All the Pretty Hearses

by Mary Daheim

  “You back from the hoosegow?” she asked. “Is Mr. F. on a chain gang yet?”

  “Not quite.” Judith had hung her jacket on a peg in the hall before entering the kitchen. “But he won’t be home right away,” she added, putting her purse on the counter by the computer. “Any calls or other annoying interruptions?”

  “Just your mother, the reincarnation of Queen Herodias,” Phyliss replied. “I think she wants your husband’s head on a platter.”

  “Sounds about right,” Judith murmured.

  The cleaning woman ran some water in the sink before looking at Judith. “This sounds serious. Has Mr. F. done something sinful?”

  “No. It’s just that the situation is very confusing. Joe’s innocent.”

  Phyliss nodded, her sausage curls bobbing up and down. “That’s what I said. Just like John the Baptist. Not that being innocent did him much good. Losing your head makes it hard to wear a hat.”

  “At least Saint John got a halo.” Judith tried to square her shoulders, but lacked the energy and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “All done,” Phyliss announced. “Guess I’ll head for home. It’s a good thing I brought my bumbershoot today. My bunions told me it was going to rain. God works in wondrous ways.”

  As far as Judith was concerned, God wasn’t working at all. Neither was her brain. She simply sat and stared unseeingly until Phyliss had gone home and the house suddenly became uncommonly quiet. Too quiet, she finally realized, getting up and opening the refrigerator door. After staring at the interior for at least a full minute, she closed the door and opened the freezer compartment. There were still some frozen hors d’oeuvres left over from the holidays that Cousin Sue had brought from Gutbusters, the huge discount chain’s flagship store east of the lake. The Beard-Smythes might not show up for the social hour. Judith removed two of the three packages, setting them on the counter to thaw.

  The middle-aged couple from Indianapolis returned shortly after four, complaining about the rain, but pleased with their purchases at a local souvenir shop on the waterfront. They went upstairs to take a nap before going to dinner at a seafood restaurant that overlooked the ship canal. Judith wondered how close the restaurant was to the houseboat where Joe had been doing his surveillance work. The only newspaper and TV reports about the condo shooting had been mercifully brief, overshadowed by what had so far had been an unusually warm—and dry—winter. Weather always was big news, often being unpredictable in Judith’s part of the world. No doubt the rain would lead off the local TV broadcasts at five. Not that she ever had time to watch the early edition—Judith was always too busy welcoming guests and preparing for the social hour.

  Shortly after four o’clock, the single woman arrived via taxi. She immediately began griping about the rain. “I was warned it’d be like this,” she said, shaking out her navy-blue raincoat. “Luckily, I’m only in town for one night.”

  Judith wasn’t in the mood to argue. She handed the guest register to the new arrival. “I’ll need your other information, too. Jean Rogers, right?”

  “Yes. Do you want to see my driver’s license?”

  “Please.”

  Jean Rogers removed a black leather wallet from her brown suede drawstring handbag. “Here. I’m from Phoenix and I’m used to decent weather, even in the winter.”

  The picture on the license wasn’t flattering, but, Judith thought uncharitably, there wasn’t much to work with. Jean was in her late thirties, plain as a post, and wore her dark hair pulled back into a careless knob that only accentuated her sharp features and pale skin. According to the license, she was five foot seven, weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, needed glasses for driving, but had no other restrictions—such as being unpleasant. Or so Judith thought to herself. The background on the license looked like the Grand Canyon and was far more attractive than the driver’s picture.

  “I paid in advance with my credit card,” Jean said as Judith handed back the license. “Did you get it?”

  “Yes. You’re all set. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Jean picked up her belongings. “How far away is the convention center? I was told it was walkable.”

  “That depends on how much you like to walk,” Judith said, starting up the stairs. “It’s downtown, about two miles from here.”

  “I was informed it was at the bottom of this hill.”

  “That’s the civic center,” Judith replied, reaching the second landing. “Whoever told you that was misinformed.”

  Jean harrumphed. “Typical.”

