by Mary Daheim
But the bearded man at the door wasn’t anyone Judith recognized. “May I help you?” she said, hoping it wasn’t one of the guests who had been turned away.
“No,” he shot back, barging past her and looking up at Suzanne. “But she can!” he shouted, pointing a finger up the staircase. “She can tell me who murdered my father!”
Suzanne whirled around so fast that she would have fallen down the stairs if her quick reactions hadn’t allowed her to grab the newel post. “Gregory! Why couldn’t you stay away?”
Gregory was standing at the bottom of the stairs, flapping his arms like a lame bird trying to take off. To Judith, he actually looked a little like a bird, with his sharp nose, small eyes, long dark hair, and matching beard.
“You know I couldn’t! Now talk to me!”
“I’ve nothing to say to you!” Regaining her balance, Suzanne fled up the stairs.
Gregory followed, but tripped over his long black raincoat. Trudging up behind the fallen man, Judith leaned down. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“No!” He had a rather high piercing voice. His long, lean fingers clutched at the carpet runner as if he were trying to claw it to shreds. “Leave me alone!”
Judith stood on the second step below him. “If you don’t get up, I’ll call the police,” she said.
Gregory stopped clawing the carpet. Indeed, he didn’t move at all for several seconds. “Very well,” he finally said.
Judith cautiously backed down the stairs while Gregory struggled to get to his feet. “I can’t,” he groaned. “My ankle may be broken.”
Phyliss had vacuumed her way into the entry hall. Seeing Judith—and the legs of the man on the staircase—she froze. “What now?” she asked, switching off the vacuum. “Is that Mr. Flynn or another corpse?”
“Neither,” Judith replied, fit to be tied. “It’s a visitor. He hurt his ankle.”
“Shall I pray over him?” Phyliss inquired.
“No,” Judith replied. “Help me get him sitting up.”
“I can help and pray,” Phyliss responded, folding her hands and casting her eyes up to the ceiling. “Dear Lord of all, hear my prayer; You know I care. Never let my cry rankle; help fix this man’s busted ankle. Amen.”
“Fine,” Judith said, wearily going back up the stairs.
Gregory didn’t resist as the two women carefully moved him into an upright position. But he moaned and groaned, apparently in pain.
“Can you put any weight on your ankle?” Judith asked.
Slowly, Gregory flexed his right leg before attempting to touch the nearest step. “Aaargh!” he cried. “No, no! It hurts too much!”
Judith couldn’t bear the thought of another emergency vehicle arriving at Hillside Manor. If necessary, she’d drive the injured man to the clinic of his choice.
“Let’s get you onto the sofa,” she said. “We can help you scoot down the stairs. I’ll hold up your leg so you don’t damage it further.”
Gregory appeared reluctant, but after a long moment’s hesitation, he nodded once. Phyliss, who was sinewy by nature and strong for her age, grasped the man by the shoulders. Judith cradled his right leg at the calf. She noticed that he wore slightly rumpled dark slacks, black socks, and black loafers. The socks were thin enough that Judith could see there was indeed a slight swelling of the ankle.
Bump, bump, bump went Gregory, one stair at a time. When the trio reached the main floor, Judith suggested that he lean on her and Phyliss. “Hop, if you can,” she said. Although he seemed slim, she didn’t want his weight on her artificial hip.
Gregory hopped, again resembling a lame bird. Judith guessed him to be in his thirties. There was no gray in his beard or long hair, and his face was virtually unlined. If he was Dolph Kluger’s son, he didn’t look at all like his late father.
One of the side chairs was closer than the sofa. “Here,” Gregory moaned. “I can’t go on.”
Judith didn’t argue. “Fine,” she said, helping Phyliss ease the man into the chair. “Let me get a footstool.”
While Judith dragged the needlepoint-covered footstool from across the room, Phyliss examined Gregory’s ankle. “Not much that I can see, mister,” she declared. “As usual, my prayers got answered. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but sometimes He’s pretty fast. A turn, a twist, a sprain, maybe. I’ve tended to many an injury in my day. Our church-choir members are always falling off their risers. Too much enthusiasm in their praises. Sometimes they get carried away—literally.”
