Saks & Violins

by Mary Daheim

  “Right,” Judith agreed. “Okay, I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  Joe came up from the basement just as Judith was hanging up. “I’m on my way,” he said breezily, loaded down with fishing tackle, boots, rain gear, and his suitcase.

  “I see you’re really worried about me,” Judith said, meeting him at the back door.

  “Well…” Joe grimaced. “I mean…Renie’s coming?”

  “Yes,” Judith conceded. “But I wasn’t sure she would.”

  “She’s a good kid—in her weird way.” He kissed Judith’s lips. “See you sometime Monday. Make room in the freezer for the fish.”

  With a wry smile, Judith watched her husband head for the garage. She could have been endangered by terrorists, serial killers, suicide bombers, and gangs of every ethnic origin, but that wouldn’t have stopped a fisherman spouse if the salmon were hitting off the coast. She sighed and closed the back door.

  Judith remained on the main floor, not watching the TV set she’d turned on in the living room and not paying much attention to the latest issue of Vanity Fair she held on her lap. Her ears were attuned to any sounds from upstairs. But there were none. All was quiet. Far too quiet for a Friday night at Hillside Manor. She was used to the comings and goings of guests on a weekend—or those who chose to stay in and leave their everyday lives back home. The B&B was supposed to be a haven—but for the past few days it had seemed more like hell.

  Renie arrived at eight-forty, carrying her big purse, an overnight case, and a garment bag.

  “You look like you’re moving in,” Judith noted.

  “I had to bring proper clothes for impersonating a retirement-home salesperson,” Renie said. “Do I get Mike’s old room or do I have to sleep with you? You talk and snore and even sing. It drives me nuts.”

  “You can have Mike’s room,” Judith replied.

  Renie knelt on the arm of the sofa where Judith had reseated herself. “You really are scared?”

  “Well…let’s say I’m uneasy,” Judith temporized. “I don’t want to go one-on-one with Suzanne again over that bracelet.”

  “You think it’s hers and not Taryn’s?”

  Judith nodded. “But if Rudi and Suzanne are lovers, it must be a long-distance romance.”

  Before Renie could respond, the doorbell rang. Both cousins went to answer it. Elsa Wittener stood on the front porch, her red hair damp from the evening mist.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Judith said. “You remember my cousin Serena?”

  Elsa pursed her lips as she gazed at Renie. “I think so,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Renie assured her. “I’m eminently forgettable.”

  If Elsa thought Renie was being funny, she didn’t react. “I owe you an apology,” she said as Judith led the way back into the living room. “I caused an awkward scene for you the other night.”

  “That’s hardly your fault,” Judith said, indicating that Elsa should sit on the matching sofa. “You were ill. In fact,” she added quietly, “I heard you ingested some kind of poison.”

  “Yes,” Elsa said, perching on the edge of the sofa cushion. She seemed very tense. “Isn’t that incredible? Apparently, it was the same type that was used to poison poor Dolph.”

  “Do you recall eating or drinking anything that Dolph had?” Judith asked in an empathetic tone.

  “I’m not sure,” Elsa replied, hands folded tightly on her knees. “Olive’s quiche, perhaps. It was delicious, and I do remember telling Fritz to try it, but he told me that quiche was for the faint of heart. Or some such thing.” She laughed in an unnatural manner. “These young men—they have to assert their masculinity.”

  “But,” Judith put in, “you think Dolph may have eaten some?”

  “Yes, it’s possible,” Elsa said slowly. “I saw Andrea preparing a plate for Dolph. I’m almost sure she had put a slice of quiche on it. But was that the source of the poison?”

  Judith admitted she didn’t know. “Frankly, I’m not sure there was any quiche left.”

  “There wasn’t.” Renie, who was sitting on the sofa’s arm, looked sheepish. “I…um…polished it off while everybody else was outside with the emergency vehicles.”

  Elsa gasped and Judith stared.

  “Coz!” Judith exclaimed. “But you weren’t poisoned.”

