by Mary Daheim
Renie was sniggering. “So much for questioning the radio people today. I wonder if Darrell Mims is still broadcasting.”
Judith glanced at her watch; it was two minutes before noon. “He’s probably winding up his show. At least he’s got a hot news flash.”
“Literally.” Renie started for the Chev. “Let’s go.”
Judith started to protest, but despite the urging of the firefighters to disperse, the area around the building was getting crowded. With an aura of defeat, Judith followed Renie to the car.
“I’m frustrated,” Judith declared, fastening her seatbelt. “I pride myself on getting people to open up and talk to me. But I can’t even meet with Tara or de Tourville, Esperanza was a washout, Chuck Rawls hasn’t been much help, and TNT Tenino was drunk.”
“So give it up,” Renie said as the Chev roared up the steep hill that led away from the lower Heraldsgate business district. “I told you that earlier. It isn’t worth all the effort and energy you’re putting into this case.”
Judith didn’t respond. Maybe Renie was right. What was she trying to prove? That she wasn’t delusional or drunk or as daffy as her mother? It really wasn’t important to show Joe that she had seen a couple in wedding attire on the Belmont roof. And it certainly wasn’t necessary to get involved in Joe’s investigation.
Renie pulled into the cul-de-sac. “Okay, here you go,” she said, giving Judith a little nudge. “Hey, coz! Wake up! You’re zoned out.”
Judith gave a start. “Huh? Oh! Right, we’re here. It’s stopped raining. I didn’t notice that at the bottom of the hill.”
“Maybe it’ll clear up for the Fourth,” Renie said. “I don’t want to cram all the relatives and friends of relatives inside the house.”
“I don’t blame you.” Judith opened the passenger door, then turned back to Renie. “You’re right. I’ve been very foolish. Harley’s death has nothing to do with me. I’d never even heard of him until a week or so ago. It’s just that…well, I guess it’s the proximity of Tara and de Tourville and the fact that Kip works for the radio stations and that I actually saw Harley and Tara on the hotel roof and that…”
“Which way are you arguing?” Renie demanded with a wry expression.
Judith bit her lip. “I don’t know. Against, I think.”
“I hope so. Go inside. Have lunch. Forget it.” Renie gave Judith another nudge.
“I will.” Judith got out of the car, took five minutes to unload the trunk, then returned to wave her cousin off. Halfway up the drive, she saw Phyliss Rackley coming around the corner from the back porch.
“All done,” Phyliss announced. “And a good thing—my sciatica’s giving me fits. It’s this unseasonable damp weather. If the pain keeps up, I may not be able to come tomorrow.”
“You weren’t coming anyway,” Judith pointed out. “It’s a holiday.”
Phyliss’s pale blue eyes widened. “Oh. That’s so. Well, then maybe I can’t make it Wednesday. Though I’d hate to put you out. I wouldn’t mind standing up that snooty Mrs. Rumplemeyer over on the bluff, though. I’ll have to pray for a cure by Thursday. It’s too soon to miss a session with that de Tooleyville fella.”
On impulse, Judith put a hand on Phyliss’s shoulder. “Do you have a key to the condo?”
Phyliss’s eyes now narrowed. “Yep, I sure do. Why do you want to know?”
Torn between candor and deception, Judith walked the fence. “He’s a witness in Joe’s current case. Access to the condo would be very helpful. It would save the trouble of getting a search warrant.” Wincing, Judith avoided Phyliss’s curious gaze, and hoped that the cleaning woman was ignorant of police procedure. When it came to Bascombe de Tourville, Joe had no probable cause to ask for a search warrant.
“I don’t know,” Phyliss said slowly. “It’s not something I ever do, handing out keys like peppermint sticks. How soon would I get it back?”
“Tomorrow,” Judith replied quickly. “I mean Wednesday. If you feel like coming to work.”
Phyliss considered. “A witness, huh? To what?”
“Ah…to contraband.” It seemed safer than murder. “Smuggling of illegal goods.”
