by Mary Daheim
Eve was still muttering about John Frizzell’s lack of consideration as she sailed out of the salon. Steve watched her exit and shook his shaggy head. “That’s one tough broad. I wonder what kind of living hell she puts Kurt through? Whatever it is, the old grump deserves it.”
Judith didn’t know—didn’t want to know, if it came to that. She knew what her own living hell had been like, and that was enough. Now she’d like to look forward to a little bit of heaven. Only two more weeks, she told herself, and sat back to see what wonders Steve could work with his beefy magic fingers.
“What’s happened to your hair?” screeched Gertrude when Judith came in the back door just after seven p.m. “You look like a trollop!”
“Funny, I left ‘trollop’ out,” Judith murmured, but stood her ground. “It’s Silver Streak. Most of it’s my own, Mother,” Judith fibbed.
“Bull. All you need is rolled stockings and a beaded bag. Go ahead, stand under a lamppost and see what happens! I always knew you’d end up in the gutter!”
“It smells like I’m already there,” remarked Judith, shucking off her jacket and sniffing at the overwhelming aroma of clam and grease. “How was supper?”
“Best fritters I ever made,” Gertrude said smugly. “Sweetums ate your share.”
“Serves him right,” breathed Judith. “Did he puke again?”
Gertrude drew herself up as tall as she could, which wasn’t an imposing sight, considering that she was short to begin with and had to lean on the walker besides. “Do you want me to make potato salad for your stupid egg hunt or not?” barked Gertrude.
Gertrude’s potato salad and her clam fritters were at opposite ends of the food spectrum. “Of course I do,” Judith said somewhat crossly as the euphoria from her new coiffure began to ebb. “Your potato salad is the stuff of which legends are made. Your clam fritters, on the other hand, are the stuff on which stomach pumps thrive.”
Getrude harrumphed and delved into her housecoat pocket to pull out a roll of Tums, thought better of it considering the topic under discussion, and lighted a cigarette instead. “You got a call from Norma, that big Paine. She wanted to make sure you’d be up at church before eleven tomorrow.”
Judith gaped at her mother in mock surprise. “You answered the phone? Who did you think it was, your bookie?”
“She called on the private line upstairs,” Gertrude grumbled, exuding a cloud of smoke. “I thought maybe it was Mike.”
“But it wasn’t.” Judith’s euphoria all but evaporated.
“Nope.” She paused, the cigarette dangling on her lower lip, blinking away the sympathy in her eyes as if she ought to be ashamed of such maternal nonsense. “I suppose Norma Paine is the high mucky-muck for the egg hunt?”
“Egg-zecutive-in-chief,” said Judith, wincing at her own terrible pun. “Anybody else call?” she asked in a casual tone.
“Check your machine, dopey. That’s what you got the damned thing for, isn’t it? I’ve no time for ’em, beep-buzz, ‘Sorry, we can’t talk to you right now, we’re getting drunk and naked.’ That’s what they really mean, isn’t it?” Gertrude’s jaw stuck out, making her look like a grizzled bulldog.
“Could be,” said Judith, opening the refrigerator door and taking inventory for the elaborate snack she planned on having about ten o’clock. “It could mean that I’ve gone to the beauty salon to get my hair done.”
“In your case, that’s just as bad,” snapped Gertrude.
The squeal of tires, a sudden deafening crash, and several piercing shrieks put an abrupt end to the mother and daughter bickering. Judith dashed to the kitchen window. In the soft April dusk, she could see the glare of headlights and the movement of people. Large objects sailed through the air, blows were exchanged, bodies thudded against the parked cars as more screams shattered the evening calm.
“What’s happening?” demanded Gertrude, thumping up behind Judith.
But Judith was already turning away from the window, suppressing a yawn. “Nothing. It’s just the Rankers. Their relatives have arrived.”
THREE
HOLY SATURDAY DAWNED cloudy and damp. The sun, which had flirted with the city off and on the previous day, seemed to have gone into hiding. It was typically April in the Pacific Northwest, turning the waters of the bay a dingy gray and casting a blight on the downtown high-rises Judith could see from her living room window. She wished the rain would hold off until after the Easter egg hunt.
Gathering up Arlene’s picnic hamper and three plastic bags filled with juice and pop, Judith started out the back door. To her dismay, the phone rang. She paused, hoping Gertrude would answer it. But as usual, her mother was pretending to be deaf, or else had taken refuge in the family quarters on the third floor.
Dumping everything on the floor, Judith rushed to answer by the fourth ring. Cousin Renie’s cheerful voice greeted her at the other end.
“Hey, coz, I just finished my big and brilliant graphic design project for the computer-whiz kids over at Mech Tech. Want me to make my famous bean glop for dinner tomorrow?”
