“Although the actual cause of death has yet to be officially established, pending an autopsy being conducted by County Coroner, Dr. William K. Kasper, she appears to have died from blows to her head with a blunt instrument.
“Brian Hadley is expected to arrive from Wichita later today to be with the family. Details of the funeral service have not been announced.”
There were several cars parked in front of the St. John’s. The sprawling white farm-house has multipane windows framed by peeling dark green shutters. Overgrown pfitzers blotched with dead branches sagged at both sides of the doorway. Elephant skin blisters marred the lapped siding.
I rang the doorbell, stilled by the solemnity of death. It’s always sudden, even when it’s not murder. As shocking as a bolt of lightning. Even if a family has been keeping a cancer vigil for a year.
Zelda’s and Maxwell’s only child, Judy, opened the door. A waif with spiked orange hair, her huge blue eyes were red and swollen.
I knew her well through helping with the Carlton County Neighborhood Entertainment Company. She had perched beside me between scenes when we produced The King and I and told me her time-old teenage story. A little problem with drugs, a little problem with sex, a little problem with a juvenile record. All past now, but recorded forever in the collective memory of a small town.
“Judy, honey, I’m so sorry.”
I hugged her and patted her on the back. She tried to speak between spasmodic sobs.
“Mom always tried so hard. She was a wonderful mother.”
“I know, honey. She was devoted to you.”
“Folks made fun of her all the time. But she was my mother and I loved her. Still love her. Death isn’t going to change that.”
She eased off my shoulder, nodded hello to Bettina, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Dad’s not doing well. We’d better go inside. He’s in the living room.” She pointed down the hallway to an open door where Maxwell St. John sat with his head buried in his hands.
Bettina headed for the kitchen, carrying our basket of food. I went directly to the living room to pay my respects to Max.
Their living room looked like an old-fashioned parlor set in a museum. White doilies crocheted in the pineapple motif protected the maroon cut-velvet sofa and matching chair. Umber and green marbleized tiles framed the gas-log fireplace. A glass-shaded, brass-footed lamp was centered on an imitation Duncan Fife table in the bay window. Heavy walnut framed portraits of generations of Rubidoux hung on plastered walls.
Maxwell rose unsteadily to his feet. He extended his arthritic hand, and my heart ached at the misery in his bleak face. Although he was eighteen years older than Zelda, Maxwell had doted on his crazy younger wife.
“Maxwell, I’m so sorry. Our deepest sympathy.”
All he could do at first was nod.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said, when he could summon his voice. He tugged at slipping frayed suspenders fastened to stained chinos. Tiny singes from pipe embers pocked the front of his rumpled pin-striped shirt.
The doorbell jarred the room. Judy’s quick steps echoed down the hallway. Then I heard her shouting.
“Get out,” she yelled. “All of you. None of you are welcome.”
Chapter Six
I dropped Maxwell’s hand and turned. Edgar and Fiona Hadley stood framed in the entrance. Behind them, high-lighted by the sun was Brian. Son of the Morning Star. Crown Prince of Carlton County. His razor-cut gold hair gleamed like bullion.
Across from the road turning into the farmyard, TV crews circled like buzzards, cameras in place, wanting to record every minute of Brian Hadley’s visit to the grieving family.
“Murderer. Murderer.” Judy looked straight at Fiona. “You killed her. Just leave us alone.”
“Judy!” Nervously eyeing the cameras, I quickly pulled the Hadleys inside. The media teams were not close enough to pick up sound. “Please go on into the living room.” The Hadleys were mute with shock. “Max needs you.”
“So sorry,” I mouthed silently to an ashen-faced Brian as I steered Judy toward the stairs. He nodded and guided his parents down the hall.
His political success was a testimony to his steely will to overcome his inherent liabilities. Only in America would looking like a young Brad Pitt be an obstacle to having his ideas heard. The press maneuvered constantly to get him to say or do something naughty. Senior citizens just fell all over him.
Brian Hadley is a fine man. Moreover, he is not a fool, even if he is a Republican. I voted for him last time when he ran for state senate. Although I’m a Yellow Dog Democrat, when he decided to run for the national seat, I didn’t mind crossing party lines to organize his campaign in this county. I like politicians. I respect persons who are willing to make honorable and reasonable compromises. It’s what makes the world work. Over my dead body would I allow Judy St. John to slander this man who might have a shot at the presidency some day.
I led her into her bedroom.
“Please try to get yourself under control. I just can’t stand by and let you say things you’ll regret later.”
“She hated my mother. Enough to kill her.”
“You can’t believe that! Now is not the time and place for this, Judy. Don’t disgrace your mother’s memory by turning this into a family brawl. Zelda would just hate it. You know how much she cared about appearances.”
“Aunt Fiona killed her or hired someone else to kill her.”
“Judy, I’ll be right back. Please lie down. I know you’re exhausted.”
I had to shut her up. I ran down the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen. I stopped cold when I saw our county health nurse, Inez Wilson. Her back was turned toward me. She stood next to Minerva Lovesey. I didn’t want Inez near Judy St. John. Clearly, none of them had heard Judy’s carrying on as Inez was warning Bettina and Minerva of the dangers of the coming flu epidemic.
