by Mary Daheim
She moved on to her incoming guests. It didn’t take long. The lack of availability on Friday night had forced her to turn down parties who’d wanted to stay through the weekend. Thus she was left with only three of the rooms occupied by paying guests: a pair of middle-aged women from the Chicago area, a married couple from Savannah, and two young men from Lexington, Kentucky, who planned to check out early Sunday morning for a flight to the Middle East. Despite herself, she frowned at the Lexington duo’s names: Qani Rahman and Darab Abdel.
Why, she asked herself, do I have to even pause for a second to wonder about people with Muslim names? It’s so unfair. And yet I do it, all because of a bunch of crazed fanatics who slaughter innocent people and, in the process, tarnish millions of decent Muslims? She shook her head. And then it struck her that within hours, her own husband was going to be accused of a murder he hadn’t committed.
What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I ask—even beg—Addison if he could somehow stop the story from being released? But he could only keep the news out of the paper. The rest of the media wouldn’t hesitate to tell the world that retired police detective Joseph Flynn was accused of killing a helpless man in a wheelchair.
Judith looked out the kitchen window. The Rankers house was still dark. One more thing to worry about, she thought, and picked up the phone to dial Renie’s number.
“You’re late,” her cousin growled into the phone. “Don’t tell me you’re calling from jail, too.”
“You’ve got caller ID,” Judith retorted. “You know I’m home.”
“Huh? Oh yeah—right. Didn’t look. Assumed it was one of our children calling for money. So what’s going on? You need money, too? I haven’t got any.”
“I need help,” Judith said, and explained her delayed reaction to the ruse of Joe’s arrest in the hope of ferreting out the real killer. “How can I stop this? It’s outrageous.”
“It’s stupid,” Renie said. “There’s no guarantee that’ll happen. What are those idiots thinking? Has Woody lost his mind?” Her voice kept rising with every question. “Why is Joe going along with it? Why doesn’t he call Bub? Has everybody gone nuts except thee and me?”
Judith had to hold the phone away from her ear to keep her cousin’s voice from piercing an eardrum. “Hey, keep it down, coz! You’ll wake up Bill.”
“Bill wears earplugs to bed,” Renie said in her normal voice. “He says I snore. Is that true?”
“Not that I know of,” Judith said. “It’s that gum-chewing in bed that drives me nuts when we travel together. Don’t get sidetracked. I need some sensible advice.”
“Spring Joe,” Renie said. “Kidnap him. Whatever. Just get him out of the cops’ clutches. They don’t know what they’re doing. I’m surprised at Woody. He’s very sharp. The only thing I can think of is that he’s desperate.” She paused for a couple of beats. “Or he’s being pressured. How long has he been on this new job?”
“Two weeks,” Judith said, realizing what Renie might be thinking. “Woody and Joe—both in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’ve been set up for a reason. But what can it be? Something to do with the police department’s internal affairs? Or, as Addison has hinted, even higher up?”
“That sounds more like it,” Renie remarked. “I’ll bet it’s not just recent dirt, but something from the past. Why else drag Uncle Al into it? He hasn’t been a serious player for at least fifteen, twenty years.”
“But he knows where the bodies are buried—literally,” Judith said, warming to the subject. “Remember those stories he and Uncle Vince used to tell about the Teamsters meetings they attended and how anyone who disagreed with the bosses was hustled off and never seen again?”
“Right. The only witnesses were bottom fish out in the bay. But,” Renie went on, “that was fifty, sixty years ago and some of those union leaders went to the slammer. I doubt that whatever’s going on now would go back that far.”
“Maybe not,” Judith allowed. “That doesn’t make me feel any better about Joe being the fall guy.”
“Well . . .” Renie paused again. “You could always solve the whole thing before they charge him.”
“Coz! I don’t even know the problem, let alone the solution.”
“True.” She paused again. “How about this? I confess and they put me in jail?”
“What?”
