by Mary Daheim
Saks & Violins
A BED-AND-BREAKFAST MYSTERY
MARY DAHEIM
Contents
ONE
JUDITH MCMONIGLE FLYNN gnashed her teeth, slammed the front door…
TWO
NURSE PRACTITIONER DAVIS could find nothing seriously wrong with Gertrude.
THREE
RENIE ARRIVED AT five minutes to seven, just as the…
FOUR
JUDITH’S ANXIETY TEMPORARILY turned into outrage. She took one look…
FIVE
AT THREE O’CLOCK that afternoon, the medical examiner informed the…
SIX
“CAT!” MORGENSTERN CRIED.
SEVEN
“WHAT,” JUDITH DEMANDED on the phone, “did you do with…
EIGHT
SUZANNE REQUESTED A bowl of soup for her mother. “Homemade,…
NINE
“DON’T SAY WE could have another dead body!” Judith cried.
TEN
GREGORY WAS STARING into space when Judith brought him his…
ELEVEN
JUDITH REALIZED SHE could be wrong. If she hadn’t quite…
TWELVE
SUZANNE WAS SCREAMING at Gregory. Gregory was screaming right back…
THIRTEEN
THE COUSINS WAITED to finish their discussion until they returned…
FOURTEEN
MORGENSTERN AND O’GRADY came back downstairs twenty minutes later. Judith…
FIFTEEN
“JOE HASN’T TAKEN down the porch swing,” Judith said thoughtfully.
SIXTEEN
“ARE THEY THERE yet? Are they there yet? Are they…
SEVENTEEN
JUDITH WAS STUNNED. She stumbled against the table that held…
EIGHTEEN
“I SUPPOSE,” ROSEMARY ventured, “you should give the bracelet back…
NINETEEN
JUDITH WAS ASTONISHED by Suzanne’s jubilation. “Are you sure you’re…
TWENTY
JUDITH WAS JOINED by Renie and Olive.
TWENTY-ONE
“I WAS ABOUT to call the cops,” Renie said from…
TWENTY-TWO
RENIE REPORTED THAT Estelle was still alive and snoring. “I…
TWENTY-THREE
STANDING BY THE front door, Judith couldn’t hear any noise…
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ONE
JUDITH MCMONIGLE FLYNN gnashed her teeth, slammed the front door so hard that the screen rattled, and decided to call the police. She had gotten as far as the kitchen when her husband, Joe, sauntered in from the pantry.
“What’s wrong?” he inquired, noting his wife’s grim look.
“Rudi,” Judith snapped. “Rudi and his violin. I can’t stand it another minute. And neither can the B&B guests. I’d like to strangle your first wife for renting her house to that awful man.”
“Come on,” Joe said, trying to sound reasonable. “You were elated when Vivian decided to stay year-round in Florida. Face it, you’ve never really liked having her live so close to us in the cul-de-sac.”
Judith admitted that was true. The situation had always been awkward, though in fairness, Vivian Flynn hadn’t turned out to be as big a pain as Judith had feared. For one thing, Vivian—or “Herself” as Judith had nicknamed her—spent at least half of the year in a condo on Florida’s Gulf coast. When she was in residence on Heraldsgate Hill, Vivian was usually too busy drinking her way through the day to pester her ex-husband and his second wife. Herself was a creature of the night, and whatever she did after hours seldom disturbed Judith and Joe or the guests at Hillside Manor B&B.
But Rudolf Wittener had brought a new element into the cozy cul-de-sac of agreeable neighbors. “I’m talking about her choice of a tenant,” Judith declared. “You know many of our guests complain about Rudi practicing his damned violin or playing his own recordings at all hours. The last straw was during that hot spell in August when he rehearsed outside—in the nude. That poor woman from Vermont fainted.”
“No wonder,” Joe remarked, his green eyes mischievous. “She’d probably never seen her husband in the nude. I might faint if I saw that guy naked. He’s so skinny that she could have shipped him here from Vermont in a mailing tube.”
