by Mary Daheim
Renie nodded. “It must have a view of the mountains and the sound. There are tennis courts just beyond that one-story building. I wonder if it’s a pool house.”
“One of the smaller places looks like a cottage,” Judith said, surveying the first of the garage doors. “Damn,” she breathed, “there aren’t any levers. The doors must be automatic.”
They were about to give up when a tall woman in a navy raincoat came out from the terrace. “May I help you?” she inquired in a polite if impersonal voice.
“Yes,” Judith replied. “We’re visiting Mrs. Burgess and our car has been moved. We wondered if it was in the garage.”
“The Subaru?” The woman offered a thin smile. “Yes, I put it there myself. Do you wish to take it out?”
“No, no,” Judith responded. “I was just…checking.”
The woman, who appeared to be about the same age as the cousins and was handsome in a severe sort of way, chuckled grimly. “Perhaps you were afraid that Kenyon drove it.”
“Well…” Judith shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
The woman waved a hand. “No need to explain. I’m Sarah Kenyon, the housekeeper. Excuse me, I must do the weekly grocery shopping. It takes at least two hours.”
“Well.” Judith gazed after the woman who had opened the third door by remote control. “Ms. Kenyon is certainly a lot younger than Mr. Kenyon.”
“A May-December romance?” Judith murmured. “Why do I have trouble picturing Kenyon sweeping a young woman off her feet?”
“I have trouble picturing Kenyon sweeping,” Renie said. “I don’t think he’s strong enough to hold a broom.”
Strolling through the gardens, Judith and Renie passed a folly, a wishing well, three fishponds, and a rose arbor. At the edge of the gardens, almost in the forest, was a large greenhouse. They continued walking toward the western edge of the property, enjoying the gray waters of the sound and the clear view of the mountains. A freighter was moving north, heading out to the ocean. As they drew closer to the cliff’s edge, they could see a half-dozen sailboats, taking advantage of the good weather.
The cliff itself, which ran as far as the eye could see in both directions, was about a hundred yards of almost sheer rocky earth. Ferns and other small plants clung to the dark soil. A two-foot wall made of the same stone as the house apparently delineated the property line. There was a single gated opening and, next to it, what looked like a tiny house.
Judith peered through the window. “It’s some kind of tram,” she said. “Look, you can see the track going all the way down to the beach.”
“That must be the only way to get there,” Renie remarked, lighting a cigarette. “I suppose some of the other cliff-side houses have them, too.” She gazed downward and pointed to the base of the cliff. “See, there are the railroad tracks for the north- and east-bound trains out of the city.”
Judith was jiggling the door to the tram. “It’s locked, of course.”
Renie moved away from the cliff’s edge. “I’d say this would be a good place to shove Mrs. Burgess into the next world. It’s very isolated. The whole setup is isolated. I’d rather be in prison.”
“It’s not unlike that,” Judith said as they walked back through the gardens. “These people have locked themselves away from the rest of the world. Their money has, in a way, imprisoned them. I think it’s sad.”
“You would,” Renie retorted, exhaling smoke and glancing around as if she were a teenager on the lookout for spying teachers. “You have such a soft heart. I think they’re a bunch of snobs who can’t deal with reality. If you haven’t cleaned your toilet lately, how can you be part of the human race?”
“Still…” Judith began, then glanced at her watch. “Oops. It’s almost one. We better not be late for lunch.”
The cousins hurried to the house, wondering if they should go in the back way, through the terrace. Renie extinguished her cigarette in an empty planter as they proceeded to the rear entrance. Since Sarah Kenyon had come out that way, they thought the door might be unlocked.
It wasn’t. After they pushed the bell twice, Ada Dietz appeared, looking harassed. “Come in, come in,” she said impatiently. “You should have gone to the front. I just gave Edna the trolley to take upstairs. You’d better hurry. Mrs. Burgess doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
They were standing in an entryway where they could see the kitchen off to their right. Ahead of them was a door and what looked like an elevator.
“Can we get up this way?” Judith inquired.
“No,” Mrs. Dietz responded. “Go down the hall and to the main staircase. The back stairs and service elevator are strictly for staff use.”
