by Mary Daheim
“What’s up?” Renie asked. “Why did you call from Joe’s line?”
“Oh! I didn’t think . . . never mind,” Judith said, sitting back in the chair. “I’ve got a problem. I have to make this quick and please don’t ask a lot of questions. Could you or Bill come over and get Joe’s guns? Bill has two safes, right?”
“Three, in fact,” Renie replied. “Bill is the safest man I know. Not always sane, but safe. I’ll ask him. I’d rather not be driving around Heraldsgate Hill with an arsenal. Unlike my husband, I do not have a concealed-weapons carry permit.”
“Thanks. How soon can he get here?”
“Let me find out.”
Renie called to her husband—three times. Judith finally heard Bill bark a response. A muffled exchange ensued, with only a few audible, if unprintable, words from each of the Joneses.
“He’ll be right over,” Renie said into the phone before lowering her voice. “He has to leave the TV on for Oscar. The show they’re watching has some Victoria’s Secret commercials.”
Judith ignored the remark about Oscar’s alleged voyeurism. “Tell Bill to come in the back way and go up to the family quarters. I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay. Bye.” Renie clicked off first.
Judith figured it shouldn’t take Bill more than five minutes to get from the north to the south side of the hill. The digital clock on Joe’s filing cabinet informed her that it was 7:40. She wondered if Alicia had put the soufflé in the oven. It didn’t really matter. Judith had lost her appetite. To kill time, she looked through some of the items on the desk. The SANECO file was peeking out from under an instruction brochure for the new fishing rod and reel Mike and Kristin had given Joe for Christmas. Judith couldn’t resist taking a peek inside the file, but there wasn’t much of interest: the alleged name of the now-deceased insurance claimant, his condo’s address on the northwest side of the lake, his partially paralyzed but perhaps fraudulent condition resulting from an on-the-job accident while working for the city, and the address of the houseboat from where Joe would conduct his surveillance.
The house seemed very quiet on the third floor. Judith stood up, gazing out the window that looked over the garage, the toolshed, and the big white Dooley house on the other side of the cul-de-sac. It was still raining, but there wasn’t much wind. Headlights appeared off to her left. A moment later, the Joneses’ Camry pulled up just a few yards short of the Flynns’ double garage. Judith went into the hall to wait for Bill.
Wearing his heavy-duty, all-purpose, all-ready-for-anything-short-of-the-Apocalypse jacket and snap-brim corduroy cap, Bill ascended the stairs without looking up until he got to the top. “Well?” he said in his usual no-nonsense manner. “Where are the guns?”
“Still in the safe.” Judith led the way into Joe’s office. “There are only two—the Beretta and the Glock.”
“Are they loaded?”
“Yes.”
Bill nodded. “Good answer. I’ll check.”
Judith left the guns in their holsters and handed them over. She knew, as Bill did, that the guns weren’t loaded. But it was never smart to assume otherwise. She stood next to the safe, patiently watching Bill make sure there was no ammo in either weapon.
“Where is Joe?” Bill asked in his calm, midwestern voice.
“In jail.”
“Still?”
“Well . . .” Judith wasn’t sure what to say. “He’s still at police headquarters. I think.”
Bill frowned. “He’s somewhere? Or not?” Before Judith could respond, he put the guns into a canvas bag and shook his head. “Never mind. Boppin’.” Turning on his heel, he headed out of Joe’s office.
“Thanks!” Judith called after him.
“Call if you need me,” Bill said without turning around. He shut the door behind him.
Feeling relieved, not only in knowing the guns would be secure, but that Bill meant what he said, Judith took a deep breath. There was something reassuring about Renie’s husband. Maybe it was all those years of listening to patients tell him their troubles and waiting to figure out if he could help them. Knowing, too, that most of the men and women who poured out their problems would be just as screwed up with or without his advice, but he’d still get paid. It was a living, and he needed that with three kids and Renie, all of whom believed money was good only for spending.
Making sure everything in the office was in place, Judith turned off the light and made her way downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, Alicia was taking the soufflé out of the oven.