“It is swollen, though,” Judith pointed out as she gingerly propped up the foot. “You should probably stay off of it for a while.”
“Brandy,” Gregory said. “I should like some brandy. My father always drinks it when he’s distraught.”
“Strong spirits!” Phyliss exclaimed. “Don’t you know that alcohol is Satan’s brew?”
Judith didn’t need a temperance lesson from the cleaning woman. “Phyliss, would you mind making sure Room One’s ready for a guest?”
”What guest?” Phyliss gestured at Gregory. “This one?”
“No,” Judith replied. “Mrs. Kluger’s maid is supposed to arrive later today. And check Room Two.” It was possible that Gregory would have to stay on. Given the apparent animosity between him and Suzanne, it would be better to keep them as far apart as possible.
Looking disgruntled, Phyliss made her exit. Judith excused herself to go into the dining room and fetch brandy from the makeshift bar in the antique washstand.
“You’re Gregory Kluger?” she asked, returning with a snifter containing an inch of Courvoisier.
He accepted the drink but avoided the question. “My poor father. Do you know who killed him?”
“I don’t,” Judith replied, feeling confused. “Please accept my condolences. I didn’t realize that Mr. Kluger had a son.”
Gregory raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m not surprised.”
Judith was searching for a tactful way to elicit more information. “Did you just arrive in town?”
Gregory’s dark eyes narrowed over the snifter’s brim. “Certainly not. I live here. I’ve lived in this city for two years.”
Judith perched on the nearby sofa arm. “Where do you work?”
“At the University,” Gregory replied after taking a small sip of brandy. “I’m in music.”
“How interesting,” Judith remarked, her friendliest manner in place.
Gregory shrugged.
“May I get you something besides the brandy?” she asked.
Gregory shook his head. “Not now. Later, perhaps. Are you going to call a doctor?”
Judith stared at her uninvited guest. “Do you know any who make house calls?”
“I thought you might,” Gregory said. “Running an inn, and all.”
“We could use one,” Judith murmured. “If you really think,” she said in her normal voice, “the ankle may be broken, I can take you to an emergency room. I assume you have medical coverage.”
“Yes,” Gregory replied after another sip of brandy. “I’d rather not go, though.”
“Why not?”
Gregory scowled. “I don’t like doctors. Or nurses.”
“But if it’s broken, it won’t mend by itself,” Judith argued.
“Yes, it will.” Gregory finished the brandy and handed Judith the empty snifter. “I feel better. Do you have any scrambled eggs?”
“All my eggs are unscrambled,” Judith replied, growing vexed. “I buy them in the shells.”
The irony seemed lost on Gregory. “Oh? Yes, of course.”
“I can scramble the eggs,” Judith volunteered reluctantly.
Gregory, who had been staring off into space, looked at Judith. “Could you? That would be wonderful.”
She rose from the sofa’s arm, holding the empty snifter. “Do you want toast? Or bacon?”
“Yes. I haven’t eaten this morning. I’ve been too upset.” Gregory managed an ingenuous expression. “You see, I was supposed to
meet my father yesterday for lunch. I didn’t hear from him, and found out only last night what had happened. I don’t pay attention to the news media. It’s too dreary.”
Judith headed for the kitchen. In the entry hall, she noticed a small leather address book on the floor. Gregory must have dropped it while he was being carted downstairs. In an age of electronic data keeping, she was mildly amused to see that a thirtysomething man would keep his information in a handwritten format.
There were gold-embossed initials on the well-worn cover: GJR. Maybe the address book didn’t belong to Gregory. The initials should end in a K for Kluger.
Defying her conscience, Judith tucked the address book into the pocket of her navy slacks. She was getting eggs out of the fridge when Suzanne tiptoed into the kitchen from the backstairs hall.
“Is he gone?” she whispered.
“Gregory? No. He may have sprained his ankle.”
“He’s a fake!” Suzanne asserted, still whispering. “He’s not Dolph’s son. He’s crazy.”
Judith set the egg carton on the counter. “What’s his real name?”
