This Old Souse

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes. I mind very much.” But the door opened another three inches.

  To Judith’s surprise, the woman was in her forties, blond, trim, with small, precise features, and wearing a tailored linen suit.

  “It won’t take long,” Renie said. “We’ll focus on what it’s like to be innocent bystanders in what appears to be a murder case.”

  “I’m not a bystander,” the woman said. “I don’t live here.”

  Thinking quickly, Judith relied on her patented logic. “You’re the daughter-in-law, right?”

  The other woman looked surprised. “Yes. I’m Lynette Bland. How did you know?”

  Judith shrugged. “Who else could you be? You’re on your lunch hour, I assume. As my…colleague mentioned, we won’t take long. I’m sure your in-laws would want you to hear about this opportunity.”

  Lynette Bland tapped her foot on the tile floor. “Possibly.” She hesitated, assessing the weather. The hail was turning back into rain, leaving the front yard dusted with melting pellets. “Okay, come inside. But all I can give you is five minutes.”

  Judith felt as if she were entering the Holy of Holies. But Lynette stopped just inside the gloomy entry hall.

  “Let’s hear it,” Lynette said, folding her arms across her chest and leaning up against the stucco wall. As far as Judith could tell, the entrance area was bare except for a quartet of wrought-iron wall sconces with unlighted flame-shaped bulbs.

  “How are Mr. and Mrs. Bland doing?” Renie inquired. “This situation must be hard on them at their age.”

  “Frankly,” Lynette replied, “they aren’t paying much attention to it. Why should they? It has nothing to do with them.”

  “Does Mrs. Bland’s sister feel the same way?” Judith asked.

  An ironic expression flitted across Lynette’s face. “She ignores intrusions from the outside world. It’s her way of coping.”

  Judith was about to ask why she needed isolation in order to cope, but Lynette wasn’t finished. “So what’s your proposal? You have four minutes left.”

  Renie took a deep breath. “Okay. Here it is. We interview Mr. and Mrs. Bland and Mrs. Bland’s sister—” Renie stopped. “I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.”

  “Sally Steiner,” Lynette said. “Go on.”

  “Mrs.?” Renie queried.

  “Yes. She’s a widow.”

  “We’ll ask them what it’s like to have this invasion of their routine,” Renie continued. “I gather they’re up in years, and probably lead a quiet life. Suddenly this random act occurs, apparently on their property. Do they feel threatened? Fearful? Indifferent? Excited? Intrigued?”

  Lynette glanced at her watch, which looked expensive. “You have three minutes.”

  Judith had the impression that Renie’s approach was a flop. “We’re aiming the article for the senior citizen market,” Judith broke in. “Like AARP or URP.”

  Lynette frowned. “URP? I never heard of it.”

  “United Retired Persons,” Judith replied. “There are many organizations that are lesser known than AARP, but their publications still pay decently.”

  Lynette’s hazel eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  “We can’t say,” Renie replied. “It depends on the buyer. Of course, if we get into a bidding war…” She raised her hand and wiggled it in an upward motion.

  “I’ll have to talk to them,” Lynette said without enthusiasm. “They’re very private people. They had to be coaxed into speaking to the police.”

  “All three of them?” Judith said. “Goodness, you’d think at least one of your relatives would be more…social.”

  “They aren’t,” Lynette declared, with another look at her watch. “Time’s up. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  Renie scribbled both of the cousins’ names and phone numbers on a sheet of her mangled notebook. “Here. My home phone is also my work phone. I’m listed under CaJones Designs.”

  “I thought you were a writer,” Lynette said, still suspicious.

  “I’m the artist.” Renie pointed to Judith. “Mrs. Flynn’s the writer. She’s very good at fiction.”

  “Hunh.” Lynette studied the phone numbers. “I’ll let you know if they’re interested. Good-bye.”

  “Maybe we should have been the cops,” Renie muttered as they walked through the heavy rain. “My idea sucked scissors.”

  “Not completely,” Judith said. “At least we got inside the house and we met a family member. We also learned the name of Mrs. Bland’s sister, the alleged drinker. That’s a start.”

  “Now what?” Renie inquired as they crossed the street.

