by Mary Daheim
“Really?” Renie sounded surprised. “They couldn’t have been from my rhubarb. Aren’t the leaves the only poisonous part?”
“That’s right,” Judith said. “I remember that from when Dan went through his composting phase. We actually grew rhubarb in those days. We grew a lot of vegetables because we couldn’t afford to buy real food.”
“I know the feeling.” Renie sighed.
“Anyway, Dan wouldn’t compost the rhubarb because of the leaves. He thought the poison might get in the soil and cause problems for the next crop of his worm-eaten radishes and bug-riddled beets.”
“That’s it!” Renie said suddenly. “I had my credit cards at your house.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Renie explained, “I found the gum inside my wallet, between the credit-card compartment and my checkbook. The sticks get loose in my purse sometimes.”
“Wild animals could get loose in your purse,” Judith pointed out.
Renie didn’t argue. “Did you tell them I had rhubarb?”
“No,” Judith replied. “I opted for discretion at this point, not wanting to see you hauled off in handcuffs as a murder suspect. Besides, I couldn’t get a good look at the rhubarb through the evidence bag to tell if all the leaves were still attached. I’m hanging up now,” she said wearily. “I have to finish evicting the Blisses. I’ll let you know what’s happening with your stupid robbery report.”
“It’s not stupid,” Renie insisted.
“It is compared to murder,” Judith countered.
“At least Kluger doesn’t have to worry about debt,” Renie huffed.
“You’re crass,” Judith said. “Good-bye, coz.”
Carrying their luggage, the Blisses were descending the stairs when Judith set the phone down on the dining-room table. To her dismay, they both still looked angry.
“Where is this new dump?” Mrs. Bliss asked.
Judith gave them the address and the directions. “I’ll pay your cab—”
“We already called a car service,” Mr. Bliss interrupted. “The cabdrivers in this town are madmen. You can deduct the transportation expense from our AmEx bill. It costs fifty dollars plus a ten-dollar tip.”
His bride started for the front door. “We’ll wait outside. And we won’t be back.”
The Blisses made their exit.
Judith dragged herself upstairs to make sure the honeymooners hadn’t left anything behind in their haste to leave Hillside Manor. Reaching the second floor, she noticed that the residential section of the phone book was lying on the floor. Cautiously, she bent down to pick it up. It was open to the Ws—the WHs through WIs. But no Wittener, E. or R., was listed. The directory had been published before Elsa or Rudi moved to town.
But Judith was certain that Suzanne had tried to find the number for one—or both—of them. She wondered why.
Judith held her head, which had begun to ache while she was talking on the phone to Renie. She was in the kitchen taking two Excedrin when Joe breezed in through the back door.
“How’s it going?” he asked in a chipper voice.
Judith wasn’t feeling nearly as cheerful. “Where’ve you been?” she demanded. “You completely disappeared after Mercedes and Darnell showed up.”
Joe wore his most ingenuous look. “In the toolshed, playing gin rummy with your mother.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “I decided to keep a low profile. And I kept Sweetums away from Morgenstern.”
Joe’s sacrifice struck Judith as enormous. She set the empty water glass down and hugged Joe. “I can’t believe you were so thoughtful!”
“Thanks.” There was a touch of sarcasm in Joe’s voice.
Judith pulled away to look into her husband’s face. He seemed serious, yet there was something in his green eyes that she couldn’t quite gauge. “I didn’t mean that you aren’t thoughtful as a rule,” she explained, hoping the Excedrin would take hold quickly and dispel the pounding headache. “I meant that you usually avoid Mother. And Sweetums, for that matter. Not to mention that you haven’t seemed terribly upset over another suspicious death involving the B&B.”
“People change,” Joe said, his expression remaining the same.
The answer was too glib. It wasn’t like Joe. None of it was like her husband, who usually pitched a five-star fit when Judith got into one of her murderous messes. She didn’t really blame him. As a homicide detective, he knew better than anyone the inherent dangers in tracking down killers. Worse yet, Judith was admittedly a rank amateur. She had risked her life—and occasionally Renie’s—in her attempts to seek justice. But she couldn’t help it. Nobody should get away with murder.
