by Mary Daheim
The newspaper having flunked with Amina, Judith opted for shock tactics. “I found your thermos. It was buried in the backyard.”
Amina slumped onto the piano bench. “What?”
Judith repeated her statement, noting that Amina’s shock seemed genuine. “Where did you see it last?” asked Judith.
Amina brushed at her mouth, not noticing that she had smeared lipstick on her hand. “Oh…I’m not certain. I still had it with me when Mario went onstage. Then…I don’t recall. I never thought about it again. How could I? My husband was dying!” She buried her face in her hands, but no sobs were forthcoming. Instead, she shook her head and swayed from side to side.
Judith held her own head, aware that the aspirin wasn’t helping much. “I’m sorry, really I am. But it’s so strange, finding the thermos in the garden. Someone must have taken it from the opera house. It was red, wasn’t it?”
Amina nodded. “Madness!” she wailed through her fingers. “There is a madman loose! Am I next?”
Judith moved to Amina’s side, but thought better of patting the other woman’s shoulder. “The police are watching the house,” she soothed. “I saw a patrol car go by just a few minutes ago. Mrs. Pacetti, do you have any idea who sent that rock?” Once again, Judith was careful not to mention the second missive.
Amina’s head jerked up. Her face looked blotchy and her eyes snapped. “Of course I do! Who else but Inez Garcia-Green?”
Judith stared. “Inez? How can you be so sure?”
Amina gave a shake of her shoulders. “Because she told me, that’s how. She tells everything to everybody. She thinks I would tell the police and she would be arrested. But the police know. So why do they not take her away to prison? The woman’s mouth should be shut. Then she could not talk, or sing, and the world would be a better place. A curse on her! Maledizione!”
Edna Fiske stalked into the living room, her face set. “What’s this? Too much excitement by far! Come, come, Mrs. Pacetti, it’s back to bed for you. I warned you about eating that pasta.”
To Judith’s surprise, Amina allowed Edna Fiske to lead her away, looking not unlike a child under the thumb of a stern governess. They had just disappeared when the phone rang. Judith answered it in the kitchen and beamed as she heard Joe’s voice at the other end of the line.
“I just ate twenty-four oysters,” said Joe. “Will that make me sexy?”
“You are sexy, you nut,” said Judith, draping herself over the kitchen stool. “Where are you?” She could hear quite a bit of noise in the background.
“Delmonico’s,” replied Joe. “Bill’s at the next phone, listening to Renie crow about her hot new brochure. You caught any killers lately, or are you sitting back and letting Woody take the heat?”
“Woody’s doing fine,” said Judith, not wanting to spend time or money with mundane details such as murder when she could be listening to Joe tell her how sexy he was. Or better yet, how sexy she was. “Miss me?”
“Like crazy,” said Joe. “I got so desperate last night, I tried to kiss Bill. He put me in therapy. Or was it in traction?”
The conversation moved on to the adventures of Lieutenant Flynn and Professor Jones in New Orleans. The weather was hot, humid, and occasionally rainy. The conference was informative, interesting, and enlightening. The food was terrific. They’d eaten French, Cajun, creole, even Chinese. They’d seen most of the sights, from Bourbon Street to Lake Pontchartrain. The hotel was great, right by the Superdome. Maybe they’d have time to get into the bayous. Or charter a fishing boat in the Gulf. Judith began to wonder when Joe had time to miss her. As she reluctantly hung up, she was well aware that he and Bill were having a heck of a lot more fun in New Orleans than she and Renie were having back home. Judith called Renie to say as much, but got her cousin’s answering machine. That seemed odd, since Renie had just been talking to Bill. Judith was still frowning in puzzlement when the back door banged.
“Open up,” shouted Renie. “I want to show you my brochure.”
“How’d you get here so fast?” asked Judith, letting her cousin in.
“You know Bill,” said Renie. “He hates talking on the phone almost as much as your mother does. As soon as he hung up, I raced over here to show you this little hummer. Ta-da!” Renie whipped the cancer center brochure out of her briefcase.
Judith admired it with appropriate awe. Indeed, it was a handsome piece, bearing the usual bold, yet tasteful, graphics of Serena Grover Jones. The cousins sat down at the kitchen table while Judith put on her glasses and flipped through the pages.