  “As long as we’re this close,” Judith replied, “maybe we should swing by Uncle Al’s and see how Mike and the boys are doing.”

  “Uncle Al’s probably teaching Mac and Joe-Joe how to handicap the horse races,” Renie said as they got into the car. “It’s your call.”

  Judith inspected the MG before getting in. Heaven help her if another vehicle had sideswiped Joe’s car. But its red exterior looked as pristine as ever. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They’d driven five blocks when Judith spotted a Dairyland truck parked in the middle of the block. The milkman was going up the front steps of a house with a rose-covered trellis.

  “Let’s have a little talk with him,” Judith said, carefully pulling into the house’s driveway. “He must have known Vern Benson.”

  Renie, who seemed to be in one of her more affable moods, shrugged. “Go ahead. I’ll stay in the car. It’s still raining, and I might shrink. I’m already small enough.”

  The rain, however, was dwindling into a mere drizzle. Indeed, there were patches of sun in the western sky. Judith almost expected to see a rainbow.

  “Hi,” she called out as the milkman made his return journey to the truck. “I’m Judith Flynn. My uncle lives about six blocks from here. He saw the brief article in the paper this morning about one of Dairyland’s employees getting killed on this route.”

  The milkman, who didn’t have his name stitched on his blue jacket, grimaced. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. All of the Dairyland employees have been warned to keep quiet while the investigation’s under way.”

  “Oh, of course,” Judith said, looking sympathetic. “I should have realized that.” She tried to think of some way to get the young man to open up, but nothing clever came to mind. He seemed like the earnest type, with his clear blue eyes, square jaw, and sandy crew cut. “Well. Please convey my condolences to Vern Benson’s family.”

  The milkman winced slightly. “Thanks, but there’s no need.” The hint of a smile played at his mouth. “You see, I’m Vern Benson.”

  SEVEN

  JUDITH WAS SPEECHLESS. “I d-d-don’t understand,” she stammered at last. “I th-th-thought…” Raking a hand through her salt-and-pepper hair, she stared at the young man in confusion.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the milkman said. “Honest, I can’t talk about it.”

  Judith decided to go on offense. “How do I know you’re Vern Benson?” she demanded, and pointed to his jacket. “You don’t have your name sewn on. You could be an impostor. How do I even know you’re a milkman?”

  Renie, aware that something extraordinary was happening, had gotten out of the MG.

  “Somebody peddling phony buttermilk around here?” she inquired.

  Judith turned to her cousin. “This person claims he’s the late Vern Benson.”

  Renie looked startled. “That’s impossible. Vern Benson is dead as a dodo.”

  “So if you insist you’re Vern Benson, prove it,” Judith challenged.

  The young man looked miserable. “I can’t. All my—” He cut himself off. “I just can’t.”

  A light went on in Judith’s brain. “Is that because someone stole your wallet, your driver’s license, your jacket, and maybe even your truck?”

  Several emotions seemed to cross the self-proclaimed Vern Benson’s face. Finally, he spoke. “I can�
��t talk about any of this.”

  Renie pointed to the truck. “If I were to hop inside and check the registration, would it be made out to somebody other than Vern Benson?”

  The young man sighed. “Yes. I can’t drive my own truck today.” Suddenly he brightened. “Hey—I can prove I’m Vern Benson. Hold on.” He fairly galloped down the street and zipped up the stairs to a small brown house with beige trim. The cousins trailed behind him. A few moments later, the front door was opened by a stout, white-haired woman.

  “I was just coming out to get my milk,” the woman said. “Did you forget something, Vern?”

  “No, Mrs. Harmon,” he said with a big grin. “Just tell these ladies who I am.”

  Mrs. Harmon stared at Judith and Renie. “Why do they want to know? Are they on your route?”

  “I can’t explain exactly,” Vern replied. “Just tell them.”

  Mrs. Harmon eyed the cousins with suspicion. “This is Vern Benson. He’s been my milkman for the past two years. He and his wife, Cindy, had a darling baby boy last month. Vern showed me pictures.”

