by Mary Daheim
Renie took another swallow of her mocha, augmenting her mustache. “It’s a real puzzler, isn’t it?”
“It sure is. If I weren’t afraid the murderer is—or was—under my roof, I’d run up the white flag and let Woody work his wonders.”
“You consider Tippy a serious candidate?” Renie seemed dubious.
“I consider everybody seriously,” replied Judith. “As I’ve often said, people are so unpredictable. And they certainly aren’t always what they pretend to be. I already made one mistake about Tippy, figuring she was Plunkett’s girlfriend. Now why would she do a bunk? Has she been embezzling? Is she a jewel thief? Did she use her job as a cover for dealing drugs? Or is she a killer? One thing I’m beginning to think is that she is not the ditz she seems. For all I know, she really did go to Harvard.”
Renie finally noticed the whipped cream. “Yum,” she said, lapping it up. “By the way, your mother wants you to bring her winter clothes over now that it’s getting colder. I hemmed and hawed. When are you going to tell her about the toolshed?”
“I’m waiting to tell Joe first.” Judith made a nervous little gesture with her hands. “Either that, or build a big fence between the back porch and the toolshed. Maybe he’d never notice Mother was living there.”
Finishing their drinks, the cousins paid their bill and headed out into the pale golden sun of late afternoon. “How were the press checks?” inquired Judith as they walked across the street to their cars.
“Okay. Too much blue on the first one, too high on the red on the second, but they finally got it adjusted. So far, no major last-minute glitches,” Renie noted, though she still had one more trip to go. “Thanks for picking up those tickets. I’m sorry you had to stand around for so long. Even if Inez turned out to be a zero, at least you didn’t get ticketed for parking in the loading zone. But the brochure’s going to look pretty sharp. A good thing, since this is a first-class operation all the way,” said Renie. “After all, the Henderson Cancer Center is one of the best of its kind. Maybe the best. People come here from all over the world. The new complex will have an entire wing of apartments for patients and their families instead of the annex they use now. It’ll be more like the set-up they have over at the Children’s Medical Center.” Renie had turned very serious, wearing her boardroom face. “You’d be surprised how many of the rich and famous arrive at the center incognito. It’s all very discreet, with the utmost regard for the patient’s privacy. If they’re cured, the public never knows they were sick. If they’re not—well, they usually go home to die, poor souls. But they know they’ve had the best treatment possible.”
Judith, equally solemn, nodded. “I’ve heard the foundation has been very successful raising funds. It must take millions and millions.” She stopped abruptly, almost colliding with a lamppost. “My eyes are deteriorating. I think it’s this Pacetti bunch. Maybe I really am going ’round the bend.”
“You’re going ’round the lamppost, coz,” said Renie. “Knock it off, or somebody who doesn’t know you’re Joe Flynn’s wife will give you a DIP citation for too much vanilla in your mocha.”
Judith laughed, albeit weakly. Renie might be right—the Pacetti case was getting to her. Meanwhile, as far as she could tell, the investigation was going nowhere. Judith got into her car and went home.
Judith was surprised to find Bruno Schutzendorf and Justin Kerr sitting in the living room, drinking her prize brandy.
“Join in,” Schutzendorf urged, as if he were the host and Judith the guest. “We toast. The excellent Justin Kerr has agreed to sign a recording contract with Cherubim Records. Let me introduce you.”
“Congratulations,” said Judith, extending her hand. “Actually, Mr. Kerr and I…”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Justin broke in, his smooth voice erasing Judith’s words. “You have a lovely place here. But it is tucked away. I got a bit lost trying to find it.” He gave Judith a quick wink.
“Oh—yes, well, it is a cul-de-sac. I mark it carefully on my advertising material.” She hoped her face didn’t look as puzzled as she felt. Why, Judith wondered, would Justin Kerr pretend he’d never been to Hillside Manor?
Schutzendorf was gesturing expansively. “This is Justin’s first big contract. Before now, he got the chicken food. We are both well pleased.” The German’s teeth gleamed in his beard.