Bettina saw me at once, and before the others could turn to follow her glance, I put a finger to my lips and gestured her to step into the hallway.
“Excuse me, please,” she said brightly to the assembled women. The heavy swinging kitchen door whooshed shut behind her.
“Get these people out of here, Bettina. All of them. I don’t care how. Turn away anyone who comes to the outside door, too. Judy’s raising six kinds of hell.”
Bettina’s a quick study. She nodded and hurried back into the kitchen. I listened.
“Judy is not well,” she said to Inez and Minerva. “She’s overwhelmed and wants to be alone with her father. It would be best for all of us to leave and not take it personally. I’m going home right now and Brian will drive Lottie home later.”
“Well, if she’s going to stay, I know the family would want me around,” said Inez. “They could certainly use a nurse more than a historian.”
“Max and Judy have asked Lottie to assist with funeral arrangements. They really do want all the rest of us out of here.”
“I was just trying to help,” Inez said sullenly.
I could just imagine her dramatic account of the prostrate grief-stricken daughter that would be making the rounds by morning. I listened a moment longer, just to be sure Bettina wouldn’t need reinforcement, before I returned to Judy.
“Some people do just want to be by themselves,” said Minerva.
I smiled. Good old Minerva. Chief secret keeper of Carlton County. Gatekeeper of thousands of records, she was the soul of discretion. Intensely private about her own affairs, she even doctored in Denver and mail-ordered prescriptions because she didn’t want medical personnel gossiping about her health. Or so it was said.
She must have mail ordered all her clothes from L.L. Bean and Eddie Bauer because they had that look and she never shopped in town. She wore her graying red hair in a neat bun. Her only nod to femininity was maroon polish on her short nails. It seemed out-of-character, since she shunned all other makeup.
We would have been better friends if I could have seen her eyes. I c
an’t tell what people are thinking if I can’t see their eyes. Minerva wore dark amber Varilux lenses that did not change color with the light. Inez had told me that Minerva had very light sensitive eyes that need protection, but I’d wondered if they didn’t reflect her intense sense of privacy.
Satisfied Bettina had everything under control, I turned away and tried to think of something I could say to the Hadleys.
Brian was waiting for me in the hallway. He ignored my outstretched hand and hugged me instead.
“So sorry, Brian. For everything. Save some time for me this weekend. We must talk and I want to know how you’ve been. Not that the papers don’t report your every little move.”
“You’ve got that right. Thanks for your quick thinking, Lottie. I hate to think what the media would have made of this. Do you know what set Judy off?”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to you about it later. Right now I think it’s best we play like nothing’s happened.”
I stepped into the living room. Knowing how hard hit in-laws are sometimes, I cupped Edgar’s hands in my own, patted them. “So sorry. Terribly sorry.”
Edgar Hadley nodded, grief deepening the lines on his coarse heavy face. When I first met Edgar, I took one look at the jutting jaw, the gun rack in back of his pick-up, his anti-government bumper sticker, and decided he was a Neanderthal. I was partially right.
He didn’t hold with free school lunches, Jane Fonda, working wives, Democrats, farm programs, Wall street, communists, foreign cars, gold-threaded cowboy shirts, high-heeled boots, golf, the lottery, coffee beans, or chickens.
Luckily for Brian, the press had decided his father was an American primitive. In a class by himself. Just like his wife.
I turned from Edgar to Fiona.
“It must be devastating to lose a sister, let alone a twin.” She nodded and clung to my hand.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “It can’t be true.”
Then her mood changed abruptly and visibly. “How did you manage to shut up that sullen little delinquent? Judy belongs in an institution.”
I glanced at Max. He’d heard, all right. His face crumbled with confusion. His mouth worked helplessly.
“Brian,” I said, “may I please have a word with you?”
We went into the foyer and shut the door, closing off the hallway.
“Please take your folks and go home until a little more of this plays out. Talk to your mother or chloroform her. I don’t care which. We need to keep this from turning into a three ring circus.”
“Right,” he said tersely.
Chapter Seven
Three days after Zelda’s funeral I gave myself permission to take a Dumb Day at the historical society. What I really wanted was a day off. But I had a whole assortment of piddling tasks I did when my head wasn’t clear enough to edit. I typed file folder labels, entered data on the computer, organized photographs.
I was paid a token wage for professional and political reasons having to do with the county’s mill levy. Everyone else who worked here volunteered, and at the Carlton County Historical Society we prided ourselves on being open when we were supposed to be, by god.
Nevertheless, it was gorgeous outside, and I wanted to be home doing fall gardening, not working in a stuffy old courthouse surrounded by one hundred years of yellowing newspaper clippings and old pictures.
I had been too restless to work well all week. I could not put the question out of my mind. Who had murdered Zelda? Despite the theft of Zelda’s purse, Sam was not convinced the motive was burglary. Josie was sure bludgeoning was an unplanned crime of passion. Passion would indicate someone who knew her. Like her sister.
