All the Pretty Hearses

by Mary Daheim

  “We could go retro and see if she’s in the phone book,” Renie suggested. “So many people aren’t these days, with all the cell phones. Let’s see if I can get a number from Directory Assistance.” She picked up her own phone and dialed.

  Judith sipped at her soda while her cousin went through the paces of eliciting information from an operator. “Okay,” Renie said, after making some notes. “There’s an O. D. Blair who lives close to downtown, probably a condo or an apartment, judging from the address. I think I’ll give her a call.”

  Judith was surprised. “And ask what?”

  Renie was already dialing the number. “I got the impression she’s some kind of professional. Don’t ask me why, but—” She stopped, holding up a hand for silence. After a few moments, she spoke into the receiver. “Hi, Octavia. This is Serena Jones. I met you last night at my cousin’s B&B. I’m sorry for your family’s loss, but I’m a graphic designer and I understand you’re involved with a small press. I need your input about a project I’m doing. If you could give me a call at . . .” Renie slowly uttered the number, offered her thanks, and rang off. “How was that?”

  “Very neat and tidy,” Judith said. “What if she doesn’t know about her family’s loss?”

  “She may think I’m talking about their minds, which they all seem to have lost quite a while ago.” Renie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. At least I established contact. We’ll see if she responds.”

  Judith checked her watch. “It’s nine-thirty. I should go home.”

  “You do have guests,” Renie remarked. “Do any of them look like ax murderers?”

  “They seem normal,” Judith said, “at least the Chicago sisters and the Savannah couple. As I mentioned earlier, I suspect that Zoë Paine is selling Son of Scarlet to the Kentucky Arabs. Or Middle East guys. I think they may be buyers for some emir in Dubai.”

  “It was the twins who brought the horse, right?”

  Judith nodded. “They must’ve been helping their cousin. Now I know why Zoë disappeared during the evening. She may’ve heard what we thought were shots, but were kids—probably the Dooley bunch in back of us—lighting off New Year’s firecrackers. Zoë would’ve guessed they’d upset the horse and went out to check, tranquilized the poor animal, and had Abe Burleson haul him off to the barn.”

  “So Zoë had bought the horse? Why put it in your garage?”

  Judith took a last drink of soda and stood up. “That’s where my logic doesn’t factor in, but I don’t think she bought Son of Scarlet. I think she rescued the horse from whoever owned it.”

  Renie was also on her feet. “A rescue animal?”

  “Yes. I have to guess what it was rescued from.”

  The cousins exchanged glances. “I can give that a shot, too.”

  Judith knew they were on the same wavelength. “Right. Zoë didn’t want the horse to become horse meat.”

  After arriving home and collecting Gertrude’s dinner tray, Judith found Geoff and Cindy Owens making sandwiches in the kitchen. The sight surprised her, yet was reassuring.

  “We didn’t get a chance to eat dinner,” Cindy explained. “I hope you don’t mind. We’ll pay extra for the ham and cheese and bread.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Judith said. “You can make it up to me with some information.”

  Geoff gave a start, almost dropping the mustard jar he’d been putting back into the fridge. “Information? What about?”

  “Animal rescue,” Judith said. “That’s why you came to town, isn’t it? I’m interested in your work.”

  “Oh, that!” Cindy giggled, a false note in Judith’s ear. “It’s just something we feel is worthwhile to do when we have spare time.”

  “Kind of a hobby,” Geoff added, closing the refrigerator door. “We don’t have kids yet, so we volunteer a bit.”

  “Oh,” Judith said. “That’s generous of you.”

  Cindy gathered up the sandwiches and a couple of bottled waters. “Better than just sitting at the beach getting a tan in the winter. Cheaper, too. See you in the morning.”

  The couple headed out of the kitchen. Judith stood by the sink, wondering why they were lying. Or at the very least, being evasive. After she heard ten o’clock chime from the living room, she picked up the phone and dialed Addison’s number.

  She got his brief recording and decided to hang up without leaving a message. But she felt uneasy. He seemed dependable. Considerate, too. Judith admitted to herself that she was worried. She was startled by the ringing of her fax machine next to the computer. Only rarely did she receive guest information via fax, but sometimes the machine rang and nothing came through. Junk mail she’d been told, filtered by her carrier. But what appeared to be a message was printing out. Judith waited anxiously until it finished.

  To her amazement, it was from Joe. “I only now got back the photos I took while on surveillance. One is of Zachary Conrad in his wheelchair. The other is of the female caretaker. Thought you and your co-conspirator, Addison, might be interested. By the way, have I told you lately that I love you? I do.”

  Judith was momentarily appeased. But it seemed to take forever for the first photo to print out, and when it arrived, the quality was somewhat grainy. The man in the wheelchair didn’t look familiar, but she’d never met Zachary, so it could have been anybody. He was a fairly pleasant-looking sort and she could tell that he was big in girth and probably tall as well.

  The second photo finally finished printing. Judith didn’t know what to expect of an untraceable woman known as Beth Johnson, but she was stunned when she recognized her immediately. Grainy or not, the face of Sonya Paine stared back at her.