Judith tried not to smile. “I’m serious. Talking to Rudi didn’t do any good. We both tried that. He knows you’re a retired policeman—that doesn’t bother him. Some of the other neighbors have complained, too, including Carl and Arlene Rankers. I even spoke to his wife or girlfriend or whatever she is. Zip. He just keeps sawing away.”
“I thought the girl was his daughter,” Joe said, taking a gingersnap out of the sheep-shaped cookie jar on the kitchen table.
Judith shook her head. “Definitely not. At least she doesn’t call him ‘Daddy.’ She uses his first name. Hers is Taryn, I think. She gives music lessons in the basement, but luckily you can’t hear that.”
Joe poured himself a mug of coffee. “If it’s true that he’s taken on a job as assistant concertmaster with the symphony, the season’s under way. Didn’t they already have their big gala about a week ago? He’ll be playing or at rehearsals most of the time. Besides, we’re into fall. The weather’s changing. Doors and windows will be closed. I’ll bet you fifty bucks we won’t be hearing much of Rudi for a while.”
“You’d better be right,” Judith said. “I’d bet a lot more than fifty that we’ve lost several potential return visitors in the two and a half months since Rudi moved in.”
Munching on the gingersnap, Joe shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, he plays well.”
Judith shot Joe a dirty look. “Yes. But even if he doesn’t actually practice more than an hour or so a day, he plays those tapes or whatever over and over again, and they’re way too loud. I’d like to kill him.”
The gold flecks that had danced in Joe’s eyes—magic eyes, Judith called them—faded. “Don’t say things like that.”
Judith grimaced. “No. No, I shouldn’t.”
“You do have a history when it comes to dead people,” he said, and though he tried to keep his voice light, his expression was somber.
“I know.” Judith put a hand on his arm. “I swear to you, I don’t want history ever repeating itself.”
Joe tried not to look dubious.
“I’m calling from our new slum,” said the muted voice at the other end of the line.
Judith frowned. It sounded like Cousin Renie, but the words didn’t quite fit. “Yes?” Judith replied in a noncommittal tone.
“Bill and I have to sell the house.”
It was definitely Renie. “What?” Judith practically shouted.
Renie sighed loudly. “How else can I pay off those bills from the San Francisco trip? When Cruz Cruises went belly-up after the homicide investigation last March, I not only lost their graphic-design account, but I never got reimbursed for my—our—expenses.”
Judith thought back to the long—very long—weekend she had spent with Renie in San Francisco. They were supposed to go on a cruise to the Cook Islands, but on the night of their departure, murder had intervened. The trip was eventually canceled—and so was the cruise line, which had more problems than a dead owner.
“Surely,” Judith said wryly, “you’re not including all those clothes and shoe bills you ran up at Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus. I assume they weren’t business expenses.”
“Well…” Renie paused. “They are. I’ve tried to deduct my clothes from our income tax, but the IRS is so unreasonable. Don’t they realize that I can’t meet clients in the old crap I wear around the house?”
&n
bsp; That, Judith had to admit, was true. Renie’s at-home wardrobe consisted of ratty T-shirts, baggy sweatshirts, and tattered pants. She looked—as Renie and Bill’s children insisted—like a bum. “You spent a grand on shoes alone at Neiman Marcus,” Judith pointed out. “And I know you must have shelled out five times that much at Saks. You even bought me clothes—which I’ve finally paid you back for.”
“Yes, yes,” Renie said impatiently, “but there are other considerations. Like food and clothing and The Children.”
Judith hung her head. She really didn’t want to hear any more complaints about the three married Jones children and their spouses. They all lived in distant locales, but were constantly short of funds. Tom, Anne, and Tony Jones had decent jobs, but none of them made big salaries. Anne’s husband was still studying to be a doctor; Tom’s wife was involved in Catholic charities in Guam; Tony’s spouse had turned her law degree into a virtual charity, too, devoting her practice to pro bono work with Native Americans in New Mexico. All of the in-laws’ parents had sufficient money to help—but they weren’t saps like Renie. Despite Bill’s solid, sensible advice, Renie had always spoiled their children. And now she was paying the price—usually a big one.