Judith and Renie obeyed, and three minutes later, Mrs. Burgess gave permission for them to enter her spacious suite. Their hostess was seated at a linen-draped table by the fireplace. The furnishings were probably oak, old and heavy, but would fetch eye-popping prices in an antique shop. Green and gold damask covered the walls and matched the draperies. The fireplace mantel was crowded with framed photographs, some very old, others quite recent.
“Do sit,” Mrs. Burgess said with that air of regal command. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
“We were admiring your gardens,” Judith said, appreciatively eyeing the dishes on the trolley.
“Try the crepes à la reine,” Mrs. Burgess said. “Dietz has a way with pastry, and the filling is quite good. There’s a choice of salad dressing, but I always prefer a vinaigrette.”
“Did Mrs. Dietz make the rolls, too?” Renie asked, scooping food onto her plate.
Mrs. Burgess nodded. “They’re soft. I don’t care for a hard roll. They can injure the mouth.”
Tasting the crepe, which was as delicious as Mrs. Burgess had claimed, Judith searched her brain for a way to get their hostess to confide in them about the alleged attempts on her life.
“You’ve certainly had your staff a long time,” she finally said. “They must be very loyal.”
Mrs. Burgess’s blue eyes shrewdly regarded Judith. “They are. I hope.” She patted her mouth with a linen napkin, then sat up very straight, again apparently drawing on her inner reserves. “This is quite difficult for me,” she said through stiff lips. “I’m unaccustomed to confiding in people I don’t know well. Indeed, I’ve never been one to discuss my private feelings.” Leota Burgess paused again and cleared her throat. “What you really want to know is why I think someone is trying to kill me. Shall we start with the fire?”
FOUR
“THE FIRE WAS the first attempt,” Mrs. Burgess said with what Judith interpreted as forced calm. “At the time, I thought it was nothing but carelessness. It was toward the end of October, the twenty-eighth, I believe. I had a bit of a cold and was staying in bed. My granddaughter, Caroline, had brought me a candle which she insisted would help. Aromatherapy, she called it. I nodded off, and apparently the candle fell from the night table into the wastebasket where there were several used tissues. I woke up to find the wastebasket on fire and the room filled with smoke. Fortunately, I was able to call Sarah—Ms. Kenyon—and she came at once. Meanwhile, I had thrown a glass of water into the wastebasket. Luckily, Edna had just refilled it for me before I drifted off to sleep.”
“That doesn’t sound terribly serious,” Renie remarked.
Mrs. Burgess shot Renie a reproachful look. “It would have been if I hadn’t awakened.”
“How did Sarah get in?” Judith asked, hoping to stave off a sharp retort from her ever-prickly cousin.
“Until recently,” Mrs. Burgess said a bit grimly, “I haven’t locked my doors. That’s different now. At night, I keep both sitting room and bedroom doors locked.”
“That’s wise,” Judith said. “The main thing, though, is that you weren’t hurt.”
Mrs. Burgess nodded. “Yes, though I had quite a severe coughing spell. The damage, of course, was minimal. Naturally, we didn’t put in an insurance claim, nor did we have to call the fire depart
ment. Imagine how disruptive it would have been to have all those firefighters stomping around the house.” Mrs. Burgess shuddered at the thought.
“What came next?” Judith queried.
Their hostess leaned back in her chair and sighed. “A most disagreeable accident the Monday before Christmas. I was out on the front porch, waiting for Sarah to bring the car around. Kenyon, you see, doesn’t drive anymore. I don’t know what kept Sarah, but just as I started to go down the steps to see if she was coming from the garage, a large terra cotta planter crashed an inch or two behind me. Even though it missed, I was so frightened that I fell and sprained my ankle.”
Judith envisioned the balcony that loomed over the front steps. Vaguely, she recalled the planters, which, like the ones on the porch itself, were currently empty of flowers.
“Did Sarah—Ms. Kenyon—arrive immediately after that?” Judith asked.
A troubled expression passed over Leota Burgess’s face. “I believe I fainted, if only for a moment. When I came to, Sarah was there, out of breath and terribly alarmed. She and Kenyon helped me inside, and Dr. Moss was called. I must have been in a state of shock, because I’d forgotten about the planter. But he and Sarah had seen it, and they were very concerned. Yes,” she continued, her jaw set, “it could have been an accident. There’s no wall in that part of the balcony, and the planters directly above the steps could have been moved by the wind. You may recall we had quite a storm last December. The wind blows very hard around here because we’re so close to the sound. Several trees were toppled, and two of the homes were damaged.”