Judith shrugged. “Yes, people sometimes change. I’m sorry. I’m sort of frazzled.”
“No wonder.” He looked past Judith to Darnell and Mercedes, who were entering the kitchen. “Still here?” he asked.
“We’re checking out the robbery report,” Darnell said.
Joe turned to Judith. “What robbery?”
Judith grimaced. “Renie insists that somebody stole her credit cards while she was here last night.”
Joe looked skeptical. “Your cousin has too much imagination. Is that why Bill couldn’t use his debit card at the plumber’s?”
“Yes. Fortunately—or not—their other credit cards were already maxed out.”
“Bill was really mad,” Joe remarked. He returned his attention to the officers. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck.”
Mercedes shook her head. “Plenty of fingerprints everywhere. We told Mrs. Jones not to touch her purse or wallet until we got to their house, just in case we might find something. As you know, the best way to nail credit-card perps is through the purchases, especially if the stores have surveillance cameras.”
Joe agreed. “Keep on it.”
Darnell and Mercedes seemed to take Joe’s words as dismissal. “Right,” Darnell said, with a tip of his cap to Judith. “We’ll turn the case over to the regulars, though. We’re still on patrol.”
Mercedes nodded in agreement with her partner. “We’ll keep a special eye on your place, of course.”
“Of course,” Judith said faintly, trying to smile.
“Good cops,” Joe noted after the duo had left. He glanced up at the schoolhouse clock, which showed that it was nearly six. “Where are all the guests?”
“All two of them?” Judith said bitterly. “Morgenstern made me evict everybody except Mrs. Kluger and her daughter. This is costing us a bundle.”
Joe shrugged. “It can’t be helped.” He took a beer out of the fridge. “By the way, your mother wants to know when you’re bringing her supper out to the toolshed. She says you’re late.”
“Oh, good grief!” Judith tugged at the strands of her highlighted hair. “She refuses to stop insisting that her so-called supper has to be served at five o’clock. How many years have I tried to tell her that I can’t always make it on time and prepare for the guests’ social hour?”
“She’s set in her ways,” Joe said calmly.
“Then you make dinner,” Judith retorted. “Now that you’re so chummy with Mother, she’ll probably like it instead of griping about what I cook.”
“Will do,” Joe said agreeably. “How about beef Stroganoff with rice and fresh green beans?”
“Fine,” Judith replied. “The last time I made Stroganoff, Mother asked if that’s what the Bolsheviks used to kill the czar and his family.”
Joe chuckled, took a sip of beer, and opened the fridge. Judith started out of the kitchen.
“I’m going to get some fresh air,” she announced. “Maybe it’ll help my headache.”
“No social hour?” Joe asked as he selected a package of frozen sirloin out of the freezer compartment.
“Our mother-daughter guests can socialize with themselves,” Judith responded. “Assuming, of course, that Mrs. Kluger is awake.”
The first thing Judith noticed was that the detective
s’ unmarked police car was gone. Taking a deep breath of the mild autumn air, she walked around the cul-de-sac to the Wittener house. She rang the annoying “How Dry I Am” bell three times before there was any response.
Taryn Moss opened the door just enough to reveal that she was wearing a short cotton robe. “Sorry,” she apologized. Her face gleamed as if she’d just scrubbed it. “I’m running behind schedule to get ready for the concert. Those detectives interrupted me.”
“I wanted to apologize about the dishes and other things that the police took,” Judith said, inching her way to the threshold. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I could do about it.”
Taryn gave a shake of her head. “Never mind. The only irreplaceable one is Olive’s.” The words were rushed in an edgy manner. “Excuse me,” she said, backing away, “but I have to get ready. Thanks for stopping by.”
Taryn shut the door.
Judith walked back to the sidewalk. Before she could take more than a couple of steps, Miko Swanson called out from over her back fence. Judith turned around and headed toward the corner lot, away from Hillside Manor.
“How are you?” Mrs. Swanson asked in her gentle, faintly accented voice. “You have so many troubles.”