There are ghosts in this vault. Men and women clutching at my sleeves, murmuring, “I want to tell you my story. Please let them know my life counted for something. Please tell them. Who I was. What I did.”
Zelda was the newest haunt.
The funeral had gone well. Heavily sedated, Judy had behaved. Brian had made a sweet, earnest speech about his happy memories of his beloved aunt. And Max. The poor, pitiful, lost, weepy-eyed old man was enough to break your heart.
Judy St. John blew into the vault like a wisp of fog. One moment I was thinking of Zelda, the next I looked up and her daughter was standing in front of me.
Warily, I waited for Judy to speak. When she did, the words seemed strange and hollow. Like they were put there by a ventriloquist.
“Lottie, I know Aunt Fiona murdered my mother. I just know it. How can I convince you? If you won’t believe me, no one in this town will believe me.”
My fingers tightened around the pencil I was holding. I couldn’t think fast enough. I had thought this nonsense was over, a passing hysterical notion of an unstable woman. She was right that no one around here would believe her. But outside the county? The press would have a field day with Brian’s campaign.
“Judy, if there’s trouble in a family, a funeral brings it out. People are inclined to think terrible things.” I picked around for words. “Thoughts they never would have had otherwise.”
“It’s not my imagination.” Tears welled in her enormous blue eyes. “Somehow, someway, Aunt Fiona is behind all this.” She reached for a Kleenex and pressed it against her trembling mouth.
“Judy,” I said carefully, “I wish you would…”
“Wish I would what? Shut my mouth? Not make waves?” She quivered like a little Chihuahua.
“I wish you would be a little more sensitive to what’s at stake for Brian if you make accusations. The press will tear him to shreds if you even hint at anything amiss.”
“I know what’s at stake. His whole career. I don’t care.” But her body language said she did. She sat with her legs rigidly thrust in front of her, white knuckled hands clutching the edge of the chair, as though she would fly up and hit the ceiling if she relaxed her grip for a second.
Josie has an uncanny ability to tell when people are lying or merely have a skewed sense of the truth. She would know everything about Judy St. John in two hours time. I didn’t. However, I was certain she believed everything she was saying.
“What is it you want from me, Judy?”
“I want you to go with me to the police.”
Stunned, I could only think of the impact this would have on Brian Hadley’s career.
“I’ll go to the press if you won’t go with me to the police.”
“Judy, I know you must trust me, or you wouldn’t be here. You would find someone else. But you have to know Brian won’t be elected dogcatcher, let alone senator if you go through with this.”
It was the right tone. Her car keys slipped out of her clenched fist and clattered to the floor. She leaned forward in her chair and picked them up.
“I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever met,” she said. “You listened to me once before. Believed me. Everyone else saw me as dingy and a little crazy, like my mother. Everyone else just remembers the drugs, the drinking, the freaky boyfriends.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to make a deal with you. Please, please keep quiet about your suspicions. I have ways of finding things out. I work right here in the courthouse. Let me look into this. I’ll put everything else aside for two weeks. If I find something to connect Fiona Hadley or anyone else to this murder, I’ll go to the police. If there’s nothing there, you’ve got to promise me you’ll drop it.”
“Oh, you’ll find something all right. Start by finding out why my mother was so mad at Aunt Fiona. They had a huge fight the night Mom died.”
Startled, I bit back a flow of questions. Sam Abbott had not mentioned this fight. I was positive he didn’t know about it. Was she making it up?
“How do you know that?”
“Mom called me that evening. She said she would never speak to her sister again.”
“Your mother called you the night she died? Had Fiona been to see her? Didn’t the police talk to you?”
“I wasn’t here of course, but Betty Central called me right after Dad pho
ned.”
She didn’t have to say another word. Betty would have had her mind made up. She wouldn’t have asked a single intelligent question or followed up on a single lead. “Betty asked me if my mom and I got along and where I was that night. That’s all.”
“Did your mother say when Fiona was there?”
“Early. About five-thirty or so.”
I nodded. Fiona must have driven there right after she left the historical society.
“Mom said she would tell me all about it the first time I came home. She said it was high time I knew a few things about the family.”
“Was she frightened?”
“No, Mom was mad. Furious, in fact. And that same night she was murdered.”
I picked up a pile of papers and whacked the edges against the desk to bring them in line.
“Did your mother mention her story? Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“I want you to read it.” I started to get the working copy, then remembered Josie had taken it back to Manhattan for handwriting analysis. Judy would have to see the original, and I hated having it handled again. Nevertheless, I unlocked the master file, gave the pages to Judy, and positioned myself where I could see every nuance on her face as I watched her read.
She paled, laid it down and pressed her hand against her forehead before she picked it up and continued reading.
There was a catch in her throat. “Lottie, please believe me. I’m not like this. Brian isn’t either.”
“I thought you didn’t care about Brian.”
“I care about justice. I care about seeing my aunt pay for my mother’s murder. If putting her away ruins Brian’s career it can’t be helped. I’m just saying that Brian isn’t a racist. I don’t know what Mom was thinking. As to the ancient Rubidouxs, I hate to admit it, but that part is true. But I know my cousin. He’s fair play all the way.”
Deadly Descent Page 4