  “I know.” Renie turned doleful. “Are you sorry I wasn’t?”

  “Hardly.” Judith tried not to smile. She didn’t want Elsa to think she was taking the matter lightly. “But that eliminates the quiche. Or rather, you eliminated it.”

  Renie shrugged.

  “There were other foods,” Elsa pointed out, “but I suppose salads and fruit and such wouldn’t be the type of thing people would poison.”

  “No,” Judith said. “It’d have to be something where the rhubarb distillation would be undetectable. Did you drink brandy?”

  “Cognac,” Elsa said, but held up a finger. “Wait. Fritz refilled my snifter at one point. He may have poured from the brandy rather than the cognac bottle. They’re so similar, and he’s not familiar with hard liquor. He’s strictly a beer drinker at his age. But I’ve thought and thought since the hospital lab results came back, and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to poison either of us. It must be an accident, and I was the lucky one. Or so Fritz tells me.” She smiled fondly. “My son can be very protective of his mother. We’re devoted to each other.”

  “That’s lovely,” Judith said. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  “No.” The response from Elsa was abrupt, and she unclasped her hands in a flustered gesture. “I mean—that sounds so rude. I’m sure you’re not going to poison me!”

  “You never know,” Renie murmured.

  “Not funny, coz,” Judith said with a sharp glance at her cousin.

  “In fact,” Elsa said, rising from the sofa, “I should be going.” She looked toward the far end of the long living room. “Have you thought any more about having that piano tuned?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t had time,” Judith admitted.

  “No. Of course you haven’t,” Elsa said. “I understand.” She walked to the piano. “It has such a lovely tone. I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it?”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” Judith said. “I rarely play—and when I do, I’m not very good. But many of our guests enjoy taking a turn at it.”

  “I can see why.” Elsa began fingering the keys, a bit tentatively at first, then with more intensity.

  “Beethoven,” Renie said. “‘Für Elise.’”

  Elsa nodded as she continued to play. The cousins sat in silence for at least two minutes.

  “Enough,” Elsa said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “You play very well,” Renie said.

  Elsa moved back into the middle of the room. “Not tonight. The damp bothers me.” Her face was wistful. “Tell me if you ever decide to sell the piano. Mine’s a spinet, and not nearly as fine an instrument.”

  “I tend to hold on to things,” Judith said.

  Elsa didn’t seem to hear the comment. She was gazing up the stairwell. “How is Andrea? I’ve always thought her high-strung.”

  “She sleeps a lot,” Judith said.

  “Maybe I should look in on her,” Elsa said in a doubtful voice.

  “Go ahead,” Judith urged. “She might like that.”

  Elsa kept staring upward but didn’t move. “No,” she finally said. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Good night.”

  Judith closed and locked the door behind her. “What was that all about?” she asked Renie.

  “Darned if I know,” Renie said. “Maybe she wants to steal your piano. There’s a lot of that going around here lately.”

  “Too much,” Judith responded, looking through the front door’s peephole. “That’s odd. Elsa’s car—I assume that’s her Honda parked out front—is still there. She’s going over to the Wittener house.”r />
  “So?”

  “Suzanne says nobody’s home. The place is dark.” Judith paused. “Elsa’s on the porch.” Another pause. “She went inside.”

  “Did somebody let her in?”

  Judith shook her head. “No. She must have a key.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose,” Renie said.

  Judith kept watching. A light went on in the living room. “I don’t get it. Elsa comes and goes in her ex-husband’s house?”

  “She might. They’re not on hostile terms, are they?”

  Judith finally moved away from the door. “Not that I know of. But I still wonder what she’s up to. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good.”

  FIFTEEN

  “JOE HASN’T TAKEN down the porch swing,” Judith said thoughtfully. “If I sat in it, I could see what Elsa’s doing over at Rudi’s house.”

  “How?” Renie demanded. “You’ve suddenly got X-ray vision?”

  “I mean when she comes out,” Judith explained. “If she’s carrying something.”

  “Like a piano?”