  “There’s bus service just a block away on Heraldsgate Avenue,” Judith said, pausing in the hallway by the love seat and table. “That’s the guest phone. Most people have a cell these days, but you can use that phone if you need it. There’s also a current supply of magazines and some books if you care to take advantage of them.”

  “I won’t have time,” Jean said. “I must prep for my presentation tomorrow. I like to put my best foot forward.”

  Haven’t seen that third foot, Judith thought. The other two haven’t done it yet. “Of course,” she murmured, and moved on. The single room was at the front of the house, off a short corridor between Rooms One and Three. “Here are your two keys,” she said, opening the door. “One for the room, the other for the front door, if you go out this evening and come back after ten.”

  Jean frowned as she studied her surroundings. “This room is very small.”

  “That’s why it’s a single.”

  Jean set her carry-on, a laptop case, and handbag on the bed before looking at the single window. “I suppose there’s a view when you can see it.”

  “You can see downtown and the bay,” Judith said, pulling the curtain aside. “There’s a ferryboat pulling out. You can see another one coming in halfway across the bay.”

  Jean rolled her pale blue eyes. “Ferryboats! What a thrill. Maybe they’ll sink. Or is that too much excitement for this city?” She peered impatiently at Judith. “Never mind. Are you done?”

  “I sure am,” Judith retorted. “The social hour is at six.”

  “No thanks. I’ll be forced to mingle with strangers tomorrow at the convention center.”

  Lucky them, Judith thought as she left Room Two. Obnoxious guests were the exception, not the rule, at Hillside Manor. Fortunately, the young couple from Kamloops, British Columbia, were friendly and chipper. The widowed sisters were natives, but had lived away from the city for many years. They had come for a family reunion with their brother, and were scheduled to leave the next day to visit other relatives who lived in nearby towns. Having been away for so long, they both lamented many of the changes since their youth. At least the weather was the same, and they liked it that way. San Diego had too much sun for one sister and the other had never cared for the extremes in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

  Shortly before six o’clock, Judith took dinner to Gertrude. For once, the old lady didn’t grouse about not having received her “supper” earlier. Instead, she was chortling over Joe’s misfortune. “Didn’t I tell you he was a bum?” she demanded as Judith set down the tray of leftovers from the previous night’s meal. “Crooked, like most cops. I’ll bet he stole more apples than anybody else on his beat.”

  “Joe never walked a beat,” Judith said, “at least not after he—”

  Gertrude jabbed at the potatoes on her plate. “What is this? Mush? I don’t eat mush for supper.”

  “You do now,” Judith snapped—and was immediately sorry. She put an arm around her mother’s hunched shoulders. “I don’t mean to be nasty. I’m just worried.”

  “About what? Dim Bulb getting out on bail? Maybe he’ll try to escape and they’ll shoot him.”

  Judith removed her arm, but held her tongue. “I have to get back to my guests. I’ll warm up some of the marionberry pie for your dessert.” She fled the toolshed before her mother could do mor
e than make a couple of grumbling noises.

  It was just after six when Judith went back into the house. All of the regular guests—except Jean Rogers—had gathered in the living room to nibble on Gutbusters’ appetizers and sip sherry or sparkling cider. Judith joined them, as was her custom when she had time. Chatting with the visitors was better than stewing about Joe’s dilemma.

  “So much construction!” the sister from Green Bay exclaimed. “Cranes everywhere! It’s like a steel forest around here.”

  “You should come to Kamloops,” the young wife said. “We’re growing, but we’re still small and the countryside is beautiful.”

  “We went to Banff and Lake Louise a few years ago,” the middle-aged husband from Indianapolis said. “Better than Europe. Never saw such pretty lakes and mountains in my life.”

  “We’ve got plenty of lakes,” the Green Bay sister declared, “but we also have plenty of bugs in the . . .”

  Judith heard the doorbell chime and realized she’d forgotten about the Beard-Smythes. Excusing herself, she hurried to the front door. Alicia and Reggie Beard-Smythe stood on the porch. So did a large Irish wolfhound.