“Shh,” she warned Judith before speaking in a whisper. “We don’t want this to fall, do we?” Cautiously carrying the soufflé, she went into the dining room, where Reggie was already sitting with a napkin tucked under his short chin.
“Ah,” he said softly. “Délicieux, eh, ma petite.”
Alicia gently put the glass baking dish on a ceramic tile. “Voilà!” she exclaimed under her breath. “Bon appétit!”
Judith felt obligated to at least try the soufflé. As she sat down at her grandparents’ solid oak dining room table, she noted that not only had a place been set for her, but that there was also a Caesar salad in a large blue mixing bowl.
“It looks lovely,” Judith said, aware that her voice lacked enthusiasm. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you’d be here for dinner. I would’ve prepared something. It’s been kind of hectic here today.”
“It’s the least we can do,” Alicia declared. “It’s no trouble to make the soufflé. Reggie found the salad fixings, including the croutons. He also used your Caesar dressing, although it was the last of what was in the jar. You might want to make a note of that.”
“I will,” Judith responded, having filled her plate with some of the soufflé as well as the salad. “In fact, there may be an unopened jar toward the back of the—”
“Oh!” Alicia snapped her fingers. “Speaking of notes, I meant to jot down one for you. While you were gone wherever you went, Norma Paine stopped by to drop off a pillow for . . . Walter, I believe it was. I can’t keep the Paine sons straight. Which one has the wart?”
“Ah . . . I’m not sure,” Judith admitted. “I haven’t seen the Paine children in years. Why did she bring a—”
“Must be Walter,” Reggie broke in. “W for Walter, w for wart.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you think?”
Alicia looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. But not necessarily. It could be Andrew. Whoever it is, the wart’s on his hand, and that would make me think of Handy Andy.”
“True,” Reggie agreed. “Oh, splendid soufflé, darling! Top-notch!”
Judith took a taste and deemed it edible, if gluelike. “Getting back to the pillow,” she said, “why did Norma bring one here?”
“What?” Alicia looked puzzled. “Oh! The pillow. Yes, Norma told me that Walter—or Andrew—has neck problems and uses a therapeutic pillow. She keeps one for him at their house when he—whichever ‘he’ it is—visits. I gather Walter—or Andrew—is rather absentminded.”
“He . . .” Judith paused. “Their son doesn’t live around here?”
Alicia blinked several times at Judith. “Which one?”
“The one who needs the pillow,” Judith replied patiently.
“Oh.” Alicia tapped the table with her fork. “Let me think . . . I don’t know if either of the Paine sons lives in the city. One owns a ranch somewhere and another has a home in . . . I forgot . . . and one lives somewhere on the Eastside, but out near the hunt club. Which reminds me, have you and Jim thought about joining the club? It’s very exciting.”
Judith tried not to wince. “Jim? You mean Joe? My husband?”
Alicia laughed in her shrill, annoying manner. “Yes, yes, of course. How silly of me. Do you have pinks?”
Judith was beginning to think the grueling day had sucked her brain out of her head. “You mean . . . i
n the garden?” Oh no, Alicia’s going to laugh again . . . I can’t stand it!
But she was forced to endure another shrill round of mirth from her so-called guest. “I’m talking about hunting attire,” Alicia said, the earsplitting hilarity subsiding. “The red—or scarlet jackets, to be precise, are called ‘pinks.’ ” She looked at Reggie, who was devouring soufflé at a rapid rate. “Do you know why they’re called that, darling?”
Reggie gazed up at the antique chandelier with its orange-flame-colored bulbs. “Some Brit tradition, I believe. Male riders and staff wear pinks, even though the coats are scarlet. Probably something to do with whoever was king at the time being color-blind. With equal rights, women can probably wear them, too.”
“I do,” Alicia huffed, “as you well know.”
“Yes, darling, but you’re an American.” He shoveled another forkful of soufflé into his mouth.
“True,” Alicia allowed, “and I intend to stay that way.”
Judith decided to change the subject before she lost whatever grip on sanity she had left. “Where did Norma put her son’s pillow?”