“Hmmm.” Phyliss’s gaze darted along the driveway and through the flower beds, as if she expected to see drugs, guns, and any manner of illicit items spring up around Hillside Manor. “Sinful stuff, huh? Dirty pictures, maybe?” Phyliss seemed hopeful, but Judith shook her head. “Okay,” Phyliss agreed, “I won’t stand in the way of righteousness.” Digging into her faux leather purse, she removed not a key but a slim plastic card. “Here you go. But don’t let Mr. Flynn tell where he got it.”
“I won’t, Phyliss,” Judith promised with a straight face. “It’s as safe a secret as if Joe never knew.”
Half an hour later, Judith was on the phone to Renie, begging her to join the search of de Tourville’s condo. Renie refused. She was busy and Judith was nuts. What if de Tourville was there?
“He can’t be.” Judith said. “The place is still under surveillance.”
“Are you sure?” Renie countered.
“Well, no. I mean, I haven’t checked today,” Judith admitted.
“So how do you know the place is empty?” Renie asked in a vexed voice. “It’s not as if this de Tourville is a homicide suspect. It costs money to maintain a stakeout.”
“He may not be, but Tara is directly involved,” Judith reasoned. “She’s the one Joe and Woody want to question.”
“And all they have is your word for it that she was ever there.” Renie sounded skeptical.
“Well, she was,” Judith said in annoyance. Then she reshuffled her options. “Never mind, go back to work.”
“Thanks, I will,” said Renie and hung up.
Ten minutes later, Judith was at Belgravia Gardens. She couldn’t spot the stakeout car and wondered if the officers had been pulled from duty. It was possible, of course, that the personnel had been changed, and so had their mode of operations. They might be in the phone company or city utility trucks that were parked along the street. They could even be in a vacant apartment in the big old handsome brick building across from the elegant condos.
The plastic card let Judith into the building without a hitch. The elevator glided up to the top floor, and again the card-key provided easy access. Judith stepped into the condo’s entry hall and came face-to-face with Bascombe de Tourville.
Judith let out a small shriek. “Mr. de Bascombe!” she cried. “I mean, Mr. de Tourville! I didn’t expect you to be at home.”
“I am,” de Tourville replied smoothly, though one dark eyebrow was slightly raised. “Please—tell me who you are or I shall have to call the police.”
“The police?” Judith’s eyes grew large. The police were probably within shouting distance. In which case, why hadn’t they spotted de Tourville? Judith’s brain moved at a frenetic pace. “No, you don’t need to do that. I’m…the cleaning woman.”
“No, you are not,” de Tourville replied calmly. He vaguely resembled Phyliss’s description, with a graying mustache, a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, and a thick head of hair. “The cleaning woman is older, uglier, and comes on Thursday. This is Monday.” He turned to pick up the gold- and ivory-encased telephone.
“She’s sick,” Judith said hurriedly. “Mrs. Rackley is very ill, and may have to have an operation. She’s in the hospital. That’s why she can’t come Thursday, and I only had this afternoon available. I’m booked.” I’m cooked, Judith thought, watching de Tourville’s narrowed gray eyes to see if he believed her.
“You are somehow familiar. Your name?” he inquired, now arching the other eyebrow.
“Mrs…McMonigle,” Judith fibbed. “Do you mind if I get started? I really am pressed for time. Of course if it’s not convenient, I can come back later…”
De Tourville brushed a long finger against his mustache. He was tall, well over six feet, and trim of build. Judith figured him to be in his forties, and he would have been handsome if
there wasn’t something sinister in his manner.
“No, I think not today,” he finally said in his faintly accented voice. “I have been away since Friday, returning only this morning. My home is in good order. The cleaning may wait until next Monday. I shall not be entertaining for awhile.”
Judith’s gaze took in the living room with its elaborate Louis XV decor. One wall was mirrored, making the space look vast, endless—and almost overwhelming. Marble, pillars, draperies, and decorated paneling set off reproductions of chairs, tables, couches, cabinets, and a huge armoire. Or, Judith thought fleetingly, maybe the furniture was original. Certainly the sense of wealth and luxury was real.
“Then I guess I’ll be running along,” Judith said in a meek voice. She turned towards the elevators, but suddenly snapped her fingers. “Oh! Do you mind? Mrs. Rackley mentioned an address book she may have left here. It belongs to one of her other clients, a Mrs. Flynn.”
