by Mary Daheim
“Just a block away. Would you like me to drive you?”
“I’d rather walk—or run,” Suzanne replied. “It’s almost six-thirty. I’ll leave now.”
Judith gave Suzanne directions. “What about you?” she asked. “We’re having beef Stroganoff. There should be enough for your dinner.”
“I’d rather pick up something at this Falstaff place,” Suzanne answered. “I prefer all natural, organic foods. Besides, I eat very little meat and avoid beef entirely.”
Accustomed to the varied diets of guests, Judith nodded. “I understand. How is your mother feeling this evening?”
“Slightly improved,” Suzanne replied, beginning a series of stretching exercises in the middle of the living room. “She’s starting to plan the memorial service. We hope to ship Dolph’s body to New York by Saturday at the latest. There’ll be cremation, with his ashes scattered over the hills of Eisenach, where he and Bach were both born.”
Just watching Suzanne’s lithe body go through its routine made Judith’s hip ache. “That’s what he wanted?” she inquired.
“According to Mom,” Suzanne said as she finished and stood up straight. “Bach was Dolph’s favorite composer.”
“What about the memorial at Carnegie Hall?”
Suzanne adjusted her sweats. “Mom’s working on that. It’s tricky, with the music season in full swing.” She headed for the entry hall.
The door closed as Joe informed her that dinner was ready. He’d already taken Gertrude’s portion to the toolshed.
“How’s your sleuthing?” Joe asked after they’d sat down.
“I’m not really sleuthing,” Judith replied. “I haven’t much to go on. I don’t know these people. Maybe I should just stay out of it.”
Joe looked noncommittal. “Your choice. Morgenstern is capable, I understand. His partner’s a rookie, so she has no track record. Still, she seems earnest.”
Joe’s laissez-faire attitude was beginning to drive Judith crazy. “How would you conduct this investigation?”
Joe speared a mushroom slice with his fork. “I always started with the spouse. He or she’s the most likely suspect. Even if the killer is somebody else, the spouse probably has a pretty good idea who did it. As you know, that can get tricky, because often the spouse is protecting another family member—a child, a brother, a sister—or, of course, a lover. Suzanne’s a stepdaughter, right?”
Judith nodded. “Mrs. Kluger’s first husband died in a hunting accident.”
Joe chewed thoughtfully. “Mistaken for a moose?”
“No,” Judith said. “He was foxhunting in New Jersey.”
“Interesting.” Joe bit into a chunk of tender beef.
“A man can hardly be mistaken for a fox,” Judith pointed out.
“But he might have been a big bad wolf,” Joe said. “Hunt-club accidents don’t involve guns.”
Judith savored the rice and sour-cream sauce. The meal was delicious. Her headache had abated and her appetite was better than she’d expected. “I haven’t heard what kind of accident it was,” she allowed. “A fall from his horse, maybe.”
“The Klugers had no children together?” Joe asked.
“Not that I know of,” Judith replied.
“Ex-wives,” Joe said, before forking in a couple of crisp green beans.
“Elsa Wittener?”
“Well…no,” Joe said after a pause. “Kluger. Was this marriage to Andrea—that’s her name, right?—his first?”
“I don’t know,” Judith admitted. “But unless he remained a bachelor until his sixties, there must be a former marriage or two. Possibly children as well. Maybe I could check him out on the Internet.”
Joe looked bemused. “Why not ask? That’s your usual MO.”
Judith shot Joe a curious glance. “Why are you being so helpful?”
Joe’s expression was innocent. “I’m only taking an interest. Of course,” he went on, though his tone didn’t change, “if you resent my suggestions, I’ll stop.”
“Oh, no!” Judith asserted. “I’m grateful. Really. It’s just not like you. I mentioned that earlier. It feels…strange.”
Joe shrugged. “I guess I’m mellowing in my old age. Anyway, tomorrow I’ll have to meet with the attorneys about that title search. I won’t be around much. More Stroganoff?”
“No, thanks,” Judith said. “It’s terrific, but it’s also rich. I’m still watching my weight.”