“Get lost,” said Judith with a sigh. “It’s a good thing you’re better at the drawing board than you are with the stove. Why didn’t you call on the private line? I was just heading for SOTS. No, I do not want your bean glop. Or your clam doodoo. Bring the hot cross buns and the relish tray. Mother and I are doing the rest.”
“I blanked out on your other number. You like my clam doodoo,” said Renie with feigned hurt. “Remember the Fourth of July Dan threw it out the back door and hit Mrs. Dooley right in the kisser?”
“She didn’t speak to me for six months,” said Judith in not-so-fond recollection of the incident involving her neighbor to the east. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Hundreds of eager children await me up at church. Dozens of good eggs are going bad. See you guys tomorrow around four?”
Renie assured her that they’d all be there—her husband, Bill; Aunt Deb; the three grown children, Anne, Tony, and Tom; plus Tony’s latest girlfriend, Rich Beth. The last name was added with a disdainful sniff as Renie hung up.
Turning out of the cul-de-sac that snaked up the south side of Heraldsgate Hill, Judith drove her Japanese compact toward the steep main thoroughfare that led up to the Catholic church. Traffic was heavy on Heraldsgate Avenue, as befitted a holiday weekend. Gearing down, Judith climbed the Hill behind an out-of-state sedan. At the four-way stop, she turned left, driving along the flat toward the Gothic eminence of Our Lady, Star of the Sea.
Under the gloomy clouds and in the shadow of the surrounding buildings, the old church looked shabby. The red brick seemed faded; the brown stone was worn. Across the street, cherry blossoms drifted down like sad snowflakes. Only the spring garden that ran the length of the church lent a hint of life.
Out in the parking lot behind the school, Judith craned her neck to stare up at the single spire with its naked cross. Somehow, it looked crooked. Passing a hand over her newly colored hair, Judith was suddenly overcome with pessimism. It was an uncharacteristic emotion, and utterly inappropriate for the hostess of the parish egg hunt. It must be the capricious April weather, she told herself. Or maybe she wasn’t spiritually prepared for the joy of Easter. Two days of fasting and giving up gum did not constitute total Lenten reparation. Whatever the cause, Judith had better shake off her mood and put on a happy face.
Rallying, she began unloading the trunk. Eddie La Plante, the rheumatic gardener, tottered out from the cloisters by the convent. He gestured at Judith.
“Damned squirrels,” he muttered, shuffling closer and holding out a hand with swollen joints. “What did they do with my hyacinth bulbs? See here? Peanuts!”
“Squirrels are pesky,” Judith allowed, though she secretly blessed the furry little fellows for their relentless taunting of the gullible Sweetums.
“Wicked, I call it,” grumbled Eddie, his gnomelike face as weathered as the peanuts he held. He used his free hand to hold his down vest together as a breeze blew sharply thr
ough the parking lot. “Lot of wickedness going on around here, if you ask me. Think of it, old Emily leaving all that money to Stella.”
“Sandy,” corrected Judith gently. “To John, actually, he’s the nephew…”
“Wicked, that’s what I said it is. What did John Frizzell ever do for Emily? Or anybody else, if it comes to that?” Eddie’s smoky voice rumbled right over Judith’s words. “And what do the rest of us get?” He stared at his open palm, which shook ever so slightly. “Peanuts!”
Other cars had pulled in, spilling out various fellow SOTS who had come early to help. Eddie’s small dark eyes scanned the parking lot, his forehead under the baseball cap furrowed with disdain. “Here,” he said, thrusting the nuts at a startled Judith. “At least you’re not a jumped-up snob or a bigmouthed hypocrite like some of them.”
“Thanks,” said Judith, not sure if she referred to the peanuts or the compliment. Eddie shuffled off, hands stuffed in the pockets of his forest-green work pants, eyes fixed on the asphalt. Two parking slots down, Norma Paine emerged from her pearl-white luxury sedan in a floral jumpsuit that reminded Judith of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Hopping behind her was a large purple and green rabbit. Judith discreetly chucked the peanuts into a drain and gaped at the big bunny.
“Yoo-hoo,” called Norma. “I’ve got the eggs.” She gestured carefully with a large carton. “There’s a gold one that will be first prize. Father Hoyle suggested a homework pass for next week.”
Judith was still staring at the big rabbit. “Huh? Oh, fine.” She grinned as the rabbit spoke and waved. “Hi, Wilbur! I didn’t recognize you without your clothes.” Slamming the trunk shut, Judith got into step with Norma and Wilbur Paine. “Wait a minute, the kids have next week off. There won’t be any homework.”
Norma’s nostrils flared as she put a hand to her mouth and emitted a horselike guffaw. “Oh, that Father Hoyle! He’s a kick!” She stopped to stare at Judith. “You have a new hairdo. Now what’s different about it? Let me think—is it a wig?”
“I had it frosted,” Judith said with a dour expression.