Judith leaned against the fence. “I’m tired,” she admitted.
The older woman nodded and set down the clippers she’d been using to deadhead her chrysanthemum plants. “I’m quitting for the day. It’s getting dark. The police are gone, I see. Is it true that they think Mr. Kluger was poisoned on purpose?”
“That seems to be the case,” Judith said with a frown.
Mrs. Swanson shook her head. “Such wickedness. Still…” Her dark eyes gazed off into the gathering twilight. Perhaps she was thinking of the murder that had occurred next door to her. “Was Mr. Kluger a nice man?” she asked after a long pause.
“He seemed to be,” Judith said. “I didn’t get to know him.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Mrs. Swanson sighed. “It’s so hard to know people—even when you have been acquainted for many years. Their minds and hearts remain a mystery.” She offered Judith an ironic little smile.
Judith glanced at the Wittener house. “I’m curious. Do Rudi and Taryn have many visitors other than Taryn’s piano students?”
Mrs. Swanson smiled mischievously. “Judith, do you think I’m one of those old ladies who sit at the window spying on the neighbors?”
“Actually, no,” Judith said. “Arlene may not be old, though she keeps an eye on everybody. That’s not all bad. But her view of the Wittener and Ericson houses is partially obscured by their hedge. You work in the garden quite a bit. It still looks lovely, by the way. You must occasionally see or hear some of what goes on.”
Mrs. Swanson grimaced. “I hear too much as far as that violin music is concerned. In truth, I’ve often been forced to neglect my flowers this summer because I couldn’t bear to listen to Mr. Wittener practicing. Oh, he plays very well, but when he repeats passages over and over…” She held up her hands, which were covered with green gardening gloves.
“We could hear it, too,” Judith said. “So could the guests.”
“Such dedication is good, I suppose,” Mrs. Swanson remarked, “but it is difficult to maintain a social life. That’s why very few people come to call.”
“I wondered,” Judith said. “The party at the B&B was small. I gather Rudi and Taryn hadn’t made many friends since moving here.”
Mrs. Swanson nodded. “True. In the months since they moved in, I’ve seen only the plump little lady who seems to work for Mr. Wittener and the young man. His son, I believe.”
“Not Mrs. Wittener? That is, the ex-wife?”
Mrs. Swanson was slow to answer. “Once or twice, maybe. She has beautiful red hair, does she not?”
“Yes. It seems she and Rudi are on amicable terms.” Judith looked sheepish. “That’s what I’ve been wondering about.”
“People divorce for different reasons,” Mrs. Swanson said. “Often, the reasons are very silly. And then there are those who remain married despite great unhappiness between them.” Her eyes strayed to the Wittener house. “You understand.”
Judith did. The wife who had been murdered there years earlier was disliked by almost everyone. She had been a thoroughly unpleasant woman who had made her family—and the neighbors—miserable.
“I thought,” Mrs. Swanson went on, “that it was an unhappy house. But Mrs. Flynn—the other Mrs. Flynn—has endured no tragedy.”
“Not while she lived here.” As far as Judith was concerned, Vivian Flynn’s tragedy had been marrying Joe. Over the years, the union had wreaked havoc with several lives—including Judith’s.
Mrs. Swanson knew the history. She said nothing, but regarded Judith with sympathy. After a moment, she turned away, picking up a few dead leaves and stuffing them into a yard waste-recycling bin. She shook her head. “Oh my, this one’s full.”
Judith looked at the bin. “Let me roll that out to the curb for you.”
Mrs. Swanson nodded. “How kind. Will it bother your hip?”
Judith had come around to get the green plastic bin. She tested its weight before she answered. “No, it’s very light.”
“Thank you, Judith,” Mrs. Swanson said, removing her gardening gloves. “I’m going in now. The damp night air bothers my arthritis.”
The bin could be wheeled with just one hand. Waving good-bye to Mrs. Swanson, Judith proceeded down the sidewalk and around the corner to the front of the house, where she positioned the bin on the parking strip near the curb.
