Saks & Violins

by Mary Daheim

  “I doubt it,” Gregory murmured.

  As Renie sat down in one of the other side chairs, Judith took her leave. The initial encounter between cousin and guest had gotten off to a shaky start, but Judith figured that Renie could handle the peculiar young man. Especially if he couldn’t walk very well.

  On the other hand, Judith couldn’t walk so well herself, especially uphill. She drove to the Empress Apartments, even though it was just a little over a block away as the crow flies. But not being a crow, Judith had to exit the cul-de-sac, reach Heraldsgate Avenue, climb a long block, turn left, and find a parking space near the stately old brick building that faced a viewpoint over the city and the bay.

  The four-story building was an historical landmark, with expanses of green lawn and tasteful landscaping. Judith walked a quarter of a block to the entrance, which was set back from the street. The directory on the call box listed O. G. Oglethorpe as occupying apartment 312. Judith pressed the button.

  A husky, echoing voice asked who was ringing.

  Judith identified herself. “I’d like to return your kettle.”

  “My kettle?” There was a pause. “I didn’t have a kettle. I had a very old family platter. Where is it?”

  “That’s odd. Someone told me the kettle belonged to you.” Judith turned away from the intercom but continued speaking. “The police took your cherished platter.”

  “Valise? Cherries?” Olive said in a puzzled voice. “I had no valise—and there were no cherries.”

  Judith moved farther away. “I can always give it to Morgenstern.”

  “Organ’s what? Please speak up.”

  “I am,” Judith mumbled. “I guess I’ll try Rudi.” She all but belted the violinist’s name into the intercom.

  “Just a moment,” Olive said in exasperation. “I’ll come down.”

  Judith stood in the arched doorway admiring the early autumn plantings of mums, asters, and winter pansies. She gazed beyond her immediate surroundings toward the viewpoint park with its striking steel square-and-circle sculpture. The downtown area and the bay were partially obscured by a thin morning fog. Judith glimpsed a super-ferry playing peekaboo through the mist as it sailed into port.

  “Mrs. Flynn?” Olive stood with the door half-open. “What about Mr. Wittener?”

  “Oh.” Judith feigned surprise. “May I step inside the lobby? It’s rather damp out here.”

  “You may not,” Olive declared, her stout little body planted like a tree stump. “Again—what about Mr. Wittener?”

  Judith removed the kettle from the Falstaff’s bag in which she’d been carrying it. “Does this belong to him or to Taryn?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Olive replied. “I’ve never seen it before.” She started to close the door.

  Judith put her foot in the way. “I can’t ask Mr. Wittener. He’s with the police.” Probably, she thought. If they could find him at the opera house.

  Olive’s round face registered surprise. “He is?”

  “Of course.” Judith’s expression was noncommittal even as she tried to nudge the door open another inch or two. “Surely you’ve also been questioned.”

  “Briefly,” Olive replied, resisting Judith’s efforts with the door. “It struck me as a mere formality.”

  After one more useless push, Judith shrugged. “I’m sure Rudi must have had a good motive.”

  Olive stiffened and stared at Judith. “Motive? What are you talking about?”

  “To kill Mr. Kluger.” She shrugged again. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Rudi Wittener is the only person who really knew Dolph Kluger. Who else would poison him?”

  Olive’s face turned very pink; she was practically snorting through her porcine nostrils. “That’s not so! How dare you? What about Kluger’s wife and that stepdaughter?”

  Judith forced a dismissive laugh. “They’d travel three thousand miles to kill a man they lived with? Oh, come, come, Ms. Oglethorpe. That’s very far-fetched.”

  Olive’s face grew so red and her eyes glittered so brightly that Judith wondered if she was apoplectic. “Mr. Wittener would never harm anyone, let alone his mentor. I told the police as much!” She rubbed her hands up and down her gray tweed skirt as if she were erasing any sins on Rudi’s soul. “You’re nothing but a common gossip! Go away!”

  Judith shrugged a third time. “Okay. What happened to Mr. Wittener’s violin bow, by the way?”

  The query caught Olive off guard. “I don’t know. It’s very disturbing.” She stopped rubbing her skirt and wrung her hands instead.