“I’m very happy,” said Justin Kerr, who was looking at ease in a tweed sport coat, crewneck sweater, and casual slacks. “Mr. Schutzendorf is responsible for this break-through.” He raised his brandy glass to the record magnate.
Judith made a few more complimentary remarks, then excused herself. In the kitchen, she quickly dialed the state B&B association, hoping to catch somebody before the office closed at five.
Ingrid Heffleman answered. Judith knew her from the association meetings. For the past two years, Ingrid had been urging Judith to serve on the board. Judith had begged off, at first claiming that she was too inexperienced in the business, then using her newlywed status as an excuse. Now, Judith thought with a pang, she might have to trade her time for information. It would take a bit of trouble to contact all forty B&Bs in the city.
But Ingrid set Judith’s mind at rest—at least as far as her request was concerned. “Heavens, Judith, if Mario Pacetti and his wife had stayed at any B&B in the county, we’d have heard about it. Everybody’s been talking about your coup since the opera people made the reservation. Don’t you remember, they had to go through us to do it.”
They had, of course. “What about using assumed names?” Judith wasn’t quite ready to give up on the idea that the Pacettis had somehow slipped into town and found haven in a discreet neighborhood hideaway.
Ingrid chuckled. “He could call himself Leonardo da Vinci and not fool anybody. Even people who aren’t opera fans knew Mario Pacetti. I am sorry about the tragedy. You must be devastated. Again.”
Judith thought she detected a hint of aversion in Ingrid’s voice. The B&B association was like any other organization, with infighting, competition, and clashes of personality. Judith had to admit that in less than three years as a B&B owner, she had had more than her share of notoriety. Not everyone, especially within the hostelry business, would cite her as a shining example of innkeeping.
Hanging up the phone, Judith started in on the hors d’oeuvres. She was opening a can of Vienna sausages when Justin Kerr slipped into the kitchen.
“A glass of water,” he said, a bit too loudly. “If I may?”
“Of course.” Judith got out a glass. “Ice?”
“No, thank you.” As the tap ran at full bore, Justin turned back to Judith and spoke in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I’d rather Mr. Schutzendorf didn’t know I was here the other night. It’s a long story, a typical, complicated, opera sort of thing I won’t bother you with. I’m sure you understand.” He gave an exaggerated shrug of his broad shoulders.
“Yes.” Judith watched him fill the glass, turn off the tap, and take a swift swallow. The question she was about to pose was short on tact, but to the point. “Are you Pacetti’s replacement?”
Caught in the act of putting the glass down, Justin spilled some of the water on the counter. “Replacement? Of course not. No one could replace Pacetti.”
“But you could sing his roles,” noted Judith, trying to keep her face innocent. “You’re up-and-coming, I’m told, Inez Garcia-Green obviously likes you. She sings for Cherubim. Surely she’d be willing to make recordings with you.”
Justin shifted about uncomfortably. “Inez has been very kind. It’s possible that I could sing opposite her in the upcoming Don Carlo. But Schutzendorf has made no specific promises.”
Judith nodded. “You have an agent? Or business manager?” To soften her prying, Judith offered Justin Kerr a Vienna sausage. He declined.
“Yes, a manager.” The singer’s gaze drifted away from Judith to the schoolhouse clock on the wall behind her. “An old friend of the family, in fact. S
ay, it’s almost five-thirty. I’d better be going. We’ve got a performance scheduled for tomorrow night and I’ve planned an early dinner. We had to hold extra rehearsals today and yesterday to make sure I was set for tomorrow night. It’s been pretty tiring. Many thanks.” His handsome features grew more engaging as he smiled at Judith. “For everything.”
Judith said it was nothing—but of course she knew Justin appreciated her discretion more than her hospitality. What she didn’t know was why he should appear so concerned over Schutzendorf finding out about the previous visit to Hillside Manor. Noiselessly, she lingered in the dining room while Justin bade the record magnate farewell. The parting took a while, with much effusiveness on both sides. When the young tenor finally left, Judith went to the front door and looked out. Her mouth twisted into a wry expression as she noted that Justin Kerr drove off in a gray Ford compact sedan.