Jeanne Ericson was arriving home from work as Judith walked back down the sidewalk. She and Ted were childless, though whether out of choice or because of a natural flaw, Judith didn’t know. Arlene had asked Jeanne several times, but always got a noncommittal answer.
“Bad luck, Judith,” Jeanne said, juggling her purse, laptop, and briefcase. “Ted and I feel so sorry for you having that guest die. I understand he had a wife and daughter.”
“A stepdaughter,” Judith corrected.
Jeanne shrugged. “Often, that’s just as sad. Was it a heart attack?”
Judith realized that the Ericsons had been gone all day, and thus they hadn’t been aware of the police presence. “Actually,” she admitted, “he was poisoned.”
“No!” Jeanne set her belongings on top of her dark blue SAAB. “You mean, on purpose?”
“Possibly,” Judith said. “At least that’s the way the police are pursuing it.”
Jeanne brushed her long blond hair away from her face and shook her head. “That’s so awful. For you, too. You’ve had your share of problems over the years with guests.”
An understatement, Judith thought, but typically cautious coming from a lawyer. “The detectives may contact you,” she warned. “That is, I assume they’ll want to talk to all the neighbors to see if they know or have heard anything at the Wittener house, especially since you live next door to Rudi and Taryn.”
Jeanne looked puzzled. “Rudi and Taryn? What have they got to do with it?”
Judith explained about the connection between Rudi and Dolph.
“I see,” Jeanne said thoughtfully. “So it was Rudi’s ex who passed out last night? I thought I recognized her.”
“You’ve seen her around?”
“A couple of times,” Jeanne replied. “That red hair of hers is hard to miss. What kind of poison was it? Old-fashioned arsenic or something more exotic?”
Judith’s expression was wry. “Common garden-variety rhubarb.”
“No kidding!” She looked dismayed. “The leaves, of course.”
Judith nodded. “They’re very toxic.”
“I know,” Jeanne said, frowning at the sidewalk. “Ted and I used to grow it. Remember, we usually brought some over to you and to Mrs. Swanson. But we always took the leaves off first.”
“Yes,” Judith said, watching Jeanne as she continued to stare at the ground. “I make a pie or a cobbler from your
rhubarb. In fact, I didn’t get any from you this year—just from the Porters and the Dooleys.”
Jeanne finally looked up at Judith. “That’s because we didn’t have enough to give away.” Her face was troubled. “The droughts the past couple of summers have been so hard on gardens with all the need for water conservation. We lost several shrubs and I’m not sure about that young beech tree. It looks sick to me.”
Involuntarily, Judith swerved to look at the tall wood-and-steel-mesh fence that enclosed the Ericsons’ yard. Ted was an architect who had bought the property shortly after he and Jeanne were married. A two-story Prairie Craftsman house in the same style as Hillside Manor had stood on the site, but had been ill treated by previous owners. Ted had leveled the old house and designed a modern structure, with stark angles and planes. Judith had never thought the architecture suited the cul-de-sac, but she’d grown used to it over the years.
“When the Goodriches lived next door,” Jeanne went on, referring to the original owners of the rental, “Mr. Goodrich was always so generous with his fruit and vegetables. But the violinist and his…whatever…don’t seem interested in yard work.”
“No,” Judith said absently, “they don’t.”
Jeanne shivered. “They seem a bit odd. Of course being odd doesn’t mean they’re…bad,” she said.
“Of course not,” Judith agreed.
But she wondered.
EIGHT
SUZANNE REQUESTED A bowl of soup for her mother. “Homemade, if you have it,” the young woman specified. “Chicken with noodles and perhaps a bit of carrot.”
Judith occasionally made soup, but only in the winter months. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I have only canned.”
Suzanne looked disconcerted. “She hates prepared foods. Is there somewhere I can buy freshly made soup?”
“Yes,” Judith said. “Falstaff’s Grocery makes their own soup. So do a couple of other stores at the bottom of the hill.”
Suzanne looked at her watch. “I finally talked to my mother’s doctor in New York. He was phoning in a prescription to Holliday’s Drug Store. It’ll be ready around seven. Is Falstaff’s near there?”