  “Never mind.” Judith was impatient. “It can’t hurt to watch, and she can’t see me from behind the rhododendron and the camellia bushes if I sit at the far end of the swing.”

  Renie shrugged. “Go for it. But leave the door ajar so I can hear you scream if you’re attacked.”

  Judith hadn’t crossed the threshold before the phone rang. Renie had stayed in the living room and picked up the extension on the round cherrywood table.

  “Define here,” she said to the caller. “As in ‘she’s all here’ or only partly?”

  “Who is it?” Judith hissed from the entry hall.

  Renie held out the receiver. “Your cop buddy, Rosemary O’Grady.”

  “Are you all right?” Rosemary asked Judith in a concerned voice. “Was that one of the suspects?”

  “No,” Judith replied, motioning for Renie to pick up the cordless phone in the kitchen. “It was my cousin, trying to be funny. She didn’t manage it. What’s going on?”

  “You were absolutely brilliant to suggest checking into the foxhunt accident that killed Mr. Farrow,” Rosemary enthused. “I have a cousin in Madison, New Jersey, who works for a string of newspapers. He covers local activist groups, including PETA—you know, for the protection of animals—so he keeps up with foxhunting because hunt-club members are always fighting with PETA about the foxes.”

  Judith remembered coming across People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals when she and Renie had been in San Francisco the previous March. “Are they involved in what happened to Mr. Farrow?”

  “Oh, no,” Rosemary replied. “That is, they were cleared of any culpability in his death. An accident was ruled out, though stranger things have happened. The police finally ruled it a homicide.”

  Judith sat down in the side chair by the cherrywood table. She heard Renie’s click on the other phone. “That’s my cousin,” she explained. “If she listens in I won’t have to repeat all this.”

  “That’s fine,” Rosemary said in her chipper manner. “Two heads are better than one, especially when one is yours, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Thanks,” Renie put in. “My head still works fairly well. Usually.”

  “I’m sure it does!” Rosemary declared. “You’re family, after all!”

  “Tell us what happened,” Judith urged, prepared to jot down a few notes on the tablet she kept by the phone base.

  “It was October,” Rosemary began, “which is the traditional time for foxhunts. According to the rules of this particular hunt club, competitors must ride in pairs or teams of three. But Blake Farrow never liked to ride with others. He was often disqualified, but never severely penalized because he was highly respected—and rich. Anyway, the master of the hunt and his partner—who happened to be Andrea Farrow, now Mrs. Kluger, of course—started out, setting the pace. I guess that’s what they do. Anyway, Blake and a companion whose name was Laurel Chandler rode off with all the others. Blake soon left Laurel behind. Somewhere along the course, Blake’s horse was found without its rider. Shortly thereafter, Blake was found—without his head.”

  “Ugh,” said Judith.

  “Yes. He had been decapitated by a wire strung across that part of the course between two trees.”

  “Gruesome,” Judith remarked.

  “Very,” Rosemary agreed. “Fortunately, Andrea was already back at the hunt club when she heard the awful news. But what’s odd is that she and the master of the hunt had ridden through that same part of the course earlier without any incident. They weren’t ever suspects, since the MFH was one of New York City’s most upstanding citizens. He swore that Andrea never left his side, and no one questioned his word.”

  “Yet whoever put the wire there intended to harm Blake Farrow?”

  “That’s only an assumption,” Rosemary replied. “Whoever it was must have known Farrow’s habit of going ahead of the other riders.”

  Judith tried to ignore Renie, who was standing by the buffet and making all sorts of querying gestures. “Was the case ever solved?”

  “Not exactly,” Rosemary said. “It was later discovered that someone at Farrow’s musical-instrument company had been cooking the books. There were rumors of Mob ties, and it’s possible that Farrow was killed by professionals. This was in Jersey, remember. The Mob still exists there.”

  “So I gather,” Judith said. “Was the company financially sound at the time of Blake Farrow’s death?”

  “It was rocky,” Rosemary replied, “but Farrow came from old money, so he left Andrea a rich widow. She sold the company to some German outfit.”