Alicia shrugged. “I’m not sure. She took it upstairs. Maybe in one of the bedrooms? I was focused on making the soufflé and I didn’t pay much attention. Norma can be so overbearing.”
Judith stood up. The soufflé was sticking to the roof of her mouth; she couldn’t speak without lisping. “I bedder find where thee pud it. Excuthe me.”
Using the front stairs, she glanced at the broken registry stand that was propped against the opposite wall. Maybe wood glue was the answer. The big suitcase was gone, no doubt removed to Room Three by Reggie. Reaching the second floor, she braced herself in case Mayo was on the loose. To her relief, there was neither sight nor sound of the dog. Judith noticed a plastic-covered package on the settee by the stairs. Peeking inside, she saw that it contained what looked like a modular-shaped foam-rubber pillow. Judith didn’t know which room the son with the bad neck would be staying in, so she put the pillow in the linen closet between Rooms Three and Four. To save herself a trip to the third floor, she went into the vacant Room Four and entered the shared bathroom to dislodge the soufflé gunk before it drove her crazy.
She gave a start when she saw Mayo asleep in the bathtub. The animal didn’t stir while she cleaned her mouth with a tissue, but Judith was not pleased that the dog had turned the tub into his sleeping quarters. His owners should have brought the animal’s bed with them. It was possible that Jean Rogers might want to use the tub instead of the shower.
Judith went back through the hall and down the narrow corridor to Room Two. She knocked twice. No one responded. Maybe Jean was asleep. Judith knocked again, but heard nothing. Jean had indicated that she was staying in to prepare for her conference. Judith called her name. There was no answer. She turned the knob. The door opened. The room was empty. Jean must have changed her mind. Judith decided to leave a note about the dog in the bathtub. As she looked for something to write on, it dawned on her that the room was not just empty—it was devoid of any signs of occupancy. No handbag, no laptop, no carry-on bag. It was as if Jean had never been in the room.
But she had been there earlier to make her acerbic remarks about the accommodations. Judith wondered if, for some unforeseeable reason, Jean had suddenly checked out. Given the B&B’s track record, Judith could only hope that yet another Hillside Manor guest hadn’t checked out permanently.
Chapter Seven
Judith went back downstairs to the dining room. The Beard-Smythes were almost finished with dinner. Reggie, in fact, was just getting to his feet. “Time to take Mayo for a walk,” he announced. “I wonder if it’s still raining.”
Any reproof about the dog sleeping in the tub had slipped down on Judith’s priority list. “Did either of you see a woman in her thirties leave the house in the past hour or so?”
The couple exchanged puzzled glances. “Do you mean,” Reggie inquired, “someone who was in the living room during the get-together?”
“No,” Judith replied. “I don’t think Ms. Rogers joined them. She’s a professional woman. Not particularly striking, but she would have been carrying her belongings.”
They both shook their heads. Alicia stood up. “I didn’t come out to the dining room until we were ready to serve. Reggie set the table.”
Reggie shrugged. “I didn’t hear or see anything. Quiet around here after those guests went on their way.”
“Good.” Judith started to pick up the blue bowl and the salad tongs. “By any chance, do you know how—”
“No, no!” Alicia cried, snatching the bowl away from Judith. “We can clean up after ourselves. It’s the least we can do to repay your . . . oops!” The bowl slipped out of her hands, fell onto the hardwood floor just beyond the Persian carpet, and broke into a half-dozen pieces. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. Do you think it can be mended?”
“Probably not,” Judith said bleakly. “It’s my grandmother’s Depression-era LuRay mixing bowl.” On a whim, she’d recently checked the bowl’s price on eBay. The minimum bid was a hundred dollars.
“Just as well, then,” Alicia said, picking up the broken pieces. “Who needs depressing cookware? I buy all my everyday china from Williams-Sonoma. I save the Sèvres and Limoges services for entertaining.” She elbowed her way through the swinging half doors between the dining room and kitchen.
Judith cringed as she heard what was left of Grandma Grover’s beloved bowl clatter into the garbage can under the sink. Reggie, meanwhile, was clearing the rest of the table. By something akin to a miracle, he didn’t drop, spill, or break anything. Judith followed him into the kitchen.