  “Yes,” Judith remarked casually. “I understand it’s very valuable.”

  “It certainly is.” Olive gulped, licked her lips, and held her hands tightly together. “It belonged to Fritz Kreisler. It’s a gold-and-tortoise Tourte bow. François Tourte invented the modern bow, and only a few of them are in existence today.”

  “My,” Judith said, “that’s quite a treasure.”

  “Kreisler was Rudi’s idol,” Olive said, her color starting to return to normal. “I must go now. Good-bye.” She wedged herself against the door and gave it a hard shove. Judith had no choice but to move out of the way. She wasn’t about to dislocate her artificial hip at the entrance of a landmark building in her own neighborhood.

  But, she thought as she made her way back to the sidewalk, the wrong approach had been taken with Olive. Judith was angry for not using a different, more cunning tactic. Maybe she was out of practice.

  She was still berating herself when she returned home and came into the living room. Gregory was now seated on the sofa with his foot propped up on a pillow on the coffee table. Renie was kneeling by the hearth tiles, which were covered with a dusting of ashes. The cattle prod rested next to the fireplace tools.

  “So,” she was saying to Gregory as she traced her finger in the ash, “I see the small dark-haired woman. She has great power over you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gregory said eagerly. “That’s true. Only not so small. Or so dark.”

  “Yes,” Renie said slowly, “I see that now. She’s…obscured by…a…cloud.”

  Judith stood stock-still by the buffet, baffled by her cousin’s behavior.

  “A cloud!” Gregory exclaimed after a pause. “Of course! She was a fan of Pink Floyd!”

  “She was?” Renie said. “I mean, yes, she was. Definitely. I can tell that now. That was many years ago. Thirty or so.”

  Judith edged into the room as Gregory clasped his hands over his heart. “It wasn’t all classical music with her. She had eclectic tastes, a very catholic ear.”

  “Right,” Renie said, catching Judith out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, dang—the spell’s broken.”

  Smiling briefly at Gregory, Judith walked to the matching sofa that faced the other side of the coffee table. “Well, coz, I see that the two of you are getting along quite well, even if you have made an ash of yourself. Your jeans are filthy.”

  Renie stood up and brushed at the faded denim. “I was utilizing my psychic gift of reading fireplace ashes,” she explained, looking askance. “Gregory is impressed.”

  “Really.” Judith knew that Renie had no psychic gift for ashes or anything else. Her cousin had once had a dream that a long shot named Louie’s Hooey would win the feature at the local racetrack that day and insisted that they each place a fifty-dollar bet. Louie’s Hooey had broken down in the far turn and had to be carted away in a pickup truck. “But your inspiration has fled?” Judith inquired.

  Renie leaned against the mantel, one hand casually retrieving the cattle prod. “Your entrance ruined my focus.” She looked very serious.

  “Sorry,” Judith apologized, before gazing at Gregory. She noticed that his empty plate sat on the coffee table. “How’s your ankle?”

  Gregory grimaced. “Painful.”

  Judith pointed to the plate. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

  “No,” he answered with a quick glance at Renie. “But she did.”

  Renie reached do
wn and whisked the plate off of the coffee table. “Food shouldn’t go to waste,” she said. “If you want more, ring room service. We’re going to the kitchen and clean up.”

  “But,” Gregory said in a whiny voice, “what about my future?”

  “It’s uncertain,” Renie replied, moving away. “I’ll have to wait for the muse to descend again.”

  “You can’t abandon me now!” Gregory cried. “What about your magic wand?”

  For an instant, Renie looked blank. “Oh. Yes.” She examined the cattle prod. “Its batteries are running out. So’s my time. Later, okay?”

  Gregory sank back on the sofa, pouting.

  Judith followed her cousin into the kitchen. “What was that all about?” she whispered.

  Renie scraped the plate into the garbage. “My new money-making career,” she replied. “I’m going to read ashes for profit. I got the idea last night watching Bill try to start one of his commercial fire logs.”

  “That’s the nuttiest idea I ever heard of,” Judith declared.

