by Mary Daheim
The room appeared to be dark. Judith slipped inside, with Renie at her heels. On the right, Judith found the light switch.
“All right,” she breathed, taking in her surroundings. It was a standard room, with a double bed, a desk, TV, two chairs, a small table, and three lamps. The only unusual feature was the woman who threw open the bathroom door. She was stark naked. She screamed—and so did the cousins.
Judith was the first to regain her composure. “Hi, Tippy,” she said, feeling foolish. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
But Tippy had fled back into the bathroom. She emerged a moment later, wrapped in a big white towel. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, sounding not much like her usual bouncy self.
“We thought you’d been kidnapped,” Judith said. It was not as big a fib as Judith had been known to tell in a good cause. If one of her guests had been murdered, it wasn’t impossible that another could have been carried off by force. “In fact, I notified the police that you were gone.”
“Great.” Tippy glared at Judith, securing the towel around her bosom. “Well, I’m fine. I decided to get the hell out of your stupid B&B. It didn’t strike me as a healthy place to stay.”
“Mario Pacetti wasn’t poisoned at Hillside Manor,” Judith asserted, wishing she could feel free to sit down. “At least he didn’t die there,” she added, thinking about the thermos that had been buried in the backyard. “The problem with trying to find you was that we didn’t know which name to look for—de Caro or Kerr.”
Tippy’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” she gasped.
“Oh, I don’t suppose you’ve done anything illegal,” Judith responded breezily. “It’s a stage name, right?”
Tippy had padded over to the bed where she perched on the edge. “You could say that.” Her tone was dry, her voice much sharper than the cousins were accustomed to hearing from her previous persona. “All right, how did you figure it out?”
Judith risked sitting in an armchair; Renie followed suit, still struggling with the raincoat as she sat down on the other armchair. “You left a credit card in the bureau,” said Judith. “It’s in an envelope downstairs at the desk.”
Tippy, her wet red hair hanging around her face, gave the cousins a look of chagrin. “Careless of me. But I was in a hurry. As you know, there’s a killer on the loose. How the hell did you get in here?” The sudden alarm on her face indicated she hadn’t excluded Judith and Renie from the list of possible suspects.
The cousins exchanged furtive looks. “It was sort of sneaky,” Judith admitted, “but we were genuinely worried. Especially when the desk clerk couldn’t get through to the room.” Judith hoped her half-baked explanation would obscure the illegal method of entry.
“I was in the shower,” said Tippy irritably. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. Justin—my cousin—is out to dinner.” She dropped her eyes, glanced at her wrist, realized she wasn’t wearing a watch, and looked over at the TV where the digital clock showed that it was now ten-seventeen. Fine lines appeared on her forehead. “Justin ought to be back soon, though. It’s getting late.”
Noting that Tippy was swinging one foot in an impatient manner, Judith calculated that the other woman’s mood was precarious. “If you’re sure there’s a killer at Hillside Manor, do you know who it is?”
Tippy clutched at the towel as if she were not only protecting her modesty, but her very life. “No! That is, I’m not even sure the killer is actually staying there. But I could make a pretty good guess, all things considered.”
“So guess.” It was Renie, speaking for the first time since the cousins had entered the hotel room.
But Tippy vehemently shook her head. “That would be slander, if I’m wrong. And worse, if I’m right. I told you, that’s why I left the B&B.” She was eyeing the phone, which stood on the desk near Judith’s chair. “Look, I think you two had better go. If you don’t, I’ll call security and have them throw you out.”
Judith gave a sad little shake of her head. “Sorry, Tippy. Then we’d have to call the police. They’re looking for you. It’s just a matter of time. Are you on the run?” Her face assumed a dire cast.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Tippy threw back her head, the damp hair flying. “Of course not! My name is Tippy. My nickname, I mean. When I was little, I couldn’t say Victoria. I used de Caro because…well, because I didn’t want Mr. Pacetti to think we were obvious. I suppose Plunkett’s having a brain seizure about now. Is he the one who called the cops?”