“You’re looking good,” Joe said, dishing up a second helping of rice and sauce for himself. “Those ten pounds you put back on suit you.”
Judith couldn’t help but smile. The truth was, she’d gained closer to fifteen, but now she’d hit a plateau and intended to stay there. The only bad part was that Joe had been eating more to encourage her. She figured he’d passed by his own plateau nearly twenty pounds ago. Judith hoped he’d become more weight-conscious. The plateau could grow into a mountain, as it had with Dan.
“I like your hair, too,” Joe said, “especially now that you’re getting it cut a little shorter.”
Judith smiled. It had taken years of prodding from Renie before she’d had the nerve to do anything about her prematurely gray hair. Her husband’s compliments made it impossible for her to nag him about his own weight, so she kept quiet.
Renie called after dinner. “I just got off the phone with Melissa Bargroom,” she said. “We’re having lunch tomorrow. Her treat, since I’m poor. But she did give me a rundown on Dolph just off the top of her head. He’s quite famous.”
“Great,” Judith broke in. “Does that mean she’s going to spread the story of his death all over the newspaper?”
“No. Melissa is a sympathetic person,” Renie explained. “This is a tricky story, which the city desk is playing down. Dolph’s not a local, no matter how distinguished he may be in international music circles. If Melissa pushed this thing, she’d have to mention the Rudi connection. Our symphony conductor and the board members wouldn’t like that any more than Rudi would, and Melissa has to keep close ties to them. Nothing other than a brief account of Dolph’s demise will appear in the newspaper—much less on TV—unless an arrest is made.”
“Whew!” Judith relaxed slightly. “I really don’t need reporters on the lawn. I’ve been there and done that, and it wasn’t much fun.”
“Right. Anyway,” Renie continued, “Dolph’s former pupils and protégés include a half dozen of the top violinists and at least one piano virtuoso whose names you know. Dolph was born in Germany, but fled with his parents shortly before World War Two. He had some musical talent, but not enough to make a name for himself, so after the war he returned to Germany. That’s when he began to teach, and was very successful from the get-go. Along about 1970, he began to commute between Munich and New York. He settled in Manhattan after marrying Andrea. He is, according to Melinda and quoting from an obituary she once wrote about a notorious madam, ‘loved by all.’”
“Speaking of love,” Judith said, “had he been married before he hooked up with Andrea?”
“Yes, first to a fairly well-known opera singer. The second wife was a patron of the arts whose first husband was a Hungarian nobleman and whose third husband—after Dolph—was a wealthy Greek shipping magnate. Both are high profile and neither had kids by Dolph. Thus I assume they’re not involved with the current group of suspects. That’s all I got since Melissa had to hang up in a hurry. Her daughter had just put Melissa’s BMW sports car in reverse instead of forward and crashed into a Japanese cherry tree. I’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“Good,” Judith said. “I’m getting nowhere fast. Maybe I should go buy a book.”
“They’re open until eight,” Renie said. “In fact, I want to return a book—for cash. The pages were misnumbered, but I didn’t discover that until I got to the next-to-the-last chapter.”
“Well…okay,” Judith agreed. “I’ll see you at the bookstore in five minutes.”
Heraldsgate Hill Books was tucked into a s
mall but charming building on the avenue. The owners were a married couple who had started the business fifteen years ago. Gretchen and Tyler Bergosian were middle-aged ex-Californians who had decided to escape the frantic pace of Los Angeles. When Judith arrived, Gretchen was behind the counter, ringing up a customer who had purchased two of the current bestsellers.
Judith lingered in the children’s-book section, which was tucked into a cozy corner. She probably should patronize the bookstore more frequently, but as a former librarian, she was loyal to her local public library, where she could not only check out books for free, but catch up on news of her former colleagues.
“Coz!” Renie nipped out from behind atlases and almanacs. “Are you hiding? It’s ten to eight. Sleuth now, or forever hold your clues.”
“Gretchen’s busy,” Judith whispered. “I don’t see anybody else working in the store. They must have left for the day.”
“Gretchen’s going to do the same,” Renie said. “She’ll lock up and leave us to spend the night in the store.”