  “No, it isn’t,” Renie retorted. “Remember when we were kids and Grandpa and Grandma Grover used to tell us to look at the sparks on the back of the fireplace bricks and find faces or objects in them?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It’s the same idea,” Renie said. “When I set Gregory’s plate down on the coffee table, I knocked some magazines on the hearth. A bunch of ashes flew out of the grate. I decided to see if I could actually pull it off. Besides,” she added slyly, “it was a way of getting some information out of your latest goofy guest.”

  Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Like what?”

  “Ohhh…” Renie cocked her head and gazed around the kitchen’s high ceiling. “Things. Stuff. Inheritance.”

  “Inheritance?” Judith hissed. “As in, who gets Dolph’s money?”

  “Mm-mmm.” Renie fluttered her eyelashes at the ceiling.

  Judith shook her cousin. “Talk to me. What did Gregory tell you?”

  “It’ll cost you,” Renie said softly. “I don’t study ashes for free.”

  Judith jerked at her cousin’s arm. “Coz…”

  Abruptly, Renie pulled free. “Watch it! You want to dislocate my good shoulder?”

  Judith was contrite. “Sorry. Neither of us needs more surgery.”

  “You got that right,” Renie responded. The hip and shoulder operations they had endured on the same day a few years earlier were never far from their minds. “Gregory insists he’s Dolph’s son. I’ll admit he’s a little fuzzy around the edges. There’s a woman involved, but I’m not sure who she is except that her name may be Frederica.”

  “The Pink Floyd fan?”

  “I guess.” Renie went to the cupboard, got out a mug, and poured herself some coffee. “Gregory mentioned something about inheriting.”

  “As in money?”

  Renie frowned. “Good point. As I said, the guy’s ambiguous. It’s like talking to cotton candy. No substance.”

  Judith nodded. “I don’t know what to do with Gregory. The police are supposed to come by and interrogate him.”

  The doorbell chimed the instant Judith finished speaking. “Maybe that’s the cops now.”

  The cousins both looked at each other and laughed.

  “A common occurrence for us,” Renie noted. “I’ll stay out here. I don’t want to become known as Rhubarb Renie, the Pitiless Poisoner.”

  Judith went to the door. A fair-haired middle-aged woman she’d never seen before stood on the porch with a suitcase on wheels. “Is this Hillside Manor?” she asked.

  Judith saw a tan car parked at the curb. “Yes. I’m the owner, Judith Flynn. You are…?”

  “Estelle Pearson, Mrs. Kluger’s maid.”

  Judith smiled as she stepped aside to let the woman pass. “I heard you were coming. You got here sooner than I expected.”

  “I was already on the road when I called Miss Suzanne,” Estelle replied, wheeling her suitcase into the entry hall.

  Judith couldn’t quite figure out the woman’s age. She had one of those bland, unlined faces that could have put her anywhere between forty and sixty. The fair hair was frizzy, held in place with a blue barrette. Estelle wasn’t quite as tall as Judith, but her figure was more buxom. She looked extremely capable.

  “Where is she?” Estelle asked.

  “Both Mrs. Kluger and Ms. Farrow are upstairs,” Judith said. “If you’ll sign the guest registry first, I’ll show you the way. A room has been prepared for you.”

  “Excellent.” Estelle accepted a pen from Judith and inscribed her name in the guest registry, along with the same New York City address the Klugers had given.

  “You must have known Mr. Kluger quite well,” Judith remarked while Estelle was writing.

  “Certainly.” The maid scrutinized what she had written in small but precise letters. “I’ve been with Mrs. Kluger for almost twenty years.”

  “Then you must feel Mr. Kluger’s loss keenly,” Judith remarked.

  Estelle bent down to grasp the handle of her suitcase. “The music world mourns him,” she said without inflection. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  “His son is here,” Judith said. “Would you like to say hello?”

  The maid gazed at Judith with cool blue eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Gregory,” Judith said. “Mr. Kluger’s son.”

  “Nonsense,” Estelle retorted. “Please. I must see Mrs. Kluger.”

  “Fine.” Judith led the way to Room Three. “Your room is just across the hall,” she explained, pointing to Room One. “Ms. Farrow is in Room Four, next to her mother.”

  Estelle deposited her suitcase in the hallway before knocking on her mistress’s door. “Madam,” she called, “it’s me, Estelle.”

