by Mary Daheim
MARY DAHEIM
Holy Terrors
A BED-AND-BREAKFAST MYSTERY
To Dale and Lorraine,
who make the Good Neighbor Policy work.
CONTENTS
ONE
JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE put an ice pack on her head…
TWO
THE ONE SANCTUARY that Judith could seek where food wouldn’t…
THREE
HOLY SATURDAY DAWNED cloudy and damp. The sun, which had…
FOUR
JUDITH’S DUTY WAS to return to the church and assist…
FIVE
GERTRUDE WAS STILL fuming. “I’m warning you, Joe Flynn doesn’t…
SIX
THERE WAS NO answer at Arlecchino’s Costume Shop. Judith checked…
SEVEN
“MARK DUFFY?” JUDITH Judith was incredulous. Mark’s tall, dark, handsome image…
EIGHT
JUDITH DROVE DOOLEY home in a daze. She was exploding…
NINE
PHYLISS RACKLEY HAD recovered. The roar of the vacuum cleaner…
TEN
IN A VIOLENT world, the murder of a Heraldsgate Hill…
ELEVEN
HILDE KATZENHEIMER HAD been the housekeeper at Our Lady, Star…
TWELVE
THE TWO COUPLES from Oregon arrived just before three-thirty. They…
THIRTEEN
HAVING LOST KATE in dairy products, and missed Norma at…
FOURTEEN
“WE’VE GOT TO talk to John,” said Renie, galvanized into…
FIFTEEN
THE ONLY UNHAPPY customer that night at the B&B was…
SIXTEEN
“SO,” SAID RENIE over the phone, “Joe has been doing…
SEVENTEEN
THE BUFFET SUPPER had not gone well. Perhaps it was…
EIGHTEEN
JUDITH AND ARLENE were sitting in the rectory parlor with…
About the Author
Other Books by Mary Daheim
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE put an ice pack on her head and sucked on a cough drop. She hated Lenten fast days. Self-denial was no problem; coercion was. Fasting wasn’t voluntary, even in the contemporary Church. Not being able to eat between meals never failed to make Judith absolutely ravenous. Any other time of the year, she could go for the better part of a busy day and not so much as think about food. But come Lent, she always got a headache and a sore throat, and felt weak at the knees. It was illogical, and therefore out of character. Judith sucked the cough drop so hard that it stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Her headache wasn’t helped by the sound of her mother, who had thumped her walker into the living room. “Why are you wearing a turban?” she demanded in a raspy voice. “You some kind of swami? It’s Good Friday. Why aren’t you in church?”
“I was,” said Judith, with a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “It’s three-thirty. I just got back from Stations of the Cross. We had it out on the playground.”
“The playground? What did they do, use home plate for the Tomb?” growled Gertrude Grover, whose chartreuse and lavender housecoat was misbuttoned. “That knothead of a pastor at Star of the Sea has some of the daffiest ideas!”
Judith shifted the ice bag on her prematurely gray hair and kicked off her shoes. “It was arranged by the school kids. We formed a procession inside the church, then went outside. Prayerfully.”
“Nuttily. That’s the doing of that nitwit principal, Quinn McCaffrey, you can bet your butt on it. Whoever heard of a Catholic school being run by a man instead of a nun?” Gertrude was still looking for her cigarettes, but found only a couple of old garters. Disgusted, she tossed them onto the coffee table between the matching sofas that flanked the fireplace. “Imagine, Mister McCaffrey, instead of Sister Mary Joseph or Mother Immaculate! It’s all over, two thousand years down the drain. Might as well be a Lutheran or a Baptist or a Hottentot. Being a Catholic meant something in my day. It’s a good thing I’m too crippled to go to church any more.”
“You still go to bingo, you old fraud,” Judith murmured, stretching out her long legs on the coffee table and hoping that Gertrude was too deaf to hear her riposte.
“Bingo?” Gertrude’s little eyes bulged. “Don’t tell me they’re having bingo during Holy Week! Did I miss it?”
“No, Mother.” Judith sighed. “I said it was nice that the Ringos brought you Holy Communion every week.”