The pork chops almost went to waste. Schutzendorf had dinner out, Plunkett settled for a sandwich, Amina preferred pasta, and Edna Fiske ate her staple of green salad. Judith put the pork chops, mushrooms, white and wild rice into a container with the cauliflower and drove up the hill to Aunt Deb’s apartment.
“We already ate,” announced Gertrude, leaning on her walker and thrusting her chin at her daughter. “It’s almost six. We had milk toast. Do you think we sit around here all night and starve ourselves?”
“Then warm it up for tomorrow,” said Judith, struggling to get past her mother, who seemed determined to bar the way.
“We got mutton for tomorrow,” growled Gertrude in her raspy voice. “Thursday Deb’s doing Shipwreck. You think we’re too old and daffy to figure out decent meals?”
“Then give it to the cat,” said Judith between gritted teeth. Even as she spoke, Sweetums sidled up to her, brushing against her ankles. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
In the small living room, Aunt Deb was maneuvering her wheelchair from the hall. The apartment was crowded with the furnishings of two lifetimes, a spectrum of seven decades, from Edwardian antimacassars to a cordless phone. “Judith, dear! How nice! Where have you been all week?”
“It’s only Tuesday,” murmured Judith.
“Give me that,” commanded Gertrude, holding out an arm clad in a garish green and gold cardigan. “I’ll put it in the freezer.”
“No, you won’t,” countered Judith, pulling the plastic container out of reach. “You two will leave it there until it crystallizes. A trillion years from now, archaeologists will be trying to figure out what the hell you kept in your refrigerator. And you’ll both be saying, ‘We’re saving it because we don’t want to run out.’ This isn’t 1931, Mother. It’s almost the twenty-first century.”
“Bull,” said Gertrude, deliberately lifting the walker and banging it back down within half an inch of Judith’s foot.
“Now, dear,” said Aunt Deb, pushing herself closer.
Judith held up the container, as if auctioning it off at a church fund-raiser. “Promise you’ll eat this tomorrow or I’ll give it to Mrs. Parker’s poodle, Ignatz. Come on, you two, give in.”
Gertrude eyes narrowed and her mouth worked from side to side. Aunt Deb leaned back in the wheelchair, her hands fretting the fabric of her blue and white housecoat. Sweetums snuggled against Judith in an uncharacteristic display of affection.
“What the hell,” said Gertrude at last. “We can freeze the mutton.”
“I’m very fond of pork chops,” Deb admitted. “It’s so sweet of you to think of us, Judith. You and Renie are such good girls. How can Gertrude and I be so lucky to have you?”
“Holy bat boils,” exclaimed Gertrude, “you’re enough to gag a goat, Deb. Why don’t you put one of these pork chops in your kisser and choke yourself?”
Aunt Deb smiled sweetly, though there was just a touch of hostility in her brown eyes. “Isn’t your mother a caution, Judith? Sometimes I almost think she means what she says. It’s a good thing we know she’s actually senile.” Deb kept right on smiling.
Furious, Gertrude made an awkward move with the walker, trying to turn around and go after her sister-in-law. Sensing blood, Sweetums crouched, growled and sprang—at Judith. Catching his claws in her black wool sweater, he squirmed and screeched, ears laid back and tail a-flying. Judith swore, trying to free the cat. Gertrude turned around again; Deb stopped smiling and stared. Finally, Judith pried Sweetums loose. It was hard to tell who was angrier. Judith scowled at the pulls in her sweater. Sweetums snarled at her feet.
“I hope it’s not new,” said Aunt Deb in a placating tone.
“I hope you brought my winter clothes,” said Gertrude, apparently diverted from assaulting her sister-in-law. “It’s supposed to get down to forty tonight. You want me to freeze my perkies off?”
“I haven’t had time to get your things together,” Judith lied. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Another lie. She saw the genuine disappointment on her mother’s face and suddenly felt guilty. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a surprise for you. I know you’re really going to like it.”
Gertrude’s eyes brightened. “You’re getting a divorce?”
Judith sighed. “No, Mother. But I’m serious. I’ll tell you in a few days; I promise.”
Gertrude’s forehead furrowed under the white curls of her latest permanent. “It better be good,” she muttered.