Judith recalled the storm. It had blown down two Japanese maples in the Dooleys’ yard and sent Sweetums fleeing for safety in the downstairs bathroom where he’d scared the wits out of a maid of honor at a wedding reception Judith was hosting for a friend of Mike and Kristin’s. In her panic to get out of the bathroom, the poor girl had accidentally dropped the bridal bouquet in the toilet.
“Then,” Mrs. Burgess continued, carefully folding her napkin and placing it next to the Wedgwood luncheon plate, “in late January I had a severe case of gastritis. Mind you, I’ve always had a very strong digestive system. Dr. Moss had the cheek to inform me that at my age, I could develop such problems. But it recurred a week ago, and I hadn’t eaten anything unusual. I chided Dr. Moss, and he merely laughed. Then when I reminded him of the other incidents—which he certainly knew of firsthand—he stopped chuckling. I told him someone was trying to kill me.”
Renie was leaning forward in her chair. “What did he say?”
Mrs. Burgess made a fretful gesture. “Oh, he listened, but I think he thought I was just a fanciful old lady. Old! Why, the man’s at least ten years my senior. I was very annoyed with him, and insisted that if it happened again, he must have my stomach pumped and analyze the contents.” Again, Mrs. Burgess shuddered, no doubt at the imagined indignity. “When I said that, he took me more seriously.”
“And nothing’s happened since?” Renie inquired.
“No,” Mrs. Burgess replied. “I’m making certain that no one except Dietz and Edna have access to my food. But it was after this last episode that I telephoned Beverly to relay my suspicions. I don’t think she believed me at first, but after the fourth call, she finally allowed that perhaps I wasn’t fantasizing. I suppose that was when she contacted you, Serena.”
“Yes,” Renie replied slowly. “I’m sure it was. In fact, she called me three times. Which is why I’m here.” Renie gave Mrs. Burgess a reassuring smile.
“Who,” Judith asked, “was here when you had the stomach problems? Family? Friends?”
“Friends?” Mrs. Burgess echoed with a sad shake of her head. “No, so few are left in my circle. Those who remain head for the sun or a cruise ship as soon as the temperature drops below fifty degrees. The younger ones also go away in the winter, usually to ski in Europe.”
“And family?” Renie prodded.
“Family members are always in and out,” Mrs. Burgess replied, toying with a diamond-studded watch on her left wrist. “As I recall, several of them had stopped by—my stepson, Wayne and his wife, Dorothy, who live just down the road. Their son, Bayless—they call him Bop because his full name is Bayless Oliver Prescott Burgess—stops by all the time, too, which is fine, except that he drives that ridiculous pizza truck. It looks so out of place at Creepers.”
“Was anyone else here that day?” Judith inquired.
“Peggy and Russell,” Mrs. Burgess answered. “Peggy—her real name is Margaret because she was named after her mother—is my stepdaughter. Her husband, Russell Hillman, manages the golf course. They have a house called The Willows on the links. Then there’s Caroline, Peggy’s daughter by her first marriage. I think I mentioned her. She lives some seventy miles north of here, in an artists’ community, but she visits often. She was spending the night. I believe the child is lonely. She’s separated from her husband, Brett, who moved to a beach town on the ocean about a hundred and fifty miles away. I haven’t seen him since they broke up, which happened last spring.”
“That’s it?” Renie asked.
Mrs. Burgess lowered her eyes. “No. There’s Kenneth. He’s Caroline’s brother, Peggy’s son by her first husband, Charles. Kenneth has an apartment in town, but he’s been living here off and on. He’d come to stay at Creepers through the holidays. I’m afraid he’s a rather unsettled young man.”
“What happened to Peggy’s first husband, Charles?” Judith asked, finishing a second roll.
“Peggy divorced him years ago,” Leota Burgess replied, tight-lipped. “Naturally, Walter and I disapproved of divorce in general, but Charles Ward really wasn’t a suitable husband for Peggy. He was later killed in a car accident not far from here.”