“Well,” Judith noted, “we won’t lack for reading material.”
Renie gave Judith a small shove and grabbed the first book at hand. “Get up there. Buy this atlas.”
Judith looked at the cover. “An atlas of Antarctica? No thanks.” She handed the book back to Renie.
“How about a Thomas Guide to streets and roads?” Renie suggested, reshelving the atlas and taking down another volume.
“North and South Dakota? Come on, coz, get real. I could use a new local guide. They’re helpful for guests.”
As Renie flipped through the shelf, Judith noticed that her cousin’s sweatshirt was on in reverse. The Seafarers’ logo for the local baseball team was printed on the back.
“You put your sweatshirt on the wrong way,” Judith remarked.
“So what?” Renie reached into the pocket of her baggy pants. “Look at this message from the so-called inspector. Usually, they thank you for your business.”
Judith took the fortune-cookie-size slip of paper from Renie. Dear Cheap American Customer: I have NOT personally examined any details of this inferior garment. What do you expect when I am making two dollars (USA) a day to work in rat-infested Asian sweat factory? I hope this item gives you a rash.
“Goodness,” she gasped.
“I’m wearing it the right way,” Renie insisted. “The logo’s on backward, not the shirt.” She pulled another volume off the shelf. “Here’s one for the state, revised last year. Will that do?”
“No,” Judith said. “I want the city guide.”
But Renie couldn’t find one. The cousins trooped up to the counter just as Gretchen Bergosian was going to the front door, apparently to lock up.
Gretchen gave a start. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here,” she said, smiling at the cousins. “How are you, Serena?”
Renie held out the biography that she’d been reading. “I’m fine, but Ben Franklin’s out of order. The book skips from page two hundred eighty to three hundred twenty. Something’s amiss.”
Gretchen grimaced. “That occasionally happens with publishers. I’m so sorry. I’ll find you another copy.”
“Actually,” Renie said, “I’d prefer a cash refund. I know how the book ends. Ben dies and ends up on a hundred-dollar bill.”
Gretchen, however, shook her head. “You know our policy, Serena. We don’t give cash refunds, we exchange or give a store credit.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “Okay.” She tapped the portrait of Franklin on the cover. “I’ll exchange this picture of Ben for one on a hundred-dollar bill.”
The bookstore owner looked as if she didn’t know whether or not Renie was serious. “But,” she began tentatively, “it cost only twenty…”
Renie waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know what it cost. Never mind. Give me the store credit. I can put it toward buying a guide to poorhouses in the area.”
Gretchen still seemed somewhat bewildered. “Poor houses? Do you mean for renovation or…poorhouses?”
Judith intervened. “My cousin is joking.” She ignored Renie, who emitted a growling sound. “I haven’t been in the store for a while, I’m sorry to say. I also must apologize for coming at closing time.”
Gretchen smiled faintly. “You own the B&B just off Heraldsgate Avenue, don’t you? I saw you a year or two ago at a library tea.”
“Yes,” Judith said, putting out her hand. “We weren’t formally introduced. The last time I was in the store, I believe your husband waited on me.”
“That’s very likely,” Gretchen said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like a book on poisons,” Judith blurted.
“Why, yes,” Gretchen replied. “We have two in stock. They’re both textbooks. Casarett and Doull’s Toxicology and another titled Poisoning and Drug Overdose.”
“The first one sounds good,” Judith said.
“I’ll get it,” Gretchen volunteered. After going to the door to hang up the “Closed” sign, she headed into the shop’s nether region.
“I couldn’t not buy something,” Judith murmured.
“You’ve got poison on the brain,” Renie said quietly.
Gretchen returned with a sizable tome. “We only carry one copy at a time,” she explained. “That’ll be ninety-nine dollars plus tax.”
“Ninety-nine dollars?” Judith gasped. “Wait! How much is the other one?”
Gretchen reflected. “That runs about fifty.”
“You don’t have anything less expensive?” Judith inquired.
“These are texts,” Gretchen said patiently. “We sometimes carry a writers’ guide to poisons, which comes in paperback and is part of a series. It sells for under twenty, I believe. We have one copy.”