“I like the architecture,” remarked Judith. “It’s got a nice, solid look.”
“Right,” agreed Renie, going for the cookie jar. “I tried to carry that feeling throughout the brochure. Hey, you haven’t baked!” Her voice had an echo as she spoke into the empty container.
“I haven’t had time, you goof,” said Judith. “Oh, here’s the wing with the apartments. The rooms look pretty lavish. Did you do these sketches?”
“No, the architect did those.” Renie replaced the sheep’s head lid on the jar. “I toured the present facility last summer. Even in the old annex, they’ve got a couple of suites that are quite nice. One of them has two bedrooms, a living room, even a small study. It’s usually reserved for visiting brass or celebrity patients who…”
Judith dropped the brochure. Renie grimaced. “I hope you or Phyliss mopped today. I only have a dozen file copies of that, you klutz,” admonished Renie.
Reaching under her chair, Judith retrieved the brochure. “It’s clean,” she asserted, waving her free hand at her cousin and suddenly looking excited. “Call me crazy, but I just had the weirdest idea. What if Pacetti, a world-class worrywart, had checked himself into the Henderson Center this past spring? Melissa said he canceled performances about then. And it was springtime when the Pacettis were here on their unscheduled visit. Is there any way you could check?”
Renie was scowling. “Yes, you’re crazy. I think. Well…I’ve got pretty tight with their P.R. person. I could give it a try, but you’d have better luck using Woody.”
“Woody has a typical policeman’s aversion to wild goose chases,” said Judith, getting up to fetch a couple of cans of pop from the refrigerator. “I have to admit this idea falls into that category. But if you could do some probing, it might help.”
“How?” Renie accepted a cold Pepsi. “Let’s say you’re right—heaven forbid—and Pacetti had cancer. Why kill him?”
“Lots of people survive cancer. Maybe he didn’t have it but was afraid he did. Maybe it was Amina.” The excitement was fading. “It’s a long shot, but the Pacettis had to stay somewhere if they were here last spring. It wasn’t in a B&B, they don’t seem to know anybody besides Dunkowitz, who wouldn’t invite them back, and we know they hate hotels. Do you really think they’d park one of those luxury RVs out on the edge of town and sleep with the tourists?”
“Probably not,” admitted Renie. “But I think you’re out on a limb on this one, coz.”
“Maybe,” said Judith, squinting at the list of donors on the last page. “Damn, I can’t even read the boldface type. I think I’d better call Dr. Inouye tomorrow and make an appointment before I go blind. I haven’t had my glasses changed since just before I opened the B&B.”
“Inouye’s moved,” said Renie. “In fact, he’s in the same clinic as the Feldmans, next to the Children’s Medical Center.”
“Then I probably can’t afford him any more,” Judith lamented. “Speaking of my incipient poverty, was Tolvang still out there when you arrived?”
“No,” Renie answered. “I passed him on my way in. He only dropped two buckets off his truck as he clunked away toward the Counterbalance. Fortunately, both missed me.”
For the next half-hour, the cousins mulled over the latest developments in the murder case. Renie was troubled by the buried thermos, but not for the same reasons that had plagued Judith and Woody.
“I don’t care whet
her the Strophanthin poisoned Pacetti or not,” said Renie. “Who else but the murderer would bury that thermos? Coz, that really tightens the circle. It’s got to be one of your guests.”
Even though she’d had the same feeling all along, Judith blanched. Somehow, it was more terrifying to hear her worst fears voiced aloud, especially by someone else. Still, she had a quibble.
“Don’t forget, Inez and Justin showed up after the murder. Either of them could have gone up to the second floor, used the back stairs, and slipped outside. They were here long enough to bury a dinosaur.”
“They didn’t know the layout of the house,” Renie objected.
“They did if somebody told them. Look,” said Judith, pulling her chair closer and sketching imaginary happenings on the table, “let’s say there are two people involved. The gray car shows up when the Pacettis arrive, scouting things. Justin Kerr, just for a good guess. Somebody is inside—let’s say Tippy, for another guess—and waves a nightie out the window—then drops it accidentally. It’s a signal, okay?”