“Gregory Radinksy,” Suzanne replied, her voice hushed but angry. “He was Dolph’s student years ago. He has a mania about Dolph being his father. You must get him out of the house. He could be dangerous.”
Having seen the initial R on the address book, Judith was inclined to believe Suzanne. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “At the moment, he doesn’t seem to be able to walk.”
“Call a taxi,” Suzanne retorted. “Get rid of him before Mom finds out he’s here.”
Judith was reluctant to make promises. Gregory Radinsky might be an impostor, he could even be crazy—but he was also a potential source of information.
“I’m going to make him something to eat first,” Judith told Suzanne. “I offered, and I’ll carry through.”
Suzanne looked disgusted. “You’re a sucker. He’ll con you. That’s what he does.”
Judith didn’t respond. Suzanne stalked back down the hallway.
While the eggs were cooking and the toast was toasting, Judith took the address book out of her pocket and thumbed through the pages. She didn’t recognize any of the names—until she got to M in the middle. Taryn Moss’s address and phone number were listed. Judith kept going. Sure enough, under W she found Rudi Wittener’s information. Just to make sure, she went back to the K section. There were no Klugers.
But there was a connection of some kind between Gregory and two of the other suspects. Judith intended to find out what it was. Maybe she was crazy, too.
But she wasn’t stupid. Nor did she see that the incapacitated man posed any danger.
On the other hand, Judith did have a tendency to stick her head in the sand—and put her life on the line.
TEN
GREGORY WAS STARING into space when Judith brought him his food. “By the way,” she said casually, handing over the address book, “you dropped this in your fall.”
“Oh—thanks.” Gregory put the book in the pocket of his raincoat.
“Does your ankle hurt?” Judith inquired.
“Yes,” he replied, poking at the eggs with a fork.
“Would you like some aspirin or Tylenol?”
“No, thank you. I don’t use pills. They dull the senses.” He tasted a small bite of eggs.
Judith sat down again on the sofa arm. “So tell me about you and your father. I barely got to meet him.”
“A genius,” Gregory said, eating another tiny bite of egg. “He had the ear. He knew talent. He was amazing. Oh, he could be a martinet, even a slave driver. And he had a temper. Once, he set fire to all my music books.”
“But you must have talent, too,” Judith said, watching Gregory nibble on the toast.
“Some.” Gregory shrugged. “Enough to teach.”
“Was it difficult to have your father as a teacher?”
Gregory frowned slightly. “Well…” he began just as Phyliss stomped into the living room.
“Your mother’s corset stay got stuck in the dryer again,” the cleaning woman announced. “I’m trying to fish it out, but until then the laundry’s stalled.”
“No problem,” Judith said. “We won’t have as much washing to do today with the empty rooms.”
“I’ll fix it eventually,” Phyliss declared. “The Lord will provide.” With a disdainful glance at Gregory, she marched away.
Judith was silent for a few moments, thinking and surreptitiously watching Gregory pick at his food. He acted as if she weren’t in the room, eyes fixed on his plate and humming a vaguely recognizable tune. Maybe he was crazy. She didn’t know what to do with the uninvited visitor. Suzanne’s advice might be wise. But Judith preferred to keep Gregory under wraps, at least until the police had interviewed him.
She excused herself and went back into the kitchen, where she called the cell-phone number Morgenstern had given her.
“You say he claims to be Kluger’s son?” the detective said, sounding wary.
Judith insisted that was what he’d told her, contrary to Suzanne’s denial.
“We’re at the opera house,” Morgenstern said, “trying to track down Rudi Wittener. He wasn’t at home this morning. Supposedly, he’s around here somewhere. Keep this Radinsky fellow at your B&B. We’ll be there shortly.”
Judith’s next call was to Renie. “Can you babysit?” she asked.
“What?” Renie was nonplussed. “Are the grandkids in town?”
Judith explained about Gregory. “I can’t ask Phyliss to watch him, and Joe’s working. Gregory doesn’t think he can walk on his ankle, so he shouldn’t try to escape. I get the feeling he wants to stick around anyway. But just in case…”
“What’s your rush?” Renie asked. “Where are you going?”
“To see Olive Oglethorpe. She should be a good source of information.”