She disappeared again. Judith grimaced. “I suppose twenty bucks isn’t too big an investment for information.”
“In movies, private eyes slip stool pigeons a twenty all the time,” Renie said.
Gretchen returned, looking puzzled. “I can’t find the book. Let me check something.” She went behind the counter to her computer. “We definitely had a copy a week or two ago, but I don’t see any record of it being sold. That’s odd. It must have been an oversight. I can order one for you, though.”
“Um…sure,” Judith said. “That’d be great.”
Gretchen again turned to her computer and began typing. “They have copies in the warehouse. The book should be here Monday or Tuesday at the latest. I’ll call you.”
Judith smiled warmly. “Thanks so much. By the way, how’s Elsa Wittener feeling today?”
Gretchen clapped a hand to her smooth, pink cheek. “That’s right! She had that fainting spell at your B&B! I didn’t put two and two together. Elsa’s feeling much better, but she took the day off.”
Judith nodded sympathetically. “I felt so badly about what happened to her. Did she give you any idea of what was wrong?”
“Stress, I gather,” Gretchen replied, shutting down the computer.
“Stress?” Judith echoed.
“Life’s stressful,” Gretchen said without inflection.
Judith nodded. “I understand. I’ve been a single mother raising a son. Fritz is what? Twenty or so? I remember what Mike was like then. It was a difficult time,” she added, not stretching the truth too far.
“Fritz is twenty-one,” Gretchen said. “He’s a good kid, really, but he hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with his life. Ty and I have an only son, too, so we remember how hard it was for Wally to find his niche. But once he did, he settled right down. That’s why we moved up here. Wally took a job with Microsweet.”
“That’s wonderful,” Judith enthused, watching Renie stroll off among the history shelves. “We’re lucky that our son and his family live fairly close, too. He’s a forest ranger, about an hour away up at the pass. Of course it’s nice for Elsa to have Fritz living with her. I understand they haven’t been on Heraldsgate Hill very long.”
“They moved here this s
ummer,” Gretchen replied, tidying up the counter.
“I suppose,” Judith mused, “Fritz wanted to be close to his father.”
“I’m not sure it wasn’t a coincidence,” Gretchen said, glancing at her watch and frowning. “Elsa told me that Fritz had wanted to come west for a long time.” She gave Judith a weary little smile.
Judith took the hint. “We mustn’t keep you.” She called out to Renie, who popped around from the end of a row of books. “Let’s go, coz.”
Thanking Gretchen once more, the cousins departed. “Moonbeam’s?” Renie asked.
Judith gestured at the small café next to the bookstore. “Let’s go in here. We won’t have to drive four blocks and repark our cars.”
Little Havana had a Cuban theme, but there wasn’t a picture of Fidel Castro—or a cigar—in sight. Judith and Renie sat at a rough-hewn window table near a poster showing the music museum, which depicted a careworn Moorish facade.
“They feature Café La Llave espresso,” Renie noted. “I don’t need a caffeine jolt this late at night.”
Judith scanned the one-page menu. “Here’s a Café Aroma Decaffeinated. That’s more like it.”
Renie went up to the counter and placed their order. When she came back to the table, Judith was looking glum. “I didn’t get much for twenty bucks,” she complained to Renie.
“Elsa?” Renie shrugged. “Gretchen was being discreet.”
“I suppose there was one salient fact,” Judith remarked.
“The sales-record oversight?”
As so often happened, the cousins seemed to be on the same wavelength. “Yes. Was the poison book stolen—or bought? And by whom?”
“They don’t have security devices like some of the bigger stores,” Renie pointed out. “Nothing beeps, buzzes, or goes boom if you walk out the door with something you haven’t paid for.”
“We can’t jump to conclusions, though,” Judith asserted, looking out the window onto the veranda that led to the sidewalk. Several people were enjoying their beverages outdoors. A border collie lay sprawled at one woman’s feet. “Anyone could have shoplifted that book.”
Their coffees arrived, steaming hot in big yellow mugs. “Why,” Renie said, putting both hands around the mug to feel its warmth, “do I think you don’t believe that?”