Renie looked unconvinced. “A signal for what? Can’t these goofballs use a phone?”
“You know how my phones are set up—I’ve got the private line on the third floor, but the phones in the living room, the kitchen, and the upstairs hall are for business. Anybody could listen in on an extension.”
Renie acknowledged that fact. “So you figure Tippy gave Justin some sort of high sign, then later told him—or Inez, or both—how the house is laid out. You’re reaching, coz.”
“Of course I am,” Judith replied a bit testily. “All I’m trying to do is make sure we’re not overlooking any of the suspects. Otherwise, we’re down to the trio I have to sleep with. And Tippy, of course.”
“Tippy,” mused Renie. “It’s too bad you never went through her luggage. You might have found another short negligee.”
“I never thought of it,” said Judith. “Anyway, it didn’t seem important. More like a silly stunt.” She stood up. “It’s not too late.”
“For what? Silly stunts?” Renie looked askance.
“Come on,” said Judith, heading for the back stairs. “Let’s go over Tippy’s room with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. Phyliss was in a rush today because she had a dental appointment. Maybe she didn’t do her usual bang-up job.”
But rushed or not, it appeared that the cleaning woman had been thorough. Judith looked under the bed, the bureau, even the rug. Renie perused the closet and the drawers.
“Drat,” said Judith, as the cousins craned their necks to see if there was any nook or cranny they’d overlooked.
“What about the bathroom?” asked Renie.
“Tippy shared it with Amina,” said Judith. “I can’t imagine she’d leave anything there.”
Renie looked anyway, moving about quietly so as not to alarm Amina next door. Frustrated, Judith scanned the bedroom one last time. The bureau drawer she’d pushed in earlier still wasn’t closed properly. Judith gave it another shove. Again, it didn’t mesh. Annoyed, she tugged it all the way out. Wedged along the side was a credit card, apparently having fallen out of the drawer. Judith picked it up and examined the imprint.
Renie was closing the bathroom door. “Zip,” she said, then stared at Judith. “What’s that?”
Judith was wearing a strange little smile. “Blooming-dale’s,” she said, holding the plastic between her thumb and forefinger. “Made out to Victoria D. Kerr of Chestnut Street in Boston.”
Renie’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”
Judith’s smile grew more cunning. “I think,” she said as her black eyes danced, “we’ve found out who Tippy de Caro really is. Now, we need to find out where she’s gone. Maybe it’s not going to be as hard as we thought.”
THIRTEEN
RENIE SAT DOWN on the hundred-year-old wedding ring quilt that covered the four-poster bed. “Hold on,” she said, giving Judith a dubious look. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Victoria Kerr isn’t necessarily Tippy de Caro. Nor, if I follow your line of logic, which I usually can, is Ms. Kerr somehow related to Justin the Tenor Kerr. Slow down. Think. Have you had any other Kerrs staying here?”
Judith, feeling only a mite deflated, joined Renie on the quilt that their maternal great-grandmother had laboriously pieced a century earlier. “I remember names, but I don’t recall any Kerrs. Carr, yes—they were from Wisconsin, last spring. They stayed in the front bedroom. Besides, this credit card must have got stuck in the last day or so. I’d have noticed that drawer being out-of-kilter if it had happened earlier.”
Renie gave a nod. “Okay. A point conceded. Two points, maybe. Now what?”
Judith got up. “We call Woody to see if he’s talked to Justin Kerr yet. Then we check to find out where Justin is staying. He might be at the Cascadia. Inez is there, after all.”
Woody wasn’t in. A call to the Cascadia Hotel drew a blank when Judith asked for Justin Kerr. Systematically, she worked her way through the city’s other large hotels. After six tries, she was getting discouraged.
“That takes care of the top tier,” Judith said, running her finger down the listings in the Yellow Pages. The cousins had retreated to Judith and Joe’s room in the family quarters. “Justin isn’t a big star, so I suppose it figures that he wouldn’t be staying some place that costs two hundred dollars a night. But damn, there are at least a dozen smaller, but first-rate places in the downtown area. Here, coz, you give it a try. My ear’s tired.”