“Then Peggy married…Russell?” Judith was trying not to drown in a complicated sea of relationships. She made up her mind to put together a family tree when she and Renie went back to their suite.
“No.” Mrs. Burgess was still looking taut around the mouth. “Her second husband, Zane Crowley, was a photojournalist who was killed while on assignment in Vietnam in 1972. Peggy remained single for many years. Then she met Russell Hillman, who had come to work at the golf course. They were married a year later.”
Peggy and Russell, with Caroline and Kenneth; Wayne and Dorothy, Bop’s parents; Bev and Tom, whose sons thought Granny was one base short of an infield. Or maybe just off-base. Judith tucked the names into a pocket of her brain and wondered if someone among them was a would-be killer.
“When did Matt and Mark arrive at Creepers?” she asked.
“The first of February,” Mrs. Burgess said. “They were here when I had the second gastritis attack, and had the nerve to tease me, as if I were senile.”
“They weren’t here around the holidays?” Renie asked.
“No. I hadn’t seen Beverly’s boys for over a year. They’ve been raised primarily abroad, and have acquired some peculiar foreign ideas. But” Mrs. Burgess continued with that same tight-lipped expression, “what can you expect with a Japanese for a father?”
“Tom Ohashi’s not Japanese,” Renie retorted. “His grandparents were born here, in the city. His father was still teaching at the university when my husband joined the faculty. Tom’s thoroughly American.”
Leota Burgess gave Renie a pitying look. “By citizenship, yes. But he’s still a Japanese. Now don’t mistake me,” she went on, wagging a finger. “I’m as broadminded as the next. Perhaps you recall, Serena, that when Beverly’s sorority was divided about accepting that Italian girl, I spoke out on her behalf.”
“I was never in a sorority,” Renie shot back. “And I don’t recall.”
Swiftly, Judith intervened before Renie and their hostess could get into an argument. “All this background is informative, but what can we do to help you?”
Mrs. Burgess’s face turned bleak. “I don’t know. This was Beverly’s idea. I suppose she felt I needed protection. Perhaps she was salving her conscience
since she can’t seem to leave that husband of hers and his silly ceramic fragments. She may have thought that fresh eyes and ears would be useful. If you engage the household and family members in conversation, you might get them to reveal something—suspicions, observations, unusual behavior on the part of someone. I know that trying to elicit information from people is very difficult. Do you think you could try?”
Judith’s dark eyes sparkled. Her openness, her genuine interest in others, and her sympathetic manner never failed to pump the unsuspecting. “Oh, yes,” she responded. “I—we—can certainly try.”
Out in the hall, Renie almost fell over Edna, the maid. “Sorry,” Renie said, propping the little woman up.
Edna was very pink. “Oh…please! It’s my fault. I was in the way. I came to…collect the luncheon things. The mistress doesn’t usually linger over her meals.”
“We were chatting,” Judith said with a smile. “She was giving us some of the family history.”
The little maid shrank back, as if Judith had struck her. “Oh! Dear me.” Her faded brown eyes darted from Judith to Renie and back again. “Did the mistress…Did she mention Suzette?”
“Suzette?” Judith turned to Renie, who gave a faint shake of her head. “No. Who’s Suzette?”
Edna put both hands over her mouth and her eyes grew wide. “No one,” she finally said, removing her hands, which had begun to tremble. “I made that up. I do, sometimes. I make up stories. Ada says I’m daft.” With surprising agility, Edna ducked around Judith and went into Mrs. Burgess’s suite.
“Well?” Judith said.
“Not made up,” Renie replied.
“Maybe not,” Judith said, moving down the corridor. “Was Edna listening at the door?”
“Probably,” Renie said. “She may not be deaf, like Kenyon.”
Cocktails were at five, dinner at six, which seemed rather early to the cousins, given the one o’clock luncheon time. Judith and Renie spent half an hour putting together a Burgess family tree. Relying on her graphic design skills, Renie did the actual work, while Judith tried to figure out birth and death dates, along with marriages. When they had finished, they decided to walk down the road to Evergreen, the home of Wayne and Dorothy Burgess. Judith reasoned that if they were supposed to elicit information from the other family members, they might as well start now.