by Mary Daheim
“Huh?” He shifted his gaze, which had drifted off toward the driveway which led to the cul-de-sac where the Steins lived at the corner. “Oh—yeah, sort of. That’s kid stuff. They don’t let you do much, except hang out at rock concerts and try to see who’s sneaking in drugs and chains and booze and guns and stuff like that.”
“That’s pretty boring, all right,” said Judith, trying not to look aghast. “I just thought that with Mr. Pacetti getting poisoned, you might have volunteered to help with the investigation. You know, being neighbors and all.”
“Mr. Who?” Dooley blinked uncomprehendingly at Judith.
“Never mind.” Judith started to explain that maybe over the weekend she’d be able to find some more pips in the garden, but Dooley was again staring at the partial view of the Steins’ house. “According to Arlene Rankers, they’re coming back Friday.”
“I know.” Dooley’s beardless face somehow displayed both hope and desolation. “She’s missed almost two weeks of school.”
Judith wondered if she, who obviously must be Brianna, had also missed Dooley. As the veteran mother of a former teenage boy, Judith knew better than to ask. “It’ll be hard to catch up,” she said, seeking neutral ground.
“Not for Brianna,” Dooley asserted. “She’s a four-point student. We’re going to build a Mayan ruin when she gets back. For our science project.”
“Sounds great,” Judith said with enthusiasm. At least it sounded as if Dooley hadn’t given up entirely on the external world. With a bemused expression, she watched him lope off toward the picket fence, his gaze still lingering in the direction of the Stein residence. Judith went back inside and dialed Renie’s number.
Renie wasn’t home. Judith remembered that her cousin was meeting Madge Navarre for dinner before the opera performance. It was now after five-thirty. She called Woody Price, but he’d left work for the day. Debating whether or not to bother him at home, she jumped when the phone rang in her hand. It was Melissa Bargroom, sounding slightly breathless.
“Your adorable but ditzy cousin is out,” said Melissa, “so I took the liberty of calling you. I’m on my way to a chamber music concert, but I heard something today that I thought you two would want to know, lest I get killed by a flying cello in the next few hours.”
“I didn’t know chamber groups were so violent,” responded Judith, smiling into the receiver. She refrained from asking Melissa if ticket holders were patted down for weapons, booze, and drugs. “What’s up?” Judith settled onto the kitchen stool, wondering if she dared fix herself a second scotch.
“I called a colleague of mine in New York this afternoon,” said Melissa, speaking more rapidly than usual. “I felt like such a dunce not knowing more about the Pacetti lash-up. Well, I didn’t glean anything more about Pacetti, but I certainly learned some interesting background on Inez and—” She took an audible breath and raised her voice. “—her stepson, Justin Green.”
“Whoa!” Judith covetously eyed the liquor cabinet across the room. “Justin Green? To be or not to be confused with Justin Kerr?”
“To be the same.” Melissa chuckled. “Justin Green changed his name when his parents split up about fifteen years ago. His father was dead set against his becoming a singer, but his mother thought it was a terrific idea. I suspect that’s one of the battles that led to the war. In any event, Justin took his mother’s maiden name, which was Kerr.”
“So that’s why the police can’t find a marriage license under Justin Kerr,” murmured Judith, hopping off the stool to stretch the phone cord so she could reach the liquor cabinet. “And it could explain how his mother could be Tippy’s aunt and they’d still have the same name. I think,” she added, muddled by the convolutions of her own brain.
“Marriage license?” Melissa’s echo was breathless, but she didn’t wait for a response. “I’ve got to speed this up, the concert’s at seven-thirty. I’d rather be hearing Justin sing Alfredo, but the chamber group was prescheduled. Anyway, his father, Cornelius Green, married Inez Garcia after he and Justin’s mother divorced. Ironic, what? They met at some big do at Faneuil Hall. The marriage lasted about seven years. I haven’t had a chance to check dates. But the bottom line is that Inez is—or was—Justin’s stepmother. Voilà!”
“Wow.” Judith was all but chinning herself on the bottom cabinet below her liquor stash. The phone cord was stretched to its limits. So was Judith. “And where is Mr. Green? Cornelius, I mean. Corny Green? That’s awful!” She struggled to reach the bottle of scotch.