Renie, who was sitting in the dressing table chair, took both the directory and the telephone from Judith. On her fourth try she got a positive response from the Hotel Plymouth. Justin Kerr was indeed a registered guest.
“Now what?” she inquired, replacing the receiver.
Judith was on her feet, heading for the closet where she got out her good red winter coat. “We go browse. Come on, coz, let’s hit it.”
“Wait!” protested Renie. “It’s after nine, I’m in my grubbies, they’ll throw me out for vagrancy.”
Renie was indeed wearing one of her more disreputable costumes, a faded Georgetown University sweatshirt over equally faded black sweatpants, which had a hole in one knee. Judith never understood her cousin’s wardrobe, which seemed to consist of seven-hundred-dollar ensembles at one end of the spectrum and semirags at the other. There was absolutely no in-between.
“Here,” said Judith, tossing her brown raincoat at Renie. “This’ll be long enough on you to cover up everything but your ratty shoes.”
Renie was still grumbling when they pulled into the Hotel Plymouth’s parking garage. “Six bucks this will cost us, and I’ll bet we can’t find anything but compact parking spaces. That’s the trouble in this town, the Japanese own everything these days and they don’t allow room for real cars.”
“It’s your own fault you and Bill insist on driving an American car only somewhat smaller than a superferry,” chided Judith.
Eventually, Renie found a spot on the last level. After much fighting of the wheel and a great many swear words, she managed to get the car parked. In the lobby, the cousins gazed around somewhat furtively. The hotel seemed quiet, with only a handful of guests chatting among the tasteful old-world appointments.
Gathering her courage, Judith approached the desk and asked to see Justin Kerr. The clerk, a young black man who looked as if he were either working his way through college or on the first rung of a management trainee program, rang Justin Kerr’s room. There was no answer.
Judith asked the clerk for an envelope. She slipped the credit card inside, sealed it, and wrote Justin Kerr’s name on the exterior. Then she handed the envelope to the clerk. “You can put this in Mr. Kerr’s box, but we’ll wait a few minutes in case he shows up.” As the young man turned away, Judith nudged Renie and nodded toward the row of message slots against the far wall. With a smile of thanks for the desk clerk, Judith led Renie over to a beige divan flanked with huge bouquets of fresh flowers.
“Boy, this is sure fun,” muttered Renie, wrest
ling with the folds of Judith’s too-large raincoat. “What do we get to do next, put alum on our tongues and pucker ourselves to death?”
“Justin won’t be late,” replied Judith in a complacent tone. “He has a performance tomorrow night, remember?”
The metal hands of the Roman numeral clock over the lobby archway inched toward ten. People drifted in and out of the lobby. The young desk clerk occasionally cast a surreptitious look in the cousins’ direction. Renie squirmed inside the raincoat, bored and impatient. Judith watched the main entrance, but also glanced now and then at the door that led to the bar.
At two minutes after ten, Renie got to her feet. “Hey, let’s forget it, coz. He may already be up there, not answering his phone. I got up at seven-fifteen this morning, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Judith didn’t spare her cousin any sympathy, but she did stand up. “Let’s try a more devious approach,” she said, heading for the elevators. “Did you notice the number of Justin’s room?”
Renie sighed with resignation. “Yeah, 722. When are you getting your eyes checked?”
Inside the elevator, Judith punched the button for the seventh floor. “If we can’t find a maid to bribe, we’ll have to resort to my lockpicking skills.”
Renie rolled her eyes, but offered no comment. It wouldn’t be the first time that Judith had made an unlawful entry. The corridor on the seventh floor was empty. The only signs of life behind the rows of closed doors were an occasional tray of dirty dishes or a stack of clean towels. The cousins proceeded to Room 722, which was almost at the end of the hallway. Judith produced a crochet hook from her handbag.
“I came prepared,” she said with an off-center grin.
Renie sighed again. “Great,” she muttered. “Did you bring targets we could put on our backs so somebody can shoot us?”
With her ear to the lock, Judith didn’t reply, but gave a sharp shake of her head to silence Renie. Although most of the hotel had been renovated in the last decade, the management had retained the original doors, and, surprisingly, the original, comparatively unsophisticated locks. In less than two minutes, Judith heard the satisfying click that signaled the inner mechanism’s release.