“Hunh. Those old saps.” Gertrude thumped the walker on the dark green Oriental rug. “That’s another thing, phonies like the Ringos running around Heraldsgate Hill handing out Holy Communion like Girl Scout cookies! I remember when I was in the Mothers’ Club with Clara Ringo and she was so lazy she went to Begelman’s Bakery and bought cupcakes for the bake sales instead of making them herself like the rest of us. Then she’d lie about it. Bragged about her frosting, too. And then her and that lunkhead of a husband practically put on halos when Father Hoyle slaps a title on them like eucalyptus ministers!”
“Eucharistic ministers,” Judith corrected, wondering why her throbbing head didn’t just fall off and roll out the French doors.
But Gertrude, already in full spate, paid no heed. “And another thing, it used to be that nobody stirred a stump from Holy Thursday until Easter morning. No cards, no radio, no moving pictures. Zip. Look at me, I’m giving up my afternoon of bridge for Good Friday!” She made it sound as if she’d cut off her ears and offered them up for the hearing impaired. “But with your so-called modern generation, it’s business as usual, make a buck, bring on the paying guests! You didn’t do that last year!”
Judith didn’t bother to remind her mother that the previous Easter had fallen in late March and that her bed-and-breakfast hadn’t yet been booked every weekend. It had been just two years since Judith had opened the doors of her old family home in its refurbished state as Hillside Manor. In a cul-de-sac halfway up the south slope of Heraldsgate Hill, the location was ideal, with its neighborhood atmosphere and proximity to the city’s downtown area. But building up a clientele had taken time and energy. Rather than taint Gertrude’s argument with facts that she’d dismiss out of hand, Judith opted to defend herself on different grounds.
“You know perfectly well the guests who are coming for the weekend aren’t regular customers. We’re helping the Rankers with the overflow from their family reunion.”
Judith’s rebuttal merely diverted her mother into other channels, this time a diatribe on having an Easter vigil Mass Saturday night instead of waiting until Sunday morning. “How do they figure?” she ranted. “Christ rose from the dead so He could hide the Easter baskets? What a bunch of wackos!”
A persistent knock at the back door saved Judith from a fruitless attempt to explain Vatican II to her mother. Ice pack in place, she angled around Gertrude’s walker and went out through the dining room and kitchen to the narrow rear entry hall. Arlene Rankers stood on the back porch, carrying a picnic hamper.
“I brought some snacks,” she announced in her breezy, outgoing manner, then paused on the threshold, staring at Judith. “Goodness, why are you wearing a beret?”
“I’ve taken up painting,” replied Judith, stepping aside to let Arlene get by. “Snacks for what?”
Arlene made room for the hamper on the cluttered dinette table. “For the relatives, should they get hungry. Tuna spread, crab balls, deviled shrimp, smoked oysters, salmon mousse, barbecued trout.” She ran a hand through her red-gold curls. “Oh, and crackers, of course.”
Judith eyed the labeled containers covetously. It was clear that the Rankers’s relatives weren’t fasting. “I thought they weren’t going to eat here,” r
emarked Judith, taking off the ice bag and tossing it into the sink. She and Arlene had struck a bargain the previous month: The eight cousins, nephews and nieces who couldn’t fit into the Rankers’s house next door would stay at Hillside Manor for the two nights of the family reunion. Arlene had offered to pay the going rate at Hillside Manor, but Judith had insisted that after all these years, any relatives of the Rankers were like family. She wouldn’t dream of taking money. Arlene proved equally obdurate, but allowed that since the group would eat all their meals with the Rankers, they should compromise. Relenting, Judith suggested charging half price. Arlene countered with the suggestion that they pay for the first night and get the second one free. The women had finally agreed, and at least an hour had passed before Arlene’s convoluted logic had dawned on Judith.
“They might want to nibble.” Arlene shut the lid on the hamper and gave Judith her wide, winning smile. “Besides, most of this is left over from Emily Tresvant’s funeral reception Wednesday. Wasn’t it lovely?”