“What about your other clients?” Judith asked. “Aren’t you busy? Bill still gets consulting fees for his psychology patients, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Renie replied, sounding defensive. “Although he’s cut his client list back. He is retired, after all.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You. Aren’t you working on a couple of brochures right now?”
“They’re not bringing in big bucks,” Renie said. “I’ll have them done by Wednesday. That’s the trouble with billing by the hour. I try fairly hard to avoid exaggerating the time I actually spend on a project. Frankly, I could have blown these two pieces out of my ear.”
Which meant, Judith figured, that Renie’s CAJones Graphic Design would submit a bill for about three times the real amount that her cousin had spent working. But the job would be done well. Renie had talent, if not ethics, going for her.
“It’s September,” Judith pointed out. “Doesn’t your business always pick up after everybody comes back from summer vacation?”
“Usually.” Renie sounded glum. “The economy’s still in the dumps around here. Didn’t you say the B&B wasn’t getting as many reservations lately?”
“Well…” Judith glanced at the calendar she kept on the bulletin board by the sink. “There’s always a lull after Labor Day. But it’s true—October isn’t filling up the way it usually does, and this week and next, I have more vacancies than I’d like.”
“You told me Joe was cutting back on his private investigations,” Renie said. “That can’t help.”
“He, too, is officially retired,” Judith responded with a frown. “Let’s face it, coz. We’re not getting any younger. Joe won’t take clients who require long surveillance stints. He refuses to stay up all night sitting in the car waiting for adulterers to make whoopee or watching insurance scam artists do the tango from dark till dawn.”
“I don’t blame him.” Renie sighed again. “I have to finish my cardboard sign, ‘Will Design for Table Scraps.’”
Judith wished her cousin luck. Hanging up, she scrutinized the calendar more closely. Only two of the six guest rooms were taken for the night, only one for Tuesday and Wednesday, and three for Thursday. The weekend looked better. All but one of the rooms had been reserved for Friday and Saturday. There might be latecomers, of course. Occasionally, visitors would stop by at the last minute, hoping to find accommodations available.
The phone rang again. Judith figured it was Renie, calling back to complain some more. But the caller ID displayed an unfamiliar area code. Judith answered in her best professional voice.
“Are you reputable?” the cultured female voice inquired.
“I beg your pardon?” Judith said, surprised.
“Your establishment was mentioned by someone in your neighborhood who has never actually stayed at Hillside Manor,” the woman replied frostily. “We’re seeking a convenient location for our visit, but we also require utter respectability.”
“I’m Judith Flynn, the owner,” Judith said. “I assure you, I run a first-class B&B. It’s a large older home in a quiet neighborhood on a cul-de-sac. We’re located less than ten minutes from downtown and no more than five to the civic center, where the opera house and several other attractions are located.”
“I know,” the woman said. “I’m calling to see if you have two rooms for Wednesday and Thursday of this week. I must have assurances that your inn is above reproach.”
“You can check us through the state B&B association,” Judith responded, straining to sound polite. “The phone number is…” She paused as Gertrude hustled through the back door in her wheelchair.
“Hey, Toots,” Judith’s mother shouted in her raspy voice, “who swiped my dirty moving picture?”
Frantically, Judith motioned for Gertrude to shut up.
“What was that?” the woman at the other end of the line demanded.
“Nothing!” Judith said quickly. “That is, one of my employees asked who wiped the…picture.”
“I thought she said moving picture,” the woman said incisively.
“Yes…uh…the picture had been moved. So we could wipe it. Because it was dirty.”
“And a bunch of baloney,” Gertrude put in, wheeling around the kitchen. “I should sue.”