  “Good evening, Judith,” Alicia said with a flashing smile that never seemed to reach her sapphire-blue eyes. “It’s so kind of you to give us shelter.” Without waiting to be asked, the couple—and the dog—crossed the threshold into the entry hall. “My goodness,” Alicia said, slipping back the hood on her chic crimson all-weather jacket, “I already feel warmer. It may not be freezing outside, but our house is a refrigerator. We kept at least three of the fireplaces going, but that’s such a nuisance. This,” she added, with a sweep of her elegant hand, “is bliss! So many old furnishings! So much well-worn decor! So archaically quaint!”

  “Have you ever met my mother?” Judith’s question had popped out almost involuntarily.

  Alicia looked uncertain. “I’m not—” She stopped as the wolfhound looked as if he—or she or it—was about to pounce on the elephant-foot umbrella stand despite Reggie’s attempt to tighten his hold on the animal’s leash.

  “Down, Mayo!” Reggie ordered in his high-pitched voice. “Down, boy!” He danced around the large hard-side spinner piece of luggage he’d hauled into the house.

  Mayo backed off, but began sniffing the Persian carpet. The well-worn Persian carpet, Judith thought. No doubt the dog smelled cat. She hoped Sweetums was in the toolshed or outside. She decided against having the Beard-Smythes formally register. “Would you like a drink?”

  Husband and wife exchanged glances. “Well . . . that would be awfully nice,” Alicia said. “How soon is dinner?”

  Judith couldn’t conceal her surprise. “Dinner? I don’t serve dinner for our guests.” She gestured toward the living room. “This is the social hour. You know—time for visitors to get together and compare impressions of the city.”

  Reggie’s pinched face looked puzzled. “But the Paines are coming for dinner tomorrow, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, wincing as Mayo scratched at the powder room door just off the entry hall. “But that’s part of the school auction package.”

  “Oh.” Reggie seemed crestfallen, stroking his thin mustache with long, delicate fingers. “We naturally assumed . . .” He looked at his wife. “What did we assume, darling?”

  Alicia looked discomfited. “There must be some misunderstanding. Martha Morelli told me you were serving dinner. Or was it Norma who mentioned that?” Before Judith could respond, she waved a hand. “That’s unimportant. I took it for granted that we’d dine here. It’s quite impossible to cook when one’s teeth are chattering. I’m sure that we could just have some of what you and Jack are eating tonight.”

  “Joe,” Judith stated firmly. “Joe Flynn. Actually, Joe isn’t here this evening. He’s in ja—jaywalking school. As a retired policeman, he signed up to teach people to cross streets only in crosswalks. Both marked and unmarked. You’ve probably noticed how so many people on top of the hill just pop out from between parked cars, risking life and limb. Very dangerous.”

  “Done it myself,” Reggie admitted, tugging again at Mayo’s leash. “The avenue is so busy these days.” He glanced at his wife. “We can go to a restaurant on top of the hill. But we won’t jaywalk. Heh heh.”

  Alicia, however, seemed disappointed. “Oh, not after all we’ve been through.” She suddenly brightened. “I know! I’ll whip up one of my favorite soufflés. Would you enjoy that, Judith?”

  “Well . . . sure. That sounds fine. Would you like to take your luggage upstairs? You’re in Room Three.”

  “Will do,” Reggie volunteered, pulling on Mayo’s leash. “Ta-ta.”

  Judith was trying to figure out a tactful way to deal with the dog’s presence. “Did Martha—or Norma—mention that I have a cat?”

  Alicia removed her jacket and handed it to Judith. “A cat? No, I don’t think so.” She frowned. “Is your cat well disciplined? Mayo is afraid of cats. Wolfhounds are very sensitive.”

  “Cats in general are difficult to discipline. Sweetums spends much of his time with my mother in the . . . her apartment. Usually, there’s no problem, because I don’t allow pets at the B&B.”

  Alicia looked shocked. “You don’t? How . . . well, I shouldn’t say ‘inhospitable,’ but it strikes me as arbitrary. Mayo is like family.”

  “It’s not a lack of hospitality,” Judith declared. “It’s a courtesy to guests who have allergies to animals. It also safeguards against the kind of damage that untrained pets can incur.” A vision of the savaged lace curtains in Room Five flashed through her mind’s eye. “What,” she continued, changing the subject, “shall I do with your jacket?”