“Right, but I don’t suppose anybody except his old Ivy League cronies call him that. He’s the CEO of a big insurance company in Connecticut. Halcyon Insurance of New Haven. He wanted Justin to follow in his footsteps as a peddler of policies, rather than a singer of songs. I’ve got to run, Judith. I can’t imagine how this helps, but it is interesting.”
Judith fumbled at the bottle, finally bringing it to rest against her bosom. “It sure is. Why didn’t more people know there was a family connection between Inez and Justin?”
“They probably did, back East. But think about it—Justin hasn’t yet made a name for himself. He was a musical nonentity while his father was married to Inez. And I can’t imagine that she was much of a stepmother. She was too busy with her career—so was Corny, with his. That’s why they split up, I’m told. They were hardly ever on the same continent, let alone in the same bed. Inez and Justin probably have seen more of each other on the opera stage than they ever did in the old family dining room.”
“True.” Judith bore down on the receiver, which was trapped between her ear and shoulder. The bottle of scotch slipped out of her hands, fell on the floor, but did not break. She grimaced, but tried to keep her voice carefree. “Thanks, Melissa. You’ve done good work.”
“I owed you one,” said Melissa. “As a source, I was a journalistic vacuum. Got to dash. ’Bye.”
Judith, bemused by Melissa’s news and grateful that the music critic hadn’t pressed her for other developments, got down on her knees to pick up the liquor bottle. She jumped again when Edna Fiske’s voice pealed in her ear.
“Really, Mrs. McMonigle, I had no idea you were so keen on spirits!”
Judith stared up at Edna. “When I break one of these, I just lap it up off the floor.” She grabbed the bottle and got to her feet. “Actually, I was on the phone and I’d received some rather shocking news…”
“Yes, yes,” Edna broke in. “I’ve heard all the excuses. I suppose you drink to settle your nerves.” She gave Judith a sharp look of disapproval.
“Actually, I do. About twice a year.” Judith’s glance was equally sharp. “Murder affects me that way.”
Edna pursed her lips, but her expression grew less severe. “It doesn’t do to buffer shock or drown sorrow in alcohol. I’ve seen too many sad cases in emergency rooms and on the wards.”
Standing up, Judith resolutely poured herself half a shot, added ice, and boldly drank. There was no point in defending herself. Like most people, Edna Fiske would believe what she wanted to believe. “You’ve had quite a varied career,” Judith remarked conversationally.
“I have at that,” Edna replied smugly. “Hospital work, private practice, public health—now private duty. It keeps me on my toes.”
“For how long has Mrs. Pacetti engaged you?” It occurred to Judith that if Amina was well enough to go off gallivanting with Winston Plunkett, she didn’t need a nurse.
Edna was quick to interpret Judith’s question. “It’s a twenty-four hour assignment. That is, it goes from day to day. I should think Mrs. Pacetti wouldn’t need me after this evening.”
“Maybe the police will let them all leave in a day or two,” Judith mused, aware after the first sip of scotch that she needed food more than drink. It was past 6:00 P.M. She wondered if her guests were staying out for dinner. Perhaps they planned to hear Justin Kerr’s local opera debut. Ordinarily, Judith’s visitors weren’t accountable to her, but this had not turned out to be an
ordinary stay. Judith wished she had known their plans; she could have gone to the opera with Renie. On the other hand, she was anxious to relay Edna’s information about the pips to Woody. Judith excused herself to go upstairs to use her private line.
No one answered at Woody’s home. Maybe they’d gone out to dinner. Judith left a message, then went back downstairs to fix herself a halibut filet. Edna had made yet another salad, which she was taking up to her room. Judith considered inviting her to eat in the kitchen, but thought better of it. She preferred to be alone when Woody called back.
But he didn’t. At eight-thirty, Amina Pacetti and Winston Plunkett returned. Obviously, they had not gone to the opera. Except for a trace of fatigue, Amina appeared to be in blooming health. Plunkett, as ever, looked gray.
“You certainly had a good outing,” Judith said as Amina allowed Plunkett to help her with her coat.