  Sonya, Judith thought, aware that her heart was beating faster. Sonya, Walter’s wife, who had become hysterical when their daughter, Zoë, disappeared at dinnertime. How many of the Paines were involved in whatever was going on? No wonder they were all running scared. She picked up the phone to call Renie.

  “Sonya was Zachary’s caregiver?” her cousin exclaimed after Judith relayed the news. “You say she never showed up after going on her errands that day? Good God, did she murder her brother-in-law?”

  “She might have,” Judith said wearily. “Though I can’t imagine why. If I’m thinking straight, it sounds more to me as if Zachary and maybe Sonya and who knows how many other Paines were setting a trap for someone or something. Obviously, it backfired horribly.”

  “Have you told Joe who the woman is, or do you think he knows?”

  “He wouldn’t recognize Sonya.” Judith paused. “Woody and Del wouldn’t either. They think she’s somebody who goes by the name of Beth Johnson, which is one of those common last names that’s all but impossible to trace. But they would have taken prints, fibers, whatever. For all anybody knows, Sonya’s never been fingerprinted.”

  “Zachary Conrad would’ve been,” Renie said.

  “He would? Why?”

  “Because he worked for the lighting department. Don’t you remember that’s where I worked during the summers to put myself through college? I had to be fingerprinted, but it didn’t take. Once again, I proved to be a freak of nature.”

  “Unarguable,” Judith murmured. “Your hair doesn’t turn gray, you can eat like a pig and not gain an ounce, you have no fingerprints. It’d be helpful if you had special powers. That’s what it seems like it’s going to take to figure this whole thing out.”

  “Ha! You’re the one with those. Use ’em or lose ’em, coz.”

  “I’m trying,” Judith asserted. “I’m going to see if I can get hold of Joe. He must still be at City Hall.”

  “Go ahead,” Renie said. “How could he know who she is? This sounds important. Call me back and let me know how he reacts.”

  “Will do.” Judith rang off and went through the process of trying to reach Joe, using the number that had shown up on the caller ID earlier in
the evening. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to jump through hoops to get through. But it wasn’t a direct number. After the second transfer, she got disconnected. Frustrated, she considered calling Woody’s wife, Sondra, to see if she knew how to reach either of their husbands without a hassle. But first she should lock the front door. She was in the entry hall before she remembered that she’d locked the door before going to see Renie. Maybe she should make sure the Owenses had locked it behind them when they entered the house.

  She had her hand on the knob when the doorbell chimed. Suddenly her hands were trembling. Damn, I’m spooked just like that poor horse. What’s wrong with me? It’s probably a guest who forgot his or her key. Steeling herself, she looked through the peephole. A woman stood on the porch, familiar, but not one of her current visitors. Judith cautiously opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said, and stared in speechless shock.

  “You don’t remember me?” the newcomer said. “My name’s Jean Rogers.”

  Chapter Twenty-­one

  The woman who called herself Jean Rogers was the younger version who had come to the house with her reclaimed handbag and wallet. Judith hesitated before letting her inside. “How can I help you?” she asked, hiding her shaky hands behind her back.

  “I need to talk to you,” Jean said, sounding sheepish and yet more mature than Judith remembered.

  “I thought you were leaving town,” Judith said, still blocking the young woman’s entry.

  “I did.” She held out her handbag, not the brown suede drawstring bag Judith remembered, but a marine-blue leather hobo style. “Take out my wallet. Check my ID.”

  Judith sighed. “Okay, come in. I’m a bit edgy this evening.”

  By the time she had led Jean into the living room and indicated she should sit opposite her on the matching sofa, her hands had stopped trembling. The hobo bag was on the coffee table. Judith picked it up. “Do I have to search or just take out your wallet?”

  “The wallet’s fine,” Jean said. “You looked as if you needed some reassurance. I didn’t want you to think I had a gun in there.”

  “Nothing would surprise me right about now,” Judith said. She found the wallet at once. It was the one Jean had carried on her previous visit and the Arizona driver’s license was also identical.

  “Look at the next card,” the young woman suggested.

  Judith obeyed. Her eyes grew wider as she first saw a different, better photo of Jean, and then noticed the heading of The Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management. “You’re a federal agent,” Judith said. “And you really are Jean Rogers.”

  “Yes, and I live in Tucson, but I move around on my job. I stay with an old college friend when I’m in town.” She retrieved the wallet and the hobo bag. “There are at least a dozen other women named Jean Rogers living in the same part of Arizona. It’s a common name. But I suspect whoever stole my wallet wasn’t one of them.”

  “Do you know who she really is or why she stole it?” Judith asked.

  “I lied about it being taken at Nordquist,” Jean said, looking unperturbed by the admission. “I was at a restaurant meeting with a colleague in that big complex across the street from Nordquist. We were talking about the wild-horse-and-burro problem in Arizona and the similar problems you have in this state on the other side of the mountains, mainly with horses.”

  Judith nodded. “I’ve seen them once or twice on the cross-state highway. They look so beautiful—and free.”