  “Who was playing games with the books?” Judith queried.

  “Interestingly enough, the husband of the woman who was paired with Blake,” Rosemary responded. “His name was Harry Chandler, an accountant. He was sent to prison, and died there in a fight with another inmate.”

  “Was he in the hunt party?”

  “No. He didn’t ride, and had an airtight alibi for that morning.” Rosemary sounded disappointed. “It would’ve been perfect if he’d killed Blake Farrow. But there was no way to tie him to the murder.”

  “Did your cousin cover the story?” Judith inquired.

  “No,” Rosemary said. “Tommy—my cousin—was still in college at the time. He checked out the archives of the local papers including the chain he works for. The coverage was discreet, but Tommy also talked to a couple of veteran reporters who knew the background.”

  “That’s quick work,” Judith said. “Congratulations.”

  “I couldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for you,” Rosemary insisted. “Tommy was still at the office when I called him. Then, after he checked the archives, he went over to one of the local bars and questioned the old-time journalists who hang out there.”

  “You’re working late tonight yourself,” Judith noted. “Is Levi still on the job?”

  “Oh—no,” Rosemary said. “I made him go home. He’s still worn out from his allergy attack.”

  “You’ve done great work,” Judith declared. “Levi will be proud of you. I am, too.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Rosemary said modestly. “If you have any other brainstorms, be sure to let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  Renie had wandered into the living room with the cordless phone. After both cousins hung up, Judith went to the front porch.

  Elsa’s car was gone and the lights were out in the Wittener house. Judith still felt in the dark.

  “Why,” Renie demanded, “are we watching the Food Channel? You think I don’t already know how to make crepes?”

  “You like food,” Judith replied. “I like watching chefs. They have all kinds of interesting recipes and ideas.”

  “Do you ever make any of them?”

  “Not really. Look, he’s using a new kind of crepe pan.”

  “Why aren’t you watching SportsCenter or a war movie or the Führer like Bill always does at home?”r />
  “Check out how high the heat is on that pan! I’d be afraid of scorching the crepes.”

  “Why do I suddenly miss John Wayne? Why do I want to see meaningless preseason NBA games? Why am I here?”

  “That’s a different kind of spatula. Wow—he can really flip those babies with that thing!”

  “Tanks. Armor. Air-to-ground missiles. Bases loaded. Blocked shots. Dropped passes. Hockey pucks. Anything but this!”

  “Unsalted butter—now there’s a concept!”

  “Ahem!” The sound came from Estelle Pearson, who stood in the living room by the buffet, arms folded across her chest.

  “Oh!” Judith jumped. “What is it?”

  “Miss Suzanne would like something to eat,” Estelle said. “A crisp salad with a dressing that has no oil base.”

  “How about crepes?” Renie said. “Mrs. Flynn here is the world’s greatest expert on crepes. Next to Chef Le Louche on TV, of course.”

  Judith immediately turned off the set. “I can use my own green goddess dressing,” she offered. “I don’t use oil. And what about Mrs. Kluger?” she inquired, rising from the sofa. “Has she eaten anything in the past few days? Have you?”

  “I have my own health bars and beverages,” Estelle replied. “Miss Suzanne is very insistent that we eat only healthy foods.”

  It occurred to Judith that Estelle’s sturdy figure indicated that she was consuming more than bars and beverages. “Would Mrs. Kluger feel better if she came downstairs for a while? She’s been cooped up in that room for an awfully long time.”

  “No.” Estelle appeared unmoved by Judith’s words.

  “Okay.” Judith sighed. “I’ll prepare the salad. It’ll take about twenty minutes. I’ll bring it up when it’s ready.”

  “Good.” The maid turned on her heel and left the living room.

  “Need help?” Renie asked.

  “Sure.” Judith headed for the kitchen with Renie following her.

  “What can I do?” Renie inquired.

  “Get out the romaine lettuce and anything else you can find for a salad,” Judith replied. “Fortunately, I’ve got some green goddess dressing already made up.”