  Judith gave both Vern and Mrs. Harmon a sheepish smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry for the trouble. It’s just that Vern looked so much like—”

  “He looks like Vern to me,” Mrs. Harmon snapped. “What’s going on in this neighborhood lately? First, the police going by, not just one car, but two or three. Then I walk my little dog, Doodle, this morning, and there’s that yellow tape around that wreck of a house where the Blands live. Now you two, acting as if Vern were some kind of impostor. I’ve lived here for over fifty years, and I’ve never seen the like.”

  As Vern returned to the sidewalk, Judith held out her hand. “I feel terrible,” she declared. “Please forgive me. I’m going to send you a baby present care of Dairyland to make up for being such a nuisance.”

  “Oh,” Vern said with an awkward little laugh, “that’s not necessary. But we could use another fitted crib sheet.”

  “Done,” Judith said. “I’ll send two.” She shook Vern’s hand before he hurried back to the truck.

  “I’ll pay for one of them,” Renie said. “We can order them online and save a trip to Babies Be Wee.”

  “Fine.” But Judith wasn’t thinking about baby gifts. Rather, she was looking up at the brown-and-beige house. Mrs. Harmon had gone inside, but Judith had a feeling she was still watching the cousins. “Maybe we’ve just been given an opportunity.”

  “Mrs. Harmon?” Renie glanced at the house. “Hold it. I didn’t catch everything that went on with you and the real Vern. What do you figure? The dead guy stole his truck and uniform and delivered something other than milk to the Blands?”

  “Possibly,” Judith allowed. “Or he went to collect. But what and why?”

  “Did you see him deliver the milk?” Renie asked. Judith shook her head. “No. He was coming back with an empty carrier. But he reeled off a list of items the Blands had ordered. Or that he claimed they ordered.” She looked again at Mrs. Harmon’s house, with its colorful splash of snapdragons and marigolds. The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking out from behind drifting clouds. “Come on, let’s apologize.”

  “I thought you wanted to see how Mike and the kids were getting along,” Renie said.

  “I do. I will. But,” she went on, “I can’t dwell on them. It breaks my heart. Mike and Kristin have to solve their problems themselves. They know that Joe and I love them, but we can’t interfere, especially these first few days.”

  Judith had already started for Mrs. Harmon’s front door. Renie trotted along behind her. “Not to mention that you’re a suspect,” Renie noted. “Okay, I suppose you’ll be more help to Mike and Kristin if you’re not behind bars.”

  “You got that right,” Judith said, ringing the doorbell.

  Mrs. Harmon answered almost immediately, indicating that she had kept her eye on Judith and Renie all along.

  “This is awkward,” Judith said with an apologetic expression. “May we come in and explain ourselves?”

  Mrs. Harmon surveyed her uninvited guests from head to toe. “You look harmless enough,” she murmured as a black-and-white Pekingese with floppy ears came running to the door and began to bark. “Who are you?”

  Judith introduced herself and Renie. “We grew up in this neighborhood,” she said. “Our uncle still lives here. Al Grover. Do you know him?”

  A twinkle came into Mrs. Harmon’s blue eyes. “Al? That scamp! I’ve known Al Grover forever. Does he still ride in the sheriff’s posse parades?”

  “Not lately,” Judith replied, relieved at making a connection. “But he keeps busy.”

  “Playing the ponies, no doubt,” Mrs. Harmon replied, ushering the cousins inside and shushing the dog. “My late husband and I owned the little grocery store three blocks from here on the corner. It’s a dry cleaners now, but Al used to buy his racing forms from us. He always made Jess and me laugh. Such a kidder!”

  “I remember your store,” Renie put in. “When I was a kid, I bought comic books there.”

  For the next five minutes, the cousins and Mrs. Harmon reminisced about the old days and how much the neighborhood had changed. Mrs. Harmon recalled Cliff and Deborah Grover.

  “You were a skinny little thing with such big teeth,” Mrs. Harmon said to Renie. “Looks like you’ve still got them.”

  Judith was growing impatient to steer the conversation around to the Blands. “Tell Mrs. Harmon about your fascination for the Bland house, coz,” Judith said, nudging Renie, who was sitting next to her on a chintz-covered couch in the small but tidy living room.

  Renie took the suggestion and ran with it. “Then,” she said, “I managed to get Judith interested, too.”