Judith wasn’t sure if Arlene was referring to the food or the funeral. But after over twenty years of friendship with her neighbor, she opted for the latter. “Very nice. I still don’t think I paid you enough to help me cater the reception.”
Arlene held up a hand. “Nonsense! Before you started catering events up at Star of the Sea this year, Eve Kramer and I did our bit for free. Don’t ask me why she wouldn’t pitch in for poor Emily—Eve may be a trial, but she’s basically good-hearted. I don’t think she and Kurt even went to the funeral.”
Arlene’s well-defined mouth puckered with disapproval. Kurt Kramer was the parish business manager; Eve owned an antiques and needlework shop on top of the Hill. Judith recalled that until his early retirement at age fifty the previous year, Kurt had been the comptroller for Tresvant Timber. At the time, there were no rumors of bad feelings between Kurt Kramer and Emily Tresvant. But it wasn’t impossible; during the fifteen years the Kramers had put four children through Star of the Sea, the couple’s lack of tact and critical natures had earned them the nickname of The Prickly Pair.
“As far as I’m concerned,” continued Arlene, once more at her most benign, “it was the least I could do when Phyliss got sick.”
Judith made a face at the mention of her ever-ailing cleaning-woman-cum-laundress. Phyliss Rackley’s ailments, real or imagined, were acquiring legendary proportions. To be fair, when Phyliss worked, she was diligent and thorough. But somehow her “spells” always seemed to occur when Judith needed her most. “She’s not keen on Catholic occasions,” conceded Judith, “but at least she’s stopped trying to convert me into a Pentecostal.”
“Frankly,” confided Arlene, “I thought she’d love Emily’s funeral. She kept house for her years ago, until they had a falling out. But Emily was hard to please, rest her soul. I’m so glad for Sandy and John.”
Once again, Judith was having trouble following Arlene’s erratic train of thought. Or maybe the headache was dulling her wits. But she caught on to Arlene’s meaning. “Yes, the inheritance will certainly come in handy,” Judith said, hoping to strike some middle ground in the conversation. “But it’s a shame Emily died so soon after they moved out from the East. Of course, she had been ill for a long time. But I gather the Frizzells’ kids never got to meet their great-aunt.”
“No.” Arlene’s face, still pretty in middle age, took on a mournful expression. “I’m sure it was a great sorrow to her. They’re both in boarding school, somewhere in New England. No doubt Emily helped with their tuition. I expect they’ll be out this summer. Money can’t be an obstacle for John and Sandy now.” Her raised russet eyebrows were fraught with meaning.
Judith inclined her head. John Frizzell’s windfall was the talk of Heraldsgate Hill. He’d already given notice at Eve Kramer’s Old As Eve Antiques where he’d worked as her assistant for the past few months. Emily Tresvant, a spinster and the sole surviving child of a timber baron, had left her enormous fortune to her late sister’s only son. As far as anyone knew, the only other beneficiary was Our Lady, Star of the Sea Parish. Judith said as much.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Arlene, oozing confidentiality, “Father Hoyle is just thrilled! Didn’t you notice how he was all smiles at the funeral?”
Judith hadn’t, and wondered at Arlene’s powers of observation. Bad taste was not part of Francis Xavier Hoyle’s repertoire. “We could do with some improvements at SOTS,” Judith temporized, using the nickname that had been attached to the parish somewhere back in the mists of time. “The carpeting is pretty threadbare, and the statue of Our Lady over the entrance has lost its nose.”
Arlene bristled. “Do you know that Sister Bridget blamed our Matthew for that? She accused him of taking potshots with a B.B. gun at the Blessed Virgin! Imagine!”
Involuntarily, Judith glance up at the kitchen window where she had finally replaced the B.B.-shattered pane. Although Matthew was now a college sophomore, in his younger days he’d shot up everything in the neighborhood, at least as far as Judith could tell. She didn’t see why Our Lady should have been left out, but made no further comment.
“Of course boys will be boys,” Arlene said with a little jut of her chin. “After all, you know what kind of stunts Mike used to pull.”