“I must ask how your big suitcase crashed down the stairs,” Judith said in what she hoped was a conversational tone. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but it may have something to do with Ms. Rogers’s early checkout. She may’ve been in a rush.”
Reggie placed the dishes and cutlery into the sink. “Hmm,” he murmured, stroking his thin mustache. “Can’t think of any possible explanation. Sorry.”
“Sure.” Judith opened the dishwasher. “One other thing,” she continued, still trying to sound pleasant. “Would you mind not letting Mayo sleep in the bathtub?”
Alicia, who had been gazing at the schoolhouse clock, whirled around. “Have you been snooping in our room?”
“I haven’t been in your room,” Judith replied quietly. “I had to use the adjoining bathroom. That’s how I happened to see your dog. Of course, the room actually belongs to me, doesn’t it?”
A look of dismay came over Alicia’s face. “Well . . . now that you mention it . . . but still . . .”
A banging at the back door stopped the argument. Startled, Judith muttered, “Now what?” before hurrying to see who wanted in. Only family members and the Rankerses came in that way.
“Where’s my pie?” Gertrude demanded, rolling along the hall in her motorized wheelchair. “I’ve been waiting since Hector was a pup.” She stopped halfway through the kitchen. “Who are you?” the old lady rasped. “The hired help?” She turned to Judith. “Since when could you afford to pay a couple of stiffs like these two? Or did you finally fire that Bible-beating nut job with the funny hair?”
“We are not the hired help,” Alicia asserted haughtily.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Gertrude grumbled. “Where’s my pie? This pair better not have eaten it.” She glared first at Alicia and then at Reggie, who was again stroking his sparse mustache. “Say, buster, what’s with that fuzzy stuff on your upper lip? You trying to rub it into sprouting some real whiskers or make it disappear? Either way, it’d be an improvement.”
“Mother!” Judith cried. “Please! This is Mr. and Mrs. Beard-Smythe from church.”
Gertrude shot her daughter a puzzled glance. “Beard? Bad name for Buster. He must be Mr. Smythe.” She stared up at Alicia. “You could use
some tweezing on that chin of yours, Mrs. Beard. Or maybe you got piecrust crumbs stuck to it.”
“I think,” Alicia said stiltedly, “Reggie and I should retire now.”
“Retire?” Gertrude shot back. “From what? If Dummy here is paying you, it doesn’t look as if you’ve finished cleaning up. Get cracking.” She stared at Judith. “Okay, Toots, let’s see that marionberry pie. As Grandpa Grover used to say, my mouth’s been set for it since six o’clock.” The old lady maneuvered the wheelchair up to the kitchen table. “Well? What’s with the two blockheads standing around? Fish or cut bait, chumps. You got to earn your keep around here.”
Alicia grabbed her husband’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs. I refuse to be insulted by such a . . . a person. Really, Judith, don’t you have any control over this . . . relic?”
“Not really,” Judith said placidly. “She’s the house’s legal owner.”
“Oh my God!” Alicia cried, hauling Reggie out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “I’ve never been treated so shabbily in my life. I rescind my invitation asking you to join the hunt club. In fact, maybe we should have stayed at a . . .”
The rant trailed off as the Beard-Smythes stomped up the front stairs. Judith shook her head and removed the pie from the fridge.
Gertrude looked puzzled. “Hunt club? Hunt for what? Another job? They sure didn’t do a very good one here.”
Judith leaned down to kiss the top of her mother’s head. “I’ve never loved you more than I do at this moment.”
“Good,” Gertrude said, patting her daughter’s hand. “I took one look at those two and figured them for would-bes, as your aunt Deb would say. I don’t know what they would want to be if they weren’t stuck being themselves, but I didn’t figure them for guests. Too pushy.”
“You’re right,” Judith said, cutting a generous slice of pie for Gertrude and a smaller one for herself. “They’re SOTS who have no heat at their house. In a weak moment, I let them spend the night here.”
“They got coats, don’t they? How about blankets?” Gertrude gazed reverently at the pie. “Are you going to warm it up? I wouldn’t mind some vanilla ice cream on top.”