Suddenly at sea, Judith gave an uncertain shake of her head. “No. He was concerned, of course. But let’s face it, you’re involved in a murder investigation. The police don’t like losing track of suspects.”
A light glimmered in Tippy’s gray eyes. “Wait a minute—you mean Winnie hasn’t figured out who I really am?” She saw the blank expression on Judith’s face and laughed aloud. “Ha! That’s rich! The poor twit!” Her merriment was interrupted by the arrival of Justin Kerr, who promptly froze upon seeing their visitors.
“Relax,” said Tippy. “It’s my landlady from the B&B and her cousin. They’re cousins, too—like us.” She gave Justin a meaningful look.
“We’ve met,” said Judith, with a wry smile for Justin. “Twice.”
Justin glanced at Tippy, who was suddenly looking uncomfortable. “My cousin forgot we’d been introduced. Our stay has been overly eventful. And tragic.” He gave all three women a dismayed look, then zeroed in on Renie. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”
“Serena Jones,” said Renie. “Hi, we were just grilling your cousin. What’s up anyway? You two were conspiring to get into Pacetti’s good graces? What were you after, a patron?”
Judith threw an admiring look at Renie. All along, she’d figured that her cousin was in a semimoribund state, merely trying to figure out how to beat a hasty retreat in the oversized raincoat. But Renie, with her superior knowledge of the opera world, had obviously been grappling with some conjectures. Judging from the Kerrs’ resigned expressions, she was right.
“It’s not a crime,” asserted Justin Kerr, setting his shoulders and jutting his chin. “Great singers often sponsor protégés. Who better than Pacetti?”
Enlightenment dawned on Judith. She turned to Tippy. “So you wormed your way into Pacetti’s entourage trying to get him to help your cousin’s career. Why not just come right out and ask?”
Tippy laughed again, though on a different, more sardonic note. Justin’s pleasant face twisted with irony. “You didn’t know Pacetti very well,” he declared. “The direct approach wouldn’t do it. That’s why Tippy used another name. First, she had to convince Plunkett that Pacetti should have a protégé, then she had to see that he got through to Pacetti.”
“And I damned near did,” insisted Tippy. “Winnie heard Justin sing in San Francisco. He was impressed. We figured that if he heard my cousin sing here, he’d be ready to go after Pacetti’s patronage. It should have all worked out—if the little creep hadn’t died. Justin’s damned good.” She gave Justin a look that conveyed more than mere pride.
Justin, however, appeared faintly embarrassed. “Tippy’s very loyal,” he said. “She’d do anything for me. She put up with the Pacettis for almost four months.”
Judith wasn’t completely satisfied. “What about Inez? She must have a lot of clout.”
Justin exchanged an uneasy glance with Tippy. “She does,” he replied, “but she’s not a tenor.”
Renie gave a halfhearted nod. “She records for Schutzendorf, though.”
“Yes.” Justin seemed unwilling to say more.
“So who were you signaling to?” The question spilled from Judith’s lips.
“Signaling?” Tippy frowned. “Oh! The nightie! It was for Justin’s benefit. He worries about me when we’re off on our own, so I always try to communicate with him somehow to let him know I’m okay.” To Judith’s surprise, Tippy actually blushed.
“I see.” Judith spoke blandly as she got to her
feet. “By the way, Mr. Kerr, I don’t suppose you noticed anything strange before the performance Saturday night?”
Justin gave a shake of his head. “I kept to my dressing room. Once Pacetti went on, there was no need for me to hang around in the wings. Being an understudy is tough. You half hope the singer you’re backing up will break a leg, and then you hate yourself for being so opportunistic.”
“But Pacetti did—in effect—break a leg,” Judith pointed out. “Were you summoned at that point?”
“Oh, yes.” Justin nodded vigorously. “I came out right away, but all hell had broken loose. The next thing I knew, an ambulance was on its way and Maestro Dunkowitz and Creighton Layton were arguing about whether or not to go on with the performance. Dunkowitz refused. He said he couldn’t conduct if there was anything seriously wrong with Pacetti.”