Judith did, but the reference to her only son rankled. “The latest one is that he won’t be here for Easter,” she blurted. Seeing Arlene’s blue eyes widen, Judith tried to speak more calmly. “He’s going to be with his girlfriend’s family. They live about forty miles from campus on a wheat ranch in the Palouse.”
“Kristin?” Arlene watched Judith nod. “I remember her from Christmas. Big girl. Blond.”
“Strong. Like ox,” agreed Judith. “She’s majoring in forestry, too. I think she wants to be a redwood.” Noting Arlene’s semi-shocked expression, Judith turned repentant. “Sorry, I really don’t know her very well. Kristin’s the strong, silent type, but I’m sure she’s a terrific girl. At least Mike seems to think so.”
“Well, that’s all that matters,” soothed Arlene, starting for the door and ignoring the fact that she had fought her own children tooth-and-toenail over their various romantic attachments. “Carl and I are off to the airport to pick up the contingent from Omaha. Meagan is driving up from Oregon. Mugs had a fight with her husband and came over this afternoon. C.J.’s car broke down, so he and Matt are taking the bus from State.” In reeling off four of her five children’s return to the nest, Arlene’s awkward pause testified to her sympathy over Mike’s absence. “Kevin’s going to get the Fargo bunch on his way home from work. They should be over here around seven-thirty, but they’ll eat with us if they didn’t get dinner on the plane.”
Judith was expressing agreement when the phone rang in the kitchen. She waved Arlene off and picked up the receiver. Arlene paused just long enough to let in Sweetums, Judith’s reprehensible cat.
Speaking in her most professional manner, Judith ignored Sweetums, who was weaving in and out of her legs in an uncharacteristic display of affection. At the other end of the line, she heard Sandy Frizzell’s husky voice with the East Coast accent that somehow grated on Judith’s ear.
“John and I wanted to thank you again for putting on such a wonderful reception,” said Sandy. “Everything was very nice. Aunt Emily would have approved.”
Emily Tresvant’s heavenly stamp was duly noted by Judith, who had the feeling the testy old girl would have found something to gripe about, even at her own funeral. “I’m glad,” said Judith, wishing Sweetums would stop rubbing against her in that annoying manner. “I only started my catering business in February, you know.”
“You’re very good at it,” said Sandy with that deep voice that made Judith wonder if she had been a heavy smoker. Like Gertrude. The mental comparison was jarring. “In fact,” Sandy went on, “I understand you’re doing the children’s Easter egg hunt up at church tomorrow.”
“That’s right,” said Judith, nudging the cat with her foot. Sweetums got the message
and slunk off into the dining room. “But it’s basically a potluck. The parents are bringing most of the lunch. I’m just supervising…” She stopped cold, aware that something soft and wet was clinging to her stockinged foot. “Aaaack!” she screamed, then clasped her hand over the mouthpiece. A dead mouse reposed on her toes. Judith kicked out, sending the furry corpse across the kitchen. Images of a parboiled Sweetums flashed before her aggravated eyes.
“Mrs. McMonigle?” Sandy’s anxious voice called out from the receiver. “Are you there? Are you all right? Is this an inconvenient time?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I just hurt my foot.” Judith emitted a weak laugh. “A tack, I guess. Now—what were we saying?”
There was a slight pause at the other end, presumably while Sandy Frizzell collected her interrupted thoughts. “About the egg hunt. I know we don’t have children in the school, but everyone has been so nice to us since we got to Star of the Sea. Especially with the funeral and all, and I thought that we’d like to contribute something for tomorrow. A sheet cake, maybe? I could call Begelman’s right now.”
“Oh.” Judith averted her eyes from the dead mouse and held her head. “That’s very kind. Sure, that’s a great idea. Thanks very much.”
In something of a daze, she answered Sandy’s queries about time of day and numbers of participants and appropriate decoration. At last, sounding pleased with herself, Sandy hung up. Judith gritted her teeth, tore off a paper towel, and scooped up the mouse. Still in her stockinged feet, she marched outside to the garbage can by the driveway and dumped the poor animal inside. A glance at the open toolshed door informed her where Sweetums had found his prey.
“Damn,” breathed Judith, “I hoped that wretched cat didn’t knock Dan over.”