  “Oh.” The query seemed to stump Alicia. “I suppose you could put it in your coat closet down here for now.”

  “We don’t have one,” Judith said. “The original coat closet was replaced by the powder room when I converted the house into a B&B.”

  “How very odd,” Alicia murmured. “Never mind. I should start making my soufflé. Where’s the kitchen?”

  Judith placed the jacket on the hat rack before leading the way through the dining room into the kitchen. “What do you need?” she asked while Alicia studied the high ceiling, the appliances, and the schoolhouse clock.

  “So delectably old-fashioned!” Alicia seemed transfixed by the almost imperceptible movement of the minute hand. “Tick-tock, tick-tock . . . oh! Ingredients. Five eggs, flour, milk, butter, salt, cayenne pepper, two kinds of cheese, lobster, shrimp, or crab. Mayonnaise, too.”

  “I have some frozen shrimp,” Judith said. “Will that do?”

  Alicia grimaced. “It’ll have to. Oh, well. What kind of cheeses do you keep on hand?”

  “Swiss, Gruyère, Havarti, and two different Cheddars.”

  “No Parmesan?”

  “Only in a shaker,” Judith admitted.

  “Dear me.” Alicia gently scratched her cheek with a perfectly manicured and polished nail. “I suppose the Swiss and Gruyère will do. Oh! Mushrooms, of course.”

  Judith wasn’t going to waste the fresh mushrooms she’d bought for the Paines’ dinner. “Canned?”

  Alicia winced. “What kind?”

  “Button. Sliced and unsliced.”

  “I suppose the sliced ones might work if there isn’t any other variety.” She gestured at the stove. “Would you mind turning the oven on to three twenty-five?”

  “No problem.” Judith moved to the stove to set the temperature. “I’ll get the other ingredients from the fridge.”

  “You have a KitchenAid mixer,” Alicia noted. “Mine has seventeen attachments and a glass bowl. So much easier to monitor the mixing process than these old stainless-steel ones. They look as if they belong in a hospital. I also need a quart and a half-size glass baking dish.”

  “Sure,” Judith replied, removing cheese, mayo, but
ter, and milk from the fridge. “I’ll get the shrimp from the freezer so it can thaw. How long does it take for the soufflé to bake?”

  “Forty-five minutes,” Alicia replied, checking the oven temperature. “That’s less heat and a longer time than for the creamy kind, but Reggie is one for a firm soufflé. Where are your spatulas?”

  “Second drawer on the left from the mixer,” Judith said, searching for the shrimp in the freezer compartment. “How much—”

  The ringing of the phone interrupted her.

  “I’ll get it,” Alicia said. She grabbed the receiver from the cradle on the counter. “Yes?”

  Judith found the shrimp just as a loud crash practically shook the house. Screams and shouts erupted from the living room. Dumping the shrimp on the counter, she raced as fast as she could through the dining room and into the entry hall.

  All of the guests who’d been enjoying the social hour were crowding together in the archway of the living room entrance. Judith couldn’t see anything amiss. She counted heads to make sure everyone was alive.

  “Suitcase,” the husband from Indianapolis said, pointing to the first landing on the stairs. “I think.”

  Sure enough, the heavy piece of luggage belonging to the Beard-Smythes had fallen from above and toppled the stand on which Judith kept her guest register and visitors’ information.

  “How on earth . . . ?” she murmured, looking up to the second landing. No one was in sight. The impact of the hard-side case had broken one of the stand’s legs; the register was under the luggage and the visitor guides were scattered all over the bottom stairs and the entry-hall floor.

  “Let me help,” the young man from Kamloops offered.

  He was joined by his wife and the husband from Indianapolis, whose first name Judith suddenly recalled was Edgar.

  “Did anybody see what happened?” Judith asked, aware that she was trembling.

  No one responded right away, until finally the San Diego sister spoke up. “We were all chatting and having such a nice time. Then there was that terrifying crash.” She moved closer to the accident site. “Oh my! That stand looks like an antique. Can you get it fixed?”