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Amina. “The art museum, the aquarium, a ferryboat ride with dinner at a picturesque restaurant across the bay. For those hours, my troubles melted away. But now,” she went on, surveying the entry hall as if she’d entered a mausoleum, “they return. My grief descends like the storm clouds.”
Winston Plunkett was gazing at Amina with sympathy. “This is such a difficult time. There can be no sense of closure until the funeral is held in Italy. Mrs. Pacetti feels suspended in time and place.”
Judith agreed. For all of Amina’s flaws, she was a new widow in a strange land. There were children, after all, who no doubt needed to be comforted and to give comfort. In fact, Amina had more in common with Judith than most widows. It appeared that she, like Judith, had not been madly in love with her husband. Judith felt as if she had given Amina short shrift. Unless, of course, the widow had poisoned her mate.
Plunkett and Mrs. Pacetti went upstairs. Judith tried to call Woody again, just in case his answering machine was broken. There was still no answer. Frustrated, Judith considered trying to reach Woody’s subordinates, Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. But Woody should be the first to hear her news. She started up to the family quarters again, but at the door to the third floor staircase, she met Plunkett, coming out of his room.
“The police have released Mr. Pacetti’s body,” he said in a low, mournful voice. “If we can get permission, we’d like to leave for Rome on Friday.”
Judith’s reaction was mixed. She’d be elated to have her guests depart before Joe got back. But she was disturbed by the decision at headquarters. If the medical examiner had made a mistake about the kind of poison that had killed Pacetti, the murderer might never be apprehended.
“Is Mrs. Pacetti still up?” Judith asked.
“Nurse Fiske is with her,” Plunkett replied. “By the way, is there any word from Ms. de Caro?”
Judith hesitated. “She’s still in town.” Plunkett’s face was impassive. “She got scared, I gather,” Judith added. Plunkett gave a little shrug that might also have been a shudder. “Did you mean to get in touch with her?” asked Judith.
The question stirred some speck of interest in Plunkett’s gray eyes. “I should. Do you know where she can be reached?”
“The police know,” Judith hedged. “You assume she’s actually quit her post?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Plunkett’s thin eyebrows lifted. “With Mario Pacetti gone, the ship has sunk, Mrs. McMonigle. Anyone abandoning it shouldn’t be considered a rat, but merely prudent.” His thin face showed genuine emotion. And, Judith noted, a certain shrewdness that bordered on the ruthless.
The door to Amina’s room opened, revealing Edna Fiske, medical kit in hand. “The patient seems none the worse for her strenuous day. I’ll be staying on through tomorrow, however.”
Judith put one hand on Plunkett and the other on Edna. “I’m sure you two will want to confer about that. Excuse me, I must speak with Mrs. Pacetti.” She slipped between the pair and went into Amina’s room, closing the door behind her. Attired in the peach peignoir with its feather trim, Mrs. Pacetti was seated at the dressing table, brushing her hair. She looked at her visitor with mild curiosity.
Judith was aware that if her lily-of-the-valley pips had caused Mario Pacetti’s death, there might be some legal liability involved. Amina Pacetti struck Judith as the type who wouldn’t hesitate to call in her lawyers. Judith had to be circumspect in phrasing her questions.
“Mrs. Pacetti,” she began, pulling Edna’s bedside chair closer to Amina, “do you recall seeing some…uh…flower tubers in the refrigerator last Saturday? They were in a plastic bag.”
“Tchaah! Tumors?” Amina’s eyes grew round. “What is this of which you speak? Diseased plants?”
Judith winced, thinking Amina wasn’t all that far off the mark. “No, no. They’re like small roots. There were two dozen of them, tied up inside a baggie.”
Amina looked again into the mirror and plied the hair-brush anew. “You have many things in your refrigerator. I know about cutting, I know about arranging, but of growing, I do not know. These plants I do not recall.”
“They weren’t precisely plants…” Judith stopped herself. Either Amina had seen them or she hadn’t. Or, possibly, she had pounced upon them as a method of dispatching her husband to the next world. Judith tried a different tack. “I removed the flowers from Madame Garcia-Green. They were certainly an unusual arrangement, didn’t you think?”