Renie seemed to have become completely swallowed up by the raincoat. Only her head showed, the curly chestnut hair making her look not unlike a small frazzled flower on a big brown stalk. “So what was going on at that point?” she inquired. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
Justin clapped a hand to his forehead. “It was all out of the ordinary! Everyone was going berserk. The chorus, the supers, the stagehands—I tried to find Tippy, but it took a while in all the confusion.”
“Plunkett was giving me about a hundred orders at once,” said Tippy, still gripping the towel as she got off the bed. “Most of them were contradictory. Finally, I had to join him and Schutzendorf in following the ambulance up to the hospital. Amina rode with Pacetti, of course.”
Judith tried to piece the sequence of events together. “But you had time to rinse out Pacetti’s champagne glass?”
“Yes, Winnie insisted I do that. Germs, you know—in case someone picked it up and drank from it by mistake.” Tippy wrinkled her nose at such fastidiousness.
Judith did her best not to sound like an official interrogator. “Did you notice how much liquid was left in the glass?”
Tippy studied her bare feet. “Oh—I’m not sure. Half, maybe.”
“Plunkett didn’t tell you to retrieve the thermos?” Judith asked.
“I don’t think he thought about it. Mrs. Pacetti always toted that around.”
Judith nodded, then gave both Kerrs an ingratiating smile. “It’s certainly wonderful for cousins to be so close. Renie and I have always been like sisters. We’re both only children and we grew up within two blocks of each other. Our mothers were sisters. Were yours, too?”
Justin started to reply, but Tippy spoke for both of them. “Yes, they were very close. In age, as well as in feeling.”
“That’s endearing,” Judith beamed. She extended her hand, first to Tippy, then to Justin. “Be careful. If you really think you know who the murderer is, don’t broadcast it. You’re not safe until you get out of town. Or until the killer does.”
Victoria and Justin Kerr looked very solemn. In the elevator, Judith gave an annoyed shake of her head. “Damn! I’d like to believe that pair!”
“I don’t believe you. What do you mean about our mothers being sisters? They’re sisters-in-law, you idiot!” Renie slouched down in the raincoat, in apparent dismay at Judith’s gaffe.
“Of course they are,” Judith replied with an evil twinkle. “And their mothers aren’t sisters, either.”
“Huh?” Like a turtle, Renie’s head shot up out of the raincoat. “What do you mean? Oh!”
“That’s right. They both wouldn’t be named Kerr. Either their fathers were brothers, which means they’d have the same last name, or else they’re not cousins.”
Renie gave a little shake of her head. “Then…what are they?”
“I don’t know,” Judith replied as the elevator glided to the lobby level. “We’ll let Woody figure that one out. But I do know this—Justin says Tippy would do anything for him. Pacetti dies, and Justin gets his big chance. Classic scenario, right? But with Pacetti gone, Justin loses a potential patron. So when is a motive not a motive?”
“When Pacetti has already refused to sponsor Justin?”
Judith raised her eyebrows. “I never thought of that. Oh, dear.”
The cousins got out of the elevator. The raincoat flapped around Renie’s ankles. They descended into the lower reaches of the parking garage.
“Inez may not be a tenor, but she’s falling all over Justin and she’s big news in the opera world. Why not let her be his patron?” Renie remarked as she got into the driver’s side of the car. “Or is the price too high?”
Judith arched her eyebrows, then fastened her seat belt. “As in, His Body? It could figure, especially if Tippy is not Miss or Ms. but Mrs. Kerr.”
“That makes sense,” replied Renie, girding herself to back the big Chevrolet out of the narrow parking slot. “Maybe they’re secretly married. And it’s a secret because Justin doesn’t want to antagonize Inez. Ooops!” Renie felt her bumper nudge the car parked on her left.
“It washes with me,” mused Judith. “If they were brother and sister, the only person they’d want to keep that a secret from was Pacetti. And now that he’s dead, what’s the point? Unless it has to do with Inez. I guess I’m glad that Tippy’s not as imbecilic as she pretended. But I sure don’t like the idea of her being a serious suspect.”