“It is,” said Judith, bending down to kiss her mother good-bye. “You’ll both like it, I think.” She moved past Gertrude to hug Aunt Deb.
“How nice,” said Aunt Deb. “Does Renie know?”
“Yes.” Judith started backing toward the door, one eye on Sweetums, who was arching his furry orange body and hissing like a small steam engine. With a deft movement, Judith made her escape. And wondered, all the way home, if she was making a mistake moving her mother back to Hillside Manor.
There was a call from Woody on the machine. He had left both his work and his home numbers. Judith tried police headquarters first and caught him just as he was leaving.
“We got the report back on the thermos contents,” said Woody in his businesslike manner. “What was left of the tea had definite traces of Strophanthin.”
“Ah!” Judith beamed into the receiver. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Yes—and no,” said Woody. “The pathologist told me something that doesn’t mesh. Strophanthin is deadly, all right, but one of the antidotes is strong tea.”
“Huh?” Judith screwed up her face.
“The pathologist doubts that there was a sufficient amount of Strophanthin in that vial to kill Pacetti if he was drinking a lot of tea. The residue in the thermos accounts for about a quarter of what was in the vial,” Woody went on. “It just doesn’t jibe.”
Judith sat down on the kitchen stool, a hand to her temple. “I don’t get it, Woody. The man died. Did he ingest the Strophanthin or didn’t he? It was in the tea, after all.”
“But when was it put there?” Woody’s question was phrased so that it sounded as if he were asking himself as well as Judith. “Why was the thermos brought from the opera house and buried in your backyard? There are a ton of places to ditch something at the opera house, including several dumpsters outside. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” Judith stared at the calendar posted next to the telephone. The notes she had scrawled all over it were a blur. No wonder she had a headache. Scooting to the edge of the stool, she reached for the bottle of aspirin she kept on the windowsill above the sink. “If Pacetti had been poisoned with the tea, then Amina would be the prime suspect. But if he wasn’t…or if someone else had access to that thermos, either here or at the opera house…Hell’s bells, Woody, I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round.” Judith popped two aspirin in her mouth and quickly poured herself a glass of water.
Woody gave a tight little laugh. “Tell me about it. I can’t ask these so-called suspects to stick around much longer after tomorrow or the next day. They’ll start to file complaints or threaten to sue or just plain get up an
d go. Like Ms. de Caro.”
“No sign of her, I take it?”
“None. She’s disappeared into thin air.” A note of discouragement was creeping into Woody’s voice.
Briefly, Judith mentioned Justin Kerr’s meeting with Schutzendorf and the tenor’s insistence upon secrecy about his earlier visit to Hillside Manor. She also told Woody that Justin had been driving a gray Ford.
“I think I’ll do some homework on Mr. Kerr this evening,” said Woody, his mood perking up. “Sondra’s at a baby shower, so I might as well work late.”
“Let me know if you find anything,” said Judith. “Like Tippy.”
An hour later, Amina Pacetti made her first foray into the living room since her husband’s death. She wore a quilted robe of many colors, full makeup, and her hair was once again impeccably coiffed.
“I grow stiff,” she announced, going to the piano and playing a few chords. “You need to have this tuned. It’s rather flat.”
Judith gave a nod of assent, but her mind was far from flats or sharps. Standing by the cushioned window seat a few yards from the piano, she racked her brain for an approach to the thermos question. At last, she picked up the evening paper, which was sitting on the coffee table.
“Have you seen the article in the Times tonight?”
Amina regarded the newspaper as if it were a plague warning. “No. Nurse Fiske asked if I wished to see it, but I declined. What should I need to learn? That my husband was most cruelly murdered? I know that.” Her gaze fell back on the piano keys. This time she played a series of minor chords.
Indeed, Melissa Bargroom and her coworker’s news story was pretty basic. The article had appeared at the bottom of page one, since the morning paper and the electronic media had beat the Times to the punch with the homicide angle. The duo had walked the fine line of journalism, presenting only the barest facts. Melissa, however, had dug a little deeper into her knowledge of Pacetti’s career and written a second piece for the arts and entertainment section. As far as Judith could tell, the recap contained nothing pertinent to his murder.