Amina twirled the brush through her thick hair. “Oh—not so much. Mario and I are—were—accustomed to exquisite flowers. These were not well arranged. I asked Nurse Fiske to redo them, but she said it wasn’t part of her professional training. Lax, is that not?” She put the brush down and stared at her reflection as if coaxing her image to agree with her.
Judith gave up on following the flower lead. Amina didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by questions about the bouquet. Again, Judith struck a different note. “I understand your husband had a fascinating series of rituals before a performance. Did he ever eat anything after he arrived at the opera house?” she inquired, trying to sound casual.
Amina frowned at Judith. “Why do you ask? Because you are a policeman’s wife? These questions have already been put to me by the black man, the brown woman, and the white man. Every race and creed has interrogated me, except for the Orientals and your Native Americans. They will come next, no doubt, from your FBI. I am sick of questions!”
Judith ignored the diatribe. “Don’t you want the answers?” she asked innocently. “Would you rather your husband’s murder went unavenged?”
Amina’s face stiffened. “Of course not. But I have no answers. I am not a policeman!”
“What happened to your thermos?” Judith maintained her guileless expression.
“I don’t know,” Amina responded on a cross note. “I left it at the opera house. It was of little concern to me at the time. What’s a thermos when you’ve lost your beloved husband?”
About twenty bucks, came the answer into Judith’s head. She was ashamed of herself, but the reaction was entirely natural. She still remembered when the undertakers had come to carry Dan out of their squalid Thurlow Street rental and had gone right through the rotting kitchen floor while transporting his body to the hearse. Not another makeshift patch-up job I can’t afford—why do these things always happen to me? she’d thought—and immediately been overcome with remorse. It appeared that Amina Pacetti operated on a loftier plane.
“That’s okay,” said Judith mildly. “I’d just like to know why it ended up buried in my backyard. With poison in it.” She gave Amina a flinty smile.
“I do not know. Mr. Plunkett has told the police I do not know. We stopped at headquarters this morning on our way to the museum. Someone—the killer, I must presume—put poison in the thermos when I wasn’t looking.” She spoke coldly, almost detached from the heinous crime she was describing.
“I thought you never let that thing out of your sight,” Judith remarked.
Amina lifted her chin. “I don’t. I didn’t. If I set it down, it mus
t have been after Mario collapsed. And no, he did not eat anything at the opera house. He never does—never did.” The small word seemed to cause Amina genuine pain. Her face crumpled and she turned away.
Judith felt a pang of sympathy. She wondered if she should tell Amina that it was possible her thermos had not contained the poison that had killed Mario. But Judith didn’t know for sure. She kept her mouth shut, stood up, and moved to stand next to Amina.
“I’m so sorry I upset you. I feel responsible—in a way,” Judith added quickly, envisioning a horde of lawyers from both sides of the Atlantic descending on Hillside Manor. “That is, you and your husband came here to find safety, under my roof. And it didn’t turn out that way.”
Amina raised her head. She saw the havoc wreaked by her emotions in the mirror and passed a hand across her forehead. “You ask questions of the wrong person,” she said in a weary voice.
“Oh?” Judith frowned. “What do you mean?”
Amina gazed up at Judith with a dark expression. “Ask me no more. Ask,” she said in a brittle tone, “Inez.”
FIFTEEN
“HE’S GREAT,” RENIE declared over the phone through a mouthful of popcorn. “Not in Pacetti’s class yet, of course. But Justin Kerr has a beautiful voice. Melissa should have been there to give him a rave review.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Judith said, standing at the sink to rinse out the kettle in which she’d just made herself some hot cocoa. “Nobody died, right?”
“Nope,” replied Renie. It was after 11:00 P.M., and she had just returned from dropping Madge Navarre off at her condo on the other side of town. “Inez was in fine form, Sydney Haines sounded terrific and Maestro Dunkowitz made sure the orchestra played the same notes at the same time. However,” she added, suddenly sounding mysterious instead of merely muffled, “Madge had an interesting note of her own to add.”
“Madge? Such as what?” Judith blew on the mug of cocoa to cool if off.