“She seemed really afraid when she talked about the murderer,” Renie noted. “But we know she’s a fairly good actress. Yikes!” The front of the car scraped the compact parked on their right.
“What bothers me is that if Tippy didn’t kill Pacetti, why does she think she knows who did? I mean, she must know more about a motive than we do.” Judith winced as Renie made another attempt at reversing.
“Dump all this on Woody,” advised Renie. She struggled with the wheel, alternating between the gas and the brake. The car crept backward, narrowly missing everything except for the figure that had suddenly appeared right behind them.
“Help!” A man shouted in fear as he jumped out of the way.
“Whoa!” Renie tried to hit the brake, got her feet tangled in Judith’s raincoat, stepped on the gas instead, and went whizzing out into the exit lane. She managed to stop the car just before it struck the far wall of solid cement. Rolling the window down, Judith leaned out and called to the would-be victim who was clinging to a concrete pillar. “Are you okay?” she shouted.
Renie took one hand off the steering wheel and gave Judith a whack on the arm. “Never ask that,” she muttered. “You want to get me sued?”
The man stared at the Chevrolet, stiffened, and then turned to rush off toward the garage elevators. Judith blinked. Her eyes might not be in very good shape, but she didn’t need twenty-twenty vision to recognize the gray eminence of Winston Plunkett.
FOURTEEN
WOODY PRICE HAD some news of his own. Justin Kerr was from the Boston area, had studied at the New England Conservatory of Music and for two more years in Paris and Rome. He had made his debut in Philadelphia seven years earlier. The past year, he had sung at various European and American houses, drawing critical acclaim for his stint in Salzburg the previous August. He was obviously on the rise. And, Woody noted, he must have had money to back him. Study at the New England Conservatory and in Europe didn’t come cheap.
Inez Garcia-Green was a tougher nut to crack. She had done nothing. She knew nothing. She said nothing. Woody thought otherwise. He had gathered samples of her handwriting and would match them against the warnings sent to the B&B.
“It sounds as if you did just as well, if not better, at the Plymouth with Justin than I did at the Cascadia with Inez,” said Woody over the phone.
Judith, who was stretched out on her bed, responded in a dry voice. “Because we found Tippy? Now you’ll have to find out if Justin and Tippy are married. I suppose Plunkett showed up to see Justin, though I’d like to know why. I wonder how he reacted to finding Tippy there, too. Unless she hid in the bathroom.”
“We already checked marriage licenses, just in case
. No Justin Kerr was married in Massachusetts during the last five years,” said Woody. “We’ve covered the whole Atlantic seaboard, and now we’re working our way west. Of course they might have got married abroad,” he added on a dejected note.
“I doubt it. Tippy’s only trip to Europe this year was to Salzburg in August. If they got married then, I doubt that she’d have credit cards issued in her new name so quickly.” Judith yawned. It was midnight and she was bushed. There was no point in bringing up her theory about the Pacettis’ earlier visit until she had some facts to back herself up. Like most policemen, Woody didn’t get enthusiastic over ideas out of left field.
“You probably don’t think we’re making much progress,” said Woody.
“Oh—early days, as they say,” replied Judith, arranging the pillows under her head.
“We’re trying to track down the source of the Strophanthin. We know the manufacturer because of the bottle. It’s from Holland.”
“A real Dutch treat.” Judith felt her eyelids droop.
“We couldn’t get any prints off that thermos. You probably guessed as much.”
“Right.” Judith switched off the lamp beside the bed.
“We’ve finished questioning all the witnesses at the opera house. There were literally hundreds. Well, two hundred or so. Lots of conflicting statements about who was where doing what. Nothing really solid, except confirmation of what we already knew. The mezzo-soprano who sang the role of Flora thought she saw the thermos sitting on a stool after Pacetti collapsed. Maestro Dunkowitz said he sat on the very same stool later after he came up out of the orchestra pit and got through arguing with Creighton Layton. No thermos in sight.”