“Why not? My projects keep getting interrupted. If I were in jail, I’d have some peace and quiet. In fact, I was just getting started when you called.”
“Sorry,” Judith mumbled. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“That’s okay,” Renie said. “Maybe there’s no rush on this lighting-department project now that Zachary’s . . . say, what if Sam Forrester knows something about this? He’s the guy I’m working with. If Zachary was hanging out in a condo in a wheelchair, a lot of people who worked with him must know something.”
“Of course! I forgot about your connection to lighting—excuse the bad joke,” Judith said, revitalized. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Why didn’t I? It should’ve dawned on me sooner, but I got so distracted with all the Paines and then Bill and Uncle Al being hustled off by the cops. I know Sam fairly well. He’s their PR guy and we’ve worked together before. I’ll call him tomorrow, even if it’s Saturday.”
“Great!” Judith exclaimed. “Any chance you’ll be up before ten?”
“Not in a thousand years, even for you,” Renie replied, “but I’ll call him before noon. I’ve got his home phone number. Wait—I just thought of something. My deadline is for mid-February, but originally it was set for the end of this month . . . hold on.”
Judith sat down at the kitchen table, hearing shuffling noises at the other end of the line. A glance at the schoolhouse clock showed it was twelve-thirty. She had perked up when reminded that her cousin had an in at the lighting department, but yawning when she heard Renie speak into her ear.
“This is really interesting,” she said to Judith. “I was notified of the deadline change just before New Year’s Eve. The reason for it, and I quote from the message Sam e-mailed to me, ‘We have some leeway with your retired employee newsletter design. Both Francine Sloane-Marcos and Zachary Conrad will be out of the office for much of January. Francine is going skiing for ten days in Switzerland and Zachary is taking a paid leave of absence for two weeks to work on a special project. Hope this eases up your scheduled workload. Happy New Year!’ What do you make of that?”
Judith didn’t answer right away. “Not personal reasons . . . a ‘special project’ . . . doesn’t that sound to you as if he’d either been given an unofficial assignment or at the very least had someone over him who could okay whatever he was going to do?”
“Definitely,” Renie replied, “since he was getting paid for it.”
“A very high price,” Judith murmured. “He paid for it with his life. I wonder if he knew what he was getting . . .” She sucked in her breath. “Whoa! No mention of his health or lack thereof. Surely if he’d been crippled, it would’ve been a medical leave, right?”
“Yes,” Renie agreed. “Does this mean Zachary was sitting in for someone else and the wrong man was killed?”
“It could,” Judith said. “But it could also mean something else. Maybe Joe and Woody aren’t the only ones who are the fall guys. It’s beginning to sound as if Zachary Conrad was set up, too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Despite being dog-tired, Judith had trouble going to sleep that night. Her brain couldn’t stop asking questions she couldn’t answer. She had to force herself to close her eyes. But she still saw Joe, adamantly resigned to his fate; Woody, grim and yet somehow helpless; Arlene and Carl, waiting tensely in the ER; Addison, wistful and worried; Zachary Conrad, dead in the city morgue; and, more vividly, a phantom horse galloping across the night sky high above Heraldsgate Hill.
It
was the horse that woke her up. She’d been dreaming, and rolled over to reach for Joe. Feeling nothing but the smooth flannel sheet, she was jarred into reality. What was the dream and what was hard fact? Pummeling the vacant space in the bed with her fist, she was on the verge of tears—until she realized that the first streaks of light had appeared on the eastern horizon beyond the Rankers house. Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked at the clock on the nightstand. Its red numbers informed her it was 7:33.
I’ve overslept, she thought, panicking. And then remembered that there were no guests preparing to come downstairs at eight o’clock. Gertrude, of course, would be waiting for breakfast. I must have slept, but I don’t feel rested. With a twinge of guilt, she lay back down, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
The telephone woke her up. Struggling out of a drowsy fog, she fumbled for the receiver and croaked a hello into the earpiece. A sharp voice at the other end made her realize the mistake.
