obviously her talents lay elsewhere. Literally, thought Judith not without a touch of feline venom. On the other hand, she couldn’t see the bloodless Winston Plunkett bouncing around in the buff with Tippy. Or anyone else, actually. And come to think of it, she realized that on neither night of their stay had she heard telltale footsteps after lights-out on the second floor. Judith was puzzled, but there wasn’t time for further conjecture. She began bringing breakfast out to the Pacettis, who were head-to-head in deep, whispered conversation. Since they spoke in Italian, Judith had no idea what they were talking about. But, she reflected, Winston Plunkett would, and so maybe would Bruno Schutzendorf. Since the two men were still in the living room, Judith had to presume that the Pacettis didn’t wish to be overheard.
A horn honked outside just as Judith dished up the scrambled eggs. She hurried through the entry hall to look out the front door and make sure it was Renie and Bill. The blue Chevrolet sedan stood parked in the drive. Bill had popped the trunk open; Renie was waving through the windshield. Judith started to wave back, then noticed that she had forgotten to bring in the morning paper. She reached down to get it and saw something stuck under the welcome mat.
The sheet of paper was ordinary white stationery, torn off a writing tablet. The message, however, was not so ordinary. A crudely drawn dagger, dripping with blood, filled the center of the page. At the bottom, was another snatch of music. Judith noted there were five notes in the treble. She juggled the paper, trying not to smudge it with her own fingerprints. She was torn between showing Bill and Renie and returning to the house, when Joe came down the front stairs with his suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“You ready?” he said to Judith, then saw her startled expression. “What’s wrong?”
“This,” replied Judith, holding the paper in front of him. “It was under the mat.”
Joe sucked in his breath. “Oh, great!” He stared at the paper, then set down both suitcase and briefcase before turning back into the house. “I’m calling Woody,” he said over his shoulder.
Judith went out to the Jones’ car. Renie had rolled down the window. “What’s up, coz? You look like the pigs ate your little brother, as Grandma Grover used to say.”
Judith acknowledged Bill Jones with a weak smile. She showed them the piece of paper, then recounted the story of the rock.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” asked Renie with a scowl.
“You’ve been busy with your cancer research project; I’ve been up to my ears with this gang of goonies. No Phyliss, either. I haven’t had a chance to turn around for the last two days,” Judith explained. “I’ve only talked to Mother once.”
“Lucky,” sighed Renie. “The reason we’re five minutes late is because I couldn’t get my mother off the phone. I think she was afraid I might have a sudden violent urge to hop on the plane with Bill and Joe.”
Bill leaned across his wife. “Let me see that, Judith, please. Hold it up closer.” His square, solid face was more earnest than usual. “The musical part is very precise, even if the drawing isn’t. But an adult did both,” he said after a considerable silence. “It may be crude, but it’s not childlike.”
Judith wasn’t comforted by Bill’s words. If anyone could decipher anything out of a wretched drawing, it would be William Jones, PhD, Clinical Psychologist, University Professor, and Counselor to the Severely Disturbed.
“But is it dangerous?” asked Judith.
Bill’s sandy eyebrows lifted slightly above the rims of his glasses. “That’s impossible to say, on the face of it. I’d have to go more by the method than the manner. That is, the picture and those notes don’t mean much in themselves. But after two of them, a pattern is being established. The problem is, nobody can really know much of anything until whoever is doing this acts out.”
“You mean shows up with a butcher knife and starts hacking?” inquired Judith.
Bill nodded. “That’s right. You’ve got some highly strung people staying here, I gather from Renie. Especially Mario Pacetti. This could merely be an attempt to upset him, throw him off his game, so to speak. It could be a rival, a spurned woman, a musician he insulted. You’re dealing with artistic temperament. It’s hard to say.”
Renie made a little huffing noise. “The artistic temperament has nothing to do with graphics. Whoever drew that might as well have done it with his lips. Or hers.”
“I mean musical temperament,” said Bill, still earnest. He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Where’s Joe? It’s almost nine-thirty. We could run into traffic…”
Joe was coming out of the house at a jog. He threw his cases into the Chevrolet’s trunk, slammed the lid, then grabbed Judith’s arm. “Let’s go. Those screwballs can fend for themselves.”
“But…” protested Judith.
Joe opened the door and practically shoved Judith into the backseat. “I told them you were going to be gone for an hour or two. I put Dippy or Drippy or Tippy or whatever her name is in charge. If that bimbo can’t pour a cup of coffee, she might as well resign from the human race. Let’s hit it, Mr. Jones. We’re out of here.”
Bill did, and they were.
FIVE
RENIE TALKED JUDITH into stopping for an early lunch at a restaurant en route from the airport. The New Orleans flight had taken off almost half an hour late and by the time the cousins left the terminal, it was approaching eleven-thirty. Judith had protested that she should go straight home, but Renie was adamant.
“I haven’t heard hide nor hair of you since Thursday,” said Renie after they gave their order to an oval-faced Filipino waitress. “Now fill me in on what’s been happening with the Pacetti crew.”
Judith did. Renie listened, her brown eyes wide. “Wow,” she breathed at last, “no wonder yo
u’ve been busy! Where are they all going today?”
Judith dashed a little salt and pepper over her shrimp Caesar salad. “Pacetti is resting for tonight’s performance. Mrs. Pacetti is watching him rest. Plunkett—and I suppose Tippy—are doing something at the opera house, probably regarding Pacetti’s contract or whatever. Schutzendorf said he was going to the zoo.”
“A good place for him,” remarked Renie, bolting down a large mouthful of French bread. “Maybe they’ll keep him. Did you say he was Emil Fischer’s nephew?”
Judith grimaced at Renie. “Great-nephew, I think. You know who he is?”
“Sure,” Renie replied. “Very famous, turn-of-the-century German opera singer.”
“Hmmmm.” Judith fingered her chin. “Is that right?”
“Of course it’s right. Look it up in your biographical dictionary.” Renie sounded vaguely irked that Judith would question her knowledge about anything operatic. But soothed as always by food, she shelved her sudden pique. “So you never found out who the white negligee belonged to?”
Judith shook her head. “Both Tippy and Amina deny it was theirs. It wouldn’t fit Schutzendorf, and somehow I can’t see the other two…” She gave Renie a wry look as her voice trailed off.
“You never know,” said Renie, munching on a fat french fry. “I suppose it could have blown over from one of the neighbors’.”
“Not Arlene’s style,” said Judith. “Jeanne Ericson wears T-shirts to bed. And Mrs. Dooley is into flannel. It beats me. I think Tippy or Amina must be lying. But why?”
“They’re nuts, that’s why. They’re all nuts.” Renie dipped a piece of deep-fried halibut in tartar sauce. “Is Woody Price really going to keep an eye on the house?”
“Somebody is,” said Judith. “Look, coz, let’s cut to the serious stuff.”
Renie looked up from the mess she had made in her lap. For Renie, eating wasn’t exactly a spectator sport. “Like what?”