  Suzanne opened the door to Andrea’s room. “You’re prompt,” she said. “Come in.”

  Judith watched Estelle enter. Without so much as a glance at Judith, Suzanne shut the door.

  “I’m getting paranoid,” Judith said to Renie when she returned to the kitchen. “I could call this an open-and-shut case. Every time somebody opens a door, they shut it in my face.”

  “That’s not like your usual luck with suspects,” Renie noted, eyeing the cookie jar with longing.

  “Go ahead,” Judith urged. “I haven’t baked all week. If there are any ginger snaps left, they’re probably stale.”

  “I’ll pass,” Renie said. “I’m meeting Melissa Bargroom for lunch, remember?”

  “You already ate Gregory’s breakfast,” Judith pointed out. “Your appetite never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Nor me,” Renie agreed, checking the schoolhouse clock. “In fact, I should make my eggs-it—excuse the pun. It’s after eleven, and I have to change clothes so that I don’t look like Frederica—or hell.”

  “Estelle the Maid acts as if she knows nothing about Gregory,” Judith said as Renie retrieved her purse from the cupboard.

  Phyliss came through the hall from the basement stairs. “Aaargh!” she cried, spotting Renie. “Lucifer’s companion!”

  “Hi, Phyliss,” Renie said, purse in hand. “Saved any souls today?”

  Phyliss assumed a prim expression. “I cured that freak in the living room. His ankle isn’t broken, just sprained.”

  “Good for you,” Renie said. “How are you with male hair loss? Bill’s getting kind of bald.”

  “Don’t mock me,” Phyliss warned. “You blaspheme.”

  “Frequently,” Renie retorted. “See you.” She left.

  Phyliss made some sort of sign with her fingers. “To ward off the Evil Eye,” she murmured. “Your pagan cousin makes my undies crawl.”

  “She’s not a pagan,” Judith asserted. “She’s a Catholic, like me.”

  “Same thing,” Phyliss said with a sniff. “All those idols. Statues with crowns. Priests with big funny-shaped hats. I saw one the other day on TV carrying a gold stick. What do they do with those things? Beat up on Protestants?”

 
“That was probably a crosier,” Judith explained. “Bishops have them to symbolize their office as pastoral shepherds.”

  “Hunh. Lambs to the slaughter, if you ask me. I fixed the dryer. How’s that for an answer to a prayer?”

  “That’s the kind of prayer I understand,” Judith murmured.

  “By the way,” Phyliss said with a warning voice, “you’d better get that husband of yours to repair the basement window by the driveway. The rains are coming, and it won’t shut.”

  Judith stared at Phyliss. “What window?” There were three small windows above the washer and dryer. Judith hadn’t opened any of them since the first heavy rain fell just after the Labor Day weekend.

  “The one on the right as you face the washer,” Phyliss replied.

  “I’ll do that right now,” Judith said. “But stay on this floor. The police may be arriving any moment. And check on Gregory. Make sure he’s still sitting on the sofa.”

  “Don’t trust him, huh?”

  “I’m beginning not to trust anybody connected with this Kluger clan,” Judith said grimly.

  Unlike the backstairs and the main staircase, the basement steps weren’t carpeted. Judith used them as seldom as possible, always fearing a fall, which could dislocate her hip. Indeed, her last trip to the basement had taken place when she’d closed the windows almost three weeks earlier. She would have asked Joe to do it for her, but it had also been time to get out her autumn decorations, including the gold, red, and brown wreath she hung on the front door. Judith knew that her husband would never be able to find what she wanted and might bring her a leprechaun or a St. Valentine’s Day cupid. Men, even professional detectives, weren’t very good at finding everyday objects—like their shoes, even though they could be wearing them at the time.

  The windows facing the back and front yards were shut tight. So were the two that looked out toward the Rankerses’ hedge. But next to the driveway, the window on the right was open. Like the others, it was a simple affair locked by a latch that slid into place. The only problem was that although Judith was tall, it was still a stretch to reach. She stood on tiptoe, straining to get at the latch. As she peered more closely, she noticed that the casement looked marred. There were a few splinters on the sill. It appeared as if someone had forced the window open, damaging the wood.