“Sorry,” she said thickly. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?” Renie demanded in an anxious voice.
“Yes,” Judith said, awkwardly sitting up. The clock registered 10:25. “I was asleep.”
“Good grief!” Renie exclaimed. “Did you use knockout drops?”
“No,” Judith replied, adjusting to the dull morning light. “I was tired. What’s going on?”
“Well . . .” Renie hesitated. “You’d better get yourself together. Then we’ll talk. It’s not a crisis. I have some things to run by you. Okay?”
“Uh . . . I guess. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll make it thirty.” Renie hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, Judith had showered, shampooed her hair, blown it almost dry, and gotten dressed. By 10:40, she was entering the kitchen, where Addison Kirby was sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
“Hello there,” he said, closing the sports section. “Relax. Nothing in this morning’s edition about Joe being charged with homicide. I knew there wouldn’t be—they were already past deadline last night. I doubt it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper either. The early edition of the front page has to go to press today to be delivered outside the metro area.”
Judith took a deep breath. “That’s a relief. But Mother must be having a cat fit.”
“Mrs. G. is just fine,” Addison assured her. “I made her ham and eggs with toast. In fact, we had breakfast together and discussed Tennessee Williams. She considers him a better American playwright than Arthur Miller, but admits she only saw one of August Wilson’s, Joe Turner’s Come and Gone.”
“Good Lord,” Judith murmured, bracing herself against the fridge. “How did I miss her penchant for theater? I’ve always thought she considered Ozzie and Harriet the epitome of American drama.”
Addison’s hazel eyes twinkled. “According to your mother, there was a long period during your first marriage when you had limited contact with her—or anyone in the family.”
Steadying herself, Judith nodded. “True. Dan held me a virtual captive. Sometimes I could see Mother on Sundays. I hardly saw Renie at all.” She paused to get a mug from the cupboard and pour herself some coffee. “I did talk to Renie at night occasionally after Dan had gone to sleep—or passed out.” Judith sat down opposite Addison. “But when I did see or even talk to Mother, our conversation necessarily stayed on more vital topics than the arts. I had no idea what she was doing most of the time I was with Dan.”
Addison’s expression was sympathetic. “That’s grim. I’m sorry.”
Judith shrugged. “You needn’t apologize. It’s just the way things were. I was also working two jobs. That didn’t give me much time for extracurricular activities, even if Dan hadn’t been a jackass about cutting me off from my family.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it didn’t.” His smile was wry. “It’s odd how nobody ever knows what really goes on between married people once the door is closed.”
“How true.” She paused, wondering if Addison was about to reveal some deep dark secret about his own marriage.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stood up, refilled his coffee mug, and picked up a sheet of paper next to the computer. “Journalists have insatiable curiosity. I don’t know much about gardening and bulbs, but I decided to put ‘mixed sales’ into the browser. A long shot, but maybe that term is appropriate.” He slid the printed sheet across the table. “What do you think?”
Judith’s eyes widened as she read the various Web sites, beginning with Tattersalls Mixed Sale|| Quality Horses! 2005 January SELECT MIXED SALE . . . at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. The sites that followed were for similar upcoming sales around the country. “Horses! Is that what this is all about?”
Addison lifted his shoulders. “Could be. At least a couple of former city and county types are on the state racing commission. What about Uncle Al? Isn’t he a betting man when it comes to the ponies?”
“Oh, and then some,” Judith said under her breath. “He’s probably at the track right now watching simulcasts from the courses that are open this time of year. I always wondered when he had his restaurants open if . . .”
“Yes?” Addison’s penetrating eyes seemed to be reading her mind.
She threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, you know what I mean. They were making book behind the closed door. Horses, ball games, prizefights, the tortoise and the hare, for all I know. Renie and I were never allowed to take so much as a peek, but even now—” She stopped abruptly. “Let’s just say that Cousin Sue and her husband, Ken, along with their two sons, have carried on the family tradition in a more . . . legalized way. I think.”