“I have no such address book,” de Tourville replied flatly. “There has already been an inquiry, by Mrs….”
“Oh, well!” Judith didn’t want de Tourville conjuring up her voice on the phone. “Mrs. Rackley must not have known. She was partially sedated when I last spoke with her. I’ll be going now.”
At the elevator, Judith pressed the button. Her back was turned to de Tourville, who made no sound as she waited. Had he remembered what was familiar about her? Did he believe her flimsy story? Would he let her out of the condo without mishap? Judith felt her nerves grow taut as she listened for the hum of the elevator cables.
But the car arrived and the doors slid open. Judith was inside and poking the button for the main floor when Tara Novotny raced into the living room.
“Stop! My taxi must be here by now! Wait!” She ran past de Tourville as if he were part of the decor.
Fumbling around the control panel, Judith found the “open door” button just in time. Tara, who was carrying a small suitcase, rushed inside and leaned against the elegant gilded paneling.
“Thank you! I’m so hurried today. Everything goes bing-bang, zip-zap. Now I must catch an airplane. Life is very hard.”
The supermodel seemed unfazed to find a stranger in the elevator. Perhaps her calling in life caused her to be self-absorbed, Judith thought, to show interest only in a mirror’s reflection or the camera’s eye. For the first time, Judith had a chance to observe Tara Novotny up close: nearing thirty with dark brown hair, green eyes that matched the emeralds in her ears, and a classic profile. She was tall, maybe six feet, and too thin, but beautiful. The brown silk pantsuit was perfectly cut, the low-heeled alligator shoes looked new, and the matching purse was slung over one slim shoulder. Tara reached into the bag and removed a pair of huge sunglasses.
“You’re going away?” Judith asked as they reached the main floor.
Tara nodded. “Here, there, everywhere.” Like de Tourville, she also had a slight accent. “Yesterday, New York. Today, San Francisco. It is a hard life, this super-modeling.”
Judith wondered if Tara assumed that everyone would know who she was and what she did. Or perhaps it was merely a passing comment. The classic profile was thrust upwards, as if Tara could read her itinerary on the elevator ceiling.
“Where do you stay in San Francisco?” Judith inquired as they stepped out into the foyer.
“The St. Francis,” Tara replied, as if on cue. Though her movements were graceful, there was something of the automaton in her manner. “Always the St. Francis. So old, so chic, so San Francisco. Taxi!” The supermodel breezed through the double doors towards the waiting Yellow Cab.
“Hold it!” Judith was at Tara’s heels, frantically searching for a means to detain her. “You’re wanted by the police.”
Tara turned, but because she had now put on the big sunglasses, Judith couldn’t read her expression. “Certainly not. I have done nothing wrong, not in my whole life.”
“That’s not the point,” Judith countered, trying to scan the street to see if she could pick out a surveillance vehicle. “It’s about Harley Davidson. The police want to ask you some questions.”
“They already did.” Tara got into the cab. “Stupid questions, such as ‘Was he my lover?’ Bah! I take only the richest, most handsome men as my lovers. Harley Davidson was a blind man, a vulgar person, a disc jockey!” She slammed the door and the cab took off.
Feeling a headache coming on, Judith rubbed at her temples. The phone company van had gone, but the city utility vehicle was still parked at the end of the block. Judith marched down the street and yelled at the driver who was eating a sandwich.
“Are you a cop?” she asked.
The driver looked startled, then wary. “Are you a nut?” he responded.
Judith went home.
After almost fifty nonproductive hours, the stakeout had been canceled Monday at 6 AM. Joe’s superiors refused to authorize any more time and money to watch a private citizen who wasn’t a suspect in the Davidson homicide investigation.
“What about Tara?” Judith asked after Joe had settled in with a beer and the evening paper.
Joe avoided his wife’s gaze. “Tara’s not a suspect, only a possible witness. She doesn’t live at Belgravia Gardens. It’s hearsay that she was ever there. Or so the chief says.”
Judith could imagine Joe’s portly superior snorting in derision. “Your wife says she saw this Novotny woman? Where? How? Come on, Flynn—gimme a break.” No doubt the chief had burst into uproarious, mocking laughter.