“Baloney?” the woman on the phone said in a puzzled tone.
Judith moved out of the kitchen as quickly as she could, despite her artificial hip. “She’s looking for baloney. For one of our guests named Sue. I’ll make a reservation for you if you give me your name.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. To Judith’s horror, Gertrude and the motorized wheelchair were coming from the dining room into the living room. Again moving fast, Judith went outside via the French doors and latched them behind her.
“Yes?” she said in an encouraging voice.
“Very well,” the woman finally replied. “The last name is Kluger. I’ll spell that for you.”
There were no writing supplies on the back porch. As Gertrude pounded on the French doors and shook her fist, Judith committed the name to memory.
“I’m Andrea,” the woman continued, “and my husband’s name is Dolph. We also need a second room for my daughter, Suzanne. Her last name is Farrow.”
“She’s an adult?” Judith inquired. “We don’t accept guests under eighteen.”
“Suzanne just turned thirty,” Andrea Kluger informed Judith in a stilted voice. “I wouldn’t dream of bringing small children to a B&B. You have no pool.”
Through the small glass panes, Judith saw Gertrude clutching her chest, throwing back her head, and then falling forward. Either she was faking a heart attack—or she wasn’t. A sense of panic overcame Judith.
“Yes, fine,” Judith said in a rush. “We’ll see you…Wednesday?”
“Don’t you want my credit-card information?” Andrea asked.
Gertrude was slumped forward in the wheelchair.
“I’ll get it after you arrive,” Judith said, reaching out to unlatch the door. “Thank you. Good-bye.”
Clicking off, she practically fell back into the living room. “Mother!” Judith cried. “Are you okay?”
Gertrude didn’t move. Judith couldn’t bend down very far for fear of dislocating her artificial hip. But she could take the old lady’s pulse. Anxiously, Judith lifted her mother’s limp, gnarled right hand. Every two years, Judith took a Red Cross refresher course so she could handle emergencies with guests. She knew how to take a pulse.
But she couldn’t find one in her mother’s wrist. Judith froze. Maybe she hadn’t felt in the right place. Her own hands were trembling. Gertrude was very old and very frail. It would hardly be surprising if…
In a daze, Judith looked around for t
he phone. She’d dropped it on her way into the living room. The receiver had bounced under the baby grand piano. There was no way she could reach it without getting down on the floor. Joe wasn’t home. He’d gone to the hardware store on top of Heraldsgate Hill.
Phyliss. Judith’s cleaning woman was upstairs, working in the guest rooms. Reluctantly leaving her mother in the wheelchair, Judith went across the long living room and into the entry hall, shouting at Phyliss from the bottom of the stairs.
But Phyliss didn’t respond. Judith, who was accustomed to all sorts of crises, suddenly felt helpless. It was one thing to discover the body of a stranger or even someone she knew only slightly. Somehow, she had managed to stay calm and efficient when her first husband, Dan McMonigle, had died. He had eaten and drunk himself into a massive four-hundred-plus pounds and been ill for some time. It was different now. This was her mother, who seemed invincible.
Then she remembered her cell phone. It was in her purse, in the kitchen. She had started to move out of the entry hall when she heard those wonderful words:
“Hey, Dumbbell! Where are you?”
“Mother!” Judith cried, hurrying back into the living room.
Gertrude was sitting up, though she looked pale and shaken. Her faded eyes stared at her daughter. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Where am I? What happened?’”
Judith tried to smile. “Yes. What did happen?”
“Darned if I know,” Gertrude said, shaking her head. “I just came over queer all of a sudden.” Her wrinkled face was etched with worry. “Do you think I had a stroke?”
“Can you move your hands and feet?” Judith asked.
“Can I ever?” Gertrude snapped. “Would I be in this stupid contraption if I could walk?” She slapped both hands on the wheelchair’s arms. “I’m lucky I can still play cards.”