Addison looked puzzled. “But Sue isn’t Uncle Al’s daughter?”
“Right, Uncle Al never married,” Judith replied. “She’s Aunt Ellen and Uncle Win’s girl. They live in Beatrice, Nebraska. Sue married Ken Dalton, who was already in the restaurant business over on the Eastside. She met him on one of Aunt Ellen and Uncle Win’s annual visits out here. Sue and Ken run a big poker room in the county, such things being illegal in some of the towns around here, as you probably know.”
Addison smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard some interesting tidbits about their seemingly innocent family-style restaurant. More like La Famiglia. Didn’t somebody try to blow them up?”
“Yes, on Christmas Eve morning a few years ago,” Judith said. “The timing upset all of us. We didn’t think Sue and Ken would make it for Santa Claus’s arrival behind the curtain. Fortunately, their archrival was caught and is now serving time in the state penitentiary. Doing fifteen to twenty, and he was eighty-five when he set the bomb in their truck, so he may never be eligible for parole. If it hadn’t been for the long-lost relative who showed up with astounding news about Great-Uncle . . .” Seeing Addison’s expression grow more and more quizzical, Judith clamped her mouth shut. “Never mind. We ended up having a wonderful Christmas, despite all the accidents.” She winced. “Oh my God, if you’re channeling Mother, I’m starting to sound like Arlene! Which reminds me,” she said, getting up, “I must call about Carl.”
“Their SUV is in the driveway,” Addison said.
Judith had taken the phone from its cradle. “Good. That may mean it’s not serious.” She dialed the number hurriedly and was relieved to hear Carl’s voice at the other end.
“Oh, Carl!” she exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he replied, “except when I stand, sit, or lie down.”
Judith frowned. “I thought you were . . . dying.”
“Not quite,” he said with a trace of his usual droll manner. “It just felt like it. My back went out. I shouldn’t have carried the ladder over to your house. I had to virtually crawl back home and ended up under the table. I was headed for the sofa, but couldn’t make it that far.”
“You should sue the Beard-Smythes,” Judith declared. “I may do that, too. They caused me a lot
of actual and emotional grief.”
“We should team up,” Carl said. “Hold on—Arlene wants me to move the piano.”
“You don’t have a piano,” Judith said, “and even if you did—”
“It’s a dollhouse piano,” Carl said. “One of the grandkids left it on the stove and Arlene’s got her hands full of what looks like her Anything-Goes Casserole. Or Tulip’s dog dish. Talk to you later.”
Addison turned around as Judith hung up. “Positive news?”
“For a change,” Judith said, sitting back down at the table. “It was Carl’s back. Not that backs can’t be a pain. I—” She stopped. “Speaking of pains, I wonder if Hannah has ID’d the body.”
“I was just about to check on that,” Addison said, putting the newspaper aside. “Let’s see if I can find a friendly contact at City Hall.” He got out his cell and tapped in a number.
Judith realized she was hungry, despite not having much appetite. Cold cereal was quick and easy. By the time she’d sat down again with a bowl of cornflakes, Addison was chatting up someone somewhere who somehow knew something. It occurred to her that his reporter’s job was not unlike her own when she just happened to become involved in a murder investigation. Chatter, banter, clichés, and pleasantries—all aimed at wringing vital information out of a witness or suspect. The thought galvanized her into action. She got up and was about to grab her own phone when Addison clicked off.
“Hannah Paine Conrad is not at home,” he announced. “They called her three times this morning, but no luck. Finally, they sent a squad car to her house on the Bluff, but no one came to the door.”
“She’s done a bunk?”
Addison shrugged. “They’ll go back later. Check to see if her mail’s been taken in. See if there are any Conrad cars parked in the garage or on the street.” He snapped his fingers. “I wonder if the cops looked to see if the newspaper was on the porch. Circulation may have plummeted, but the Conrads are the type who’d still be subscribers. Zachary would want to keep track of any city lighting references that might not make it to the online version.”