But Judith knew it was pointless to argue with her husband. She had told him about seeing Tara again—by accident, of course—and that the supermodel was heading for San Francisco. The news had mildly perturbed Joe, but he had come home early from work, and was determined to put the case on the backburner until after the holiday. Judith decided she might as well do the same.
Unfortunately for Renie and Bill, the Fourth brought more rain. The twenty-plus guests were forced to remain inside the Jones house, stuffing themselves on hamburgers, Highcastle hot dogs, and Gertrude’s legendary potato salad. Mike and Kristin had arrived in time for the festivities, though their flight had been predictably late. Both were deeply tanned and seemed very happy.
As Judith had foreseen, there was no time to talk to Mike alone Tuesday night. By the time Judith, Joe, Gertrude, and the newlyweds got home, the fireworks display was beginning out in the harbor. The family and some of the B&B guests gathered at the edge of the cul-de-sac, where they had an almost unobstructed view of the pyrotechnics. To the accompaniment of much oohing and aahing, they joined their neighbors in watching the spectacular show. When it concluded just before eleven, everyone agreed that it was the best ever—except Gertrude, who insisted that she preferred the old days when Uncle Cliff put cherry bombs in Aunt Deb’s oven, and Uncle Al shot off Roman candles that set fire to the neighbor’s garage.
The rain continued through Wednesday. Mike and Kristin chose their wedding pictures, then headed off to Morris Mitchell’s studio. Phyliss showed up for work, though full of bodily complaints. For once, Judith didn’t try to interrupt. She was stalling for time, trying to think of a plausible excuse for lying to Bascombe de Tourville about the cleaning woman’s condition.
Finally, as Phyliss was about to cart a load of laundry to the basement, Judith blurted out the truth:
“I used that plastic key to get into Mr. de Tourville’s condo. He was home, and I had to think up a reason for being there, Phyliss. I told him you were very ill.”
Phyliss blinked. “I was. I am. What was I just telling you?”
“I mean…” Judith began, then thought better of it. If de Tourville questioned Phyliss when she showed up for work on Thursday, the cleaning woman would be only too glad to recite the details of her current ailments. De Tourville would phase out at some point and wish he’d never asked. “Just don’t mention who I am,” Judith finally said. “I was operating sort of undercover…for Joe.”
“Did you find that cummerbund?” Phyllis
inquired, hefting the laundry basket.
Judith gave a small start. “What? Oh—the contraband. No. I didn’t get a chance to look, since de Tourville was there.”
“I’ll look tomorrow.” Phyliss cocked an eye at Judith. “What am I looking for? I should know, I guess, so that I can act in a righteous manner.”
“Don’t act,” Judith urged hastily. “But if you see anything unusual, tell me. The truth is, Phyllis, I don’t know what we’re looking for. It might be…cigars.”
“Cigars!” Phyliss’s unruly white eyebrows shot up in horror. “Tobacco! Did you know why Satan is in the Hot Spot? It’s because he smoked.”
“Really,” Judith said in a mild tone. “No, I didn’t know that.” Making appropriate musing noises, she returned to scrubbing the kitchen sink.
By late afternoon, the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to lift. Judith went outside to check the hedge. Uncle Gurd had been gone now for almost five days. Undoubtedly, he had headed back to Idaho or Montana or wherever he lived with the rest of his oddball clan.
But the Austrian canvas military pack in which he carried his possessions was still under the laurel leaves. It contained underwear, a fatigue jacket, socks, and road maps of the western states. The bedroll was still on the ground, as were some of Judith’s eating utensils. Perplexed, Judith retrieved the kitchenware and went back into the house.
She caught the phone just before it trunked over to the answering machine. “Guess what!” exclaimed Renie. “Bill and I won a free dinner at the Naples Hotel. Except Bill can’t go. Want to come?”
Judith started to say yes, then reconsidered. “Can’t you wait until Bill can make it?”
Renie explained that they’d actually been awarded the freebie a month ago, but that she’d forgotten about it until she was cleaning out a drawer. “It expires July fifth, which is today. Bill is attending a lecture by some weirdo psychiatrist from Bulgaria. I refuse to offer a free dinner to any of our kids, because it’s for two and they’d fight over it. What do you say?”