  She paused. Judith understood why. Renie wasn’t sure if she should reveal what a strange twist Judith’s interest had taken.

  Judith, however, felt there was no point in withholding the truth. She told Mrs. Harmon the entire story, bringing it up to the point where she’d accosted Vern Benson on the sidewalk.

  Mrs. Harmon listened with only minor interruptions, including a couple of admonishments for Doodle, who seemed fascinated with Renie’s purse. Instead of shock or even surprise, the old lady absorbed the information as if she’d heard far more outlandish tales in her time. Which, Judith realized, she probably had.

  “My, my,” Mrs. Harmon said with a sigh. “There was a mention of a body in a car trunk on TV last night, but it was very brief, and I didn’t pay much attention. It didn’t happen in our neighborhood, after all. I’m afraid that as I get older, I become more isolated from the rest of the city.” She offered the cousins an apologetic look. “There’s so much evil these days, you become hardened to it. Crime. Violence. Murder. Robbery.” She sighed heavily. “Jess and I were held up three times in four years.” She glanced at Renie. “Not while you lived here, but later. That’s why we finally decided to give up the store almost twenty years ago. The new owners couldn’t keep it going. So the dry cleaners moved in. Anyway, I can see why you’d be fascinated by the Bland house. We were, too. We’d take walks—Jess and I were always great walkers—and we’d often go by it. They moved in before we did. The first few times we went by, the house was very nice—beautiful, really, and so unusual for this neighborhood. There was a greenhouse and a pond and such lovely plantings. But after a time, it all began to go downhill.”

  “When would that have been?” Judith inquired.

  Mrs. Harmon smoothed one of the crocheted anti-macassars on the arm of her chair. “We moved here in ’51. I heard the Blands had bought their house in ’47, ’48, not long after the war. As I recall, it was only a year or two after we moved to Langford that the place began to deteriorate.”

  “Did you know Mr. and Mrs. Bland?” Renie asked.

  Mrs. Harmon chuckled softly. “I never met them. But they had two children—a boy and a girl—who went to school with our twins. I think one of them was adopted. That’s the reason I know the name. Nice children, but quiet. Th
ey never played with our kids. But then we were a few blocks away, and ours were in between the Blands’.”

  “I mentioned,” Judith put in, “that we met Lynette. She must be married to the son.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Harmon replied. “Yes. Now what was his name? Something biblical…Matthew, Mark…No, Luke. That’s right, Luke Bland.” She laughed, a merry sound. “It’s coming back to me now. Luke was adopted. Now this is all hearsay, of course, from the other parents in PTA. I believe Mr. Bland served in World War Two. Mrs. Hermanson—or was it Mrs. Bruce? Anyway, whoever it was told me that Mr. Bland had been wounded in the war and couldn’t have children. That’s why they adopted. Then, when our twins were in second grade, the Blands had a baby girl. Unless there was some monkeyshines on Mrs. Bland’s part, I guess it was just neighborhood gossip about Mr. Bland. He was wounded, though.” She paused, holding up one finger. “Ah. I remember now. Anna, that was the daughter’s name. I’ve no idea what became of her. Our Sharon and Roy were out of grade school before she entered kindergarten.” Mrs. Harmon scooted forward in the armchair. “Could I make you some tea? Or coffee?”

  “No thank you,” Judith replied. “We should be heading for Uncle Al’s shortly. Tell me, do you know if Mr. Bland had a job?”

  “No, I don’t.” Mrs. Harmon settled back in the chair. “He may not have. It’s possible that he had a disability pension from the army.”

  “Weird,” Renie remarked, shaking her head. “Surely the neighbors must have speculated about why the Blands were such recluses. Not to mention why they let such a lovely house deteriorate.”

  “Of course the neighbors talked,” Mrs. Harmon agreed. “At least, at first. Everybody had a theory. But that’s what they were—theories. Like the army pension. If that’s all they had in the way of income, they couldn’t keep up such a grand house. Some thought they took in boarders. I understand someone else has been living there for quite a while. A few gossiped about a drinking problem. My husband figured there was money in the family, but either it wasn’t enough to maintain the house or else they were just plain lazy.”