  “Their freedom is the reason there’s nothing beautiful about the situation,” Jean said with a trace of bitterness. “The Native Americans also fall under the Department of the Interior. They’ve taken on the problem of the wild animals in some states, but the animals are getting out of control here. There are too many horse owners who find out that they’re an expense. They let them loose and they multiply. Eventually they’ll become so numerous that the grazing habitats will be destroyed. It’s not reached epidemic proportions here, but it will if something isn’t done. The Native Americans have a solution that could work—except that it’s not palatable to most other Americans. I mean that literally.”

  Judith frowned. “You’re saying . . . ?”

  Jean nodded. “Horse meat. In other countries, it’s perfectly acceptable, but not here. It’ll take education to change public opinion.”

  “Yes, I think it would.” Judith smiled weakly. “The concept doesn’t appeal to me. My uncle Cliff insisted that muskrat was quite tasty. He’d eaten it in Alaska. He couldn’t convince my aunt Deb and my cousin Serena that they should try it.”

  “A hard sell,” Jean conceded, “as horse meat will be. That’s why I’m in town. But getting back to what happened to my purse at the restaurant, I realized that a woman at the next table seemed to be checking us out,” Jean said. “She was older than I am, so I thought maybe she was interested in my companion, who was more her own age. On her way out, she bumped my chair. I didn’t think anything of it until later, when I tried to find my wallet. It was gone. She’d picked me clean.” Jean shook her head. “Some officer of law enforcement, security, and emergency management, huh?”

  “She didn’t take your purse?”

  Jean shook her head. “I had my hobo. That suede drawstring bag belonged to the thief who tossed it and the wallet into the garbage. I pretended it was mine when I was here just to avoid suspicion. Besides, I wanted to use it for evidence if she was ever tracked down. That’s why I’m here.”

  Judith tried to take Jean at her word, but sensed that the younger woman was holding back. “All I can say is what you already know. She did a bunk, and since you canceled your credit cards, I didn’t get paid.”

  “I can make amends,” Jean said. “It’s a legitimate work-related expense. Instead of ogling my companion, I think she was spying.”

  Judith’s smile was more genuine. “Was he so unattractive?”

  Jean laughed. “Not really. He’s a big man, forties, balding, looks like a salesman and can act the part, but that’s just a cover. He’s one of our best security agents.”

  “You mean he actually uses a cover in his job?”

  Jean’s eyes twinkled. “Oh yes! Sometimes I do, too. You have to when you’re investigating what may be criminal activity. It’s a skill I’ve had to learn, but Walter’s a natural. He could fool anybody with that hail-fellow-well-met act of his.”

  Judith hazarded a wild guess. “Walter Paine?”

  Jean nodded, then apparently realized that something had struck Judith as odd. “What’s the matter? You look . . . puzzled.”

  “Not really,” Judith said, assuming a casual air to hide her deceit. “I didn’t know what Walter does for a living, though he’s the hearty type who could be a salesman. His parents belong to our church.”

  Jean was flabbergasted. “What a coincidence! It really is a small—” She stopped, frowning. “Have you seen Walter lately?”

  “Last night, in fact,” Judith replied. “He and the rest of the family were here for dinner.”

  “I see.” Jean grew thoughtful. Judith waited for her to speak again. “That might explain it.”

  “Explain what?” Judith asked innocently.

  “The phony Jean Rogers staying here. But how could she know that Walter would be at your house last night?”

  “It was an auction event that Walter’s mother bought at the parish school last May,” Judith explained. “The date was set several months ago. I suppose there are any number of ways the phony Jean could have found out. But why would she want to come here? The only information I had about Walter was that he was a guest. In fact, they were supposed to spend the night, but,” she went on, glossing over the truth, “they changed their minds at the last minute and left after dinner.”

  “I see,” Jean said again, though she was still frowning.

  Judith, however, couldn’t figure out what, i
f anything, she saw. “I hardly think that the family’s decision to leave had anything to do with your so-called spy,” she said. “The other Jean was here only a few hours before she sneaked away.”

  “I don’t know her motivation. I don’t even know why she stole my wallet, unless she wanted to pass herself off as me.”

  “Who would she be spying for?”

  “She’s an industrial spy,” Jean replied. “She could be working for any number of companies or individuals who want to determine what our agency is doing that might impact their livelihood. Follow the money, as they say.” She leaned forward on the sofa. “I checked you out. You’re FASTO. I didn’t know that until today.”

  Judith heaved a big sigh. “That’s a bunch of misguided people who somehow think I’m a supersleuth. Everything that’s happened to me has just . . . happened. The only difference between me and other people is that maybe I have more curiosity. And I can’t seem to stop running into bodies.”

  “You certainly do.” Jean’s tone was ironic. “What’s the count up to? A couple of dozen?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s not a contest. My husband was a police detective for a long time. After he retired from the force, he became a private investigator. It’s only natural that I’d be interested in his work.”

  Jean laughed. “Nobody is that interested. I hear things. I know some of the cases you’ve been involved in have occurred when Mr. Flynn wasn’t anywhere near you. Have you looked at your site lately? What about the train trip you were on last fall?”

  “I never look at the site. Never.” Judith was angry. “I’ve no idea who may have alluded to that incident. My cousin and I never even told our husbands what happened.”