“Why can’t I visit Olive? I haven’t had much practice babysitting,” Renie said in a vexed voice. “Our children haven’t reproduced.”
“You can’t visit Olive because you don’t fib as well as I do,” Judith said. “I have a ruse to call on her.”
“Oh, phooey,” said Renie. “Okay, I’ll be over as soon as I can find a rope to tie Gregory to his chair.”
Judith’s gratitude was genuine. “Thanks, coz. I’m at loose ends. I don’t have any real guests, only suspects, and I’m getting confused rather than making any progress in trying to figure out if I’m sheltering a killer. You know—just the usual.”
“I know how it is to not have any customers—as in clients,” Renie retorted. “It’s like…broke. See you.”
Gregory was still toying with his meal when Judith returned to the living room. “Maybe,” she suggested, “you should take a nap. You seem worn out.”
“You’d be worn out, too, if your father had died suddenly,” Gregory responded.
“Mine did, actually,” Judith said. “But that was years ago, and I’ve recovered.” As much as you ever can, she thought. Donald Grover had died of an enlarged heart when Judith was a teenager. “If you can manage, you could hop over to this sofa.”
“I’m not done eating,” Gregory replied.
“You’ve barely started,” Judith noted, her patience strained. “Would you like your plate warmed up?”
“It’s fine.” Gregory forked a morsel of egg.
Judith left him to his meal and went into the kitchen to find Olive Oglethorpe’s address in the phone book. Rudi’s assistant was listed under O. G. Oglethorpe. Writing the address on a Post-it note, Judith was about to take a look at the clothes dryer when Renie came through the back door carrying a cattle prod.
“What did you do?” Judith asked her cousin. “Fly over here? And what’s with the cattle prod?”
“You know I hate to fly,” Renie said, opening one of the cupboards where the pots and pans were kept. “I left as soon as I hung up. Traffic on the avenue isn’t bad this time of day.” She stuffed her purse into a Dutch oven. “T
here. Now maybe it’ll be safe from your resident thieves. Where’s the prisoner?”
“Hold it,” Judith said. “I asked about the cattle prod.”
Renie looked down at the two-foot-long weapon with the red handle. “It belongs to Bill. He used to take it on his walks.”
Judith vaguely recalled when Bill had threatened to buy one after a neighbor had been mugged years ago. “Does he still use it?”
Renie shook her head. “Bingo died.”
“Bingo?”
“The yappy Pekingese in the next block that used to drive Bill nuts,” Renie said.
“I thought Bill bought it to ward off muggers.”
“Well…I guess he did, originally,” Renie said with a slight frown. “Bingo not only yapped like a demon, but he bit Bill a couple of times. Bill actually likes dogs, but Bingo was a nasty piece of work.” She brandished the cattle prod. “It runs on C batteries. I might need it to defend myself against your latest goofball. Want to see how it works?”
“No, I do not,” Judith declared. “I doubt you’ll need it.” She gestured toward the living room. “Gregory’s in there. Morgenstern and Company may show up while you’re here, but I shouldn’t be gone long. Since you’re standing by the cupboard, hand me one of those kettles.”
Renie opened the cupboard again. “What size?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Judith said. “It’s part of my ruse to see Olive.”
Renie removed an orange-and-blue Belgian cookware one-quart kettle. “Take this one. It looks about fifty years old.”
“It is,” Judith said. “It’s Mother’s. Thanks.”
“Are you going to introduce me?” Renie asked.
“Come on.” Judith led the way back into the living room.
Gregory was still pecking away at his food like a newborn bird. “Gregory, this is my cousin, Serena. She’s taking over the B&B while I run an errand.”
Gregory warily eyed Renie. Renie eyed Gregory warily. “You look like Frederica,” he said.
Resting the cattle prod at the end of the vacant sofa, Renie ran a hand through her short chestnut hair. She obviously hadn’t had time to tame her thick, out-of-control coiffure that morning. The beat-up blue jeans and the baggy “Property of County Prison” sweatshirt didn’t help her appearance, either. “That’s funny,” Renie remarked. “My husband told me I looked like hell this morning. I assume Frederica is an improvement.”