“Yes, of course!” Another guffaw issued from Norma’s ample lungs. Judith had always been convinced that Norma’s jutting bust arrived at least fifteen seconds before the rest of her. “It’s very nice,” Norma remarked. “Takes off years, I’d say. Not that you need to, you’re a lot younger than I am.” She uttered the last statement without her usual conviction, clearly hoping to be contradicted.
But Judith was smiling at Wilbur, who was apparently nodding approval of her rejuvenation. At least his ears were flapping faster. “Maybe Father Hoyle can come up with another prize,” suggested Judith.
Norma’s chins jiggled in agreement. “He’s clever, that one. We’re lucky to have him, though in my opinion,” she confided in a lowered voice, “the jury’s still out on his new assistant.” Judith spared a pang for Father Tim Mills, who thus far had shown an appropriate amount of Christian zeal, despite such setbacks as the rebuff from John Frizzell. Tim had received an endorsement from Arlene, whose elder daughter, Mugs, had dated him in his preseminary days in Montana. “I suppose,” Norma conceded as they walked and Wilbur flopped across the parking lot, “Father Hoyle can whip him into shape, if anybody can.”
At the moment, Father Francis Xavier Hoyle was standing in the door of the parish hall, exuding pastoral warmth. In Judith’s opinion, the tall, silver-haired priest exuded much more, but as a chaste widow, she rarely dwelled on exactly what that quality might be. In the eight years that Frank Hoyle had been at Star of the Sea, no shred of scandal had touched his name, though rumor had it that several female SOTS had tried to put his vow of celibacy to the test.
But now Father Hoyle was teasing Wilbur Paine about his rabbit suit while Tim Mills helped Kurt Kramer and Mark Duffy set up the folding tables and chairs. Judith headed straight for the kitchen with Norma. Leaning against the storage cabinets were Kate Duffy and Eve Kramer, obviously engaged in a confidential conversation.
“Judith! Norma! How are you?” Kate spoke too eagerly, her composure ruffled.
Judith merely smiled in greeting, but Norma Paine was not so easily put off. “Well? Is this a private meeting, or can we dish the dirt, too?” She looked down her long nose at the other women. “Who ran off with whose husband? Or which teenager is in drug rehab this week?”
Judith cringed at Norma’s tactlessness: At least one of the Duffys’ four children had had a problem with substance abuse, and Eve’s reputation was not without blemish. Indeed, she was rumored to have—in Norma’s own words—thrown herself at Father Hoyle before he’d unpacked his clerical collars.
“We’re discussing the state of the parish,” explained Eve with a toss of her dark curls. “What will we do with Emily Tresvant’s bequest? Kurt says it comes to a cool million.”
“Phew!” Judith rolled her black eyes. As the wife of the parish business manager, Eve ought to know. “That’s a bundle!”
“And why not?” demanded Norma, opening up her box of eggs. “She left at least ten million to John and Sandy. All Emily had was money.” For a woman who was known to be as fond of a dollar as the next one, the statement was unbecoming, but at least it was informed. Wilbur Paine had been Emily Tresvant’s attorney.
“I wonder what they’ll do with the house,” put in Kate, busying herself with paper plates and plastic silverware. “It was always too big for Emily, and frankly, it’s a bit of a white elephant. John and Sandy could sell it and get out of that rental they’re in. They hardly brought a thing out from New York, just what they could pack into that old Peugeot. If Sandy changed her mind about going back East, they could treat themselves and buy something really special.” Her sweet face glowed at the idea.
Norma slammed a sack of sugar onto the counter. “Go back East? Why would anyone do a thing like that?”
Eve smirked. “Because that’s where their kids are, for one. Two, Sandy doesn’t like the Pacific Northwest. It rains too much.” Her eyes narrowed at Norma. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid they’ll take all the Tresvant legal business with them and pull Wilbur’s big fat retainer out from under him?”
Obviously disconcerted, Norma Paine tried to hide the fact by ripping open the sugar bag and dipping into it with a measuring cup. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Eve. As the Tresvant family attorney, Wilbur would be the first to know if John and Sandy planned to move away. Besides,” she added, almost more to reassure herself than the others, “even if they did, they’d no doubt keep the firm on as their legal representatives here.”
Eve was unmoved by Norma’s bluster. “I’ve already told them I want to go over the Tresvant house with a fine-toothed comb,” she said, tossing a lipstick into her open snakeskin shoulder bag. The big purse, which served as a repository for Eve’s latest piece of stitchery, contained what Judith judged to be an exquisite Oriental butterfly design in silver and gold metallic thread. “I’m sure I could find a ton of treasures for my antiques shop,” remarked Eve with a flip of her tousled tresses.
Norma, having regained her aplomb, made a wry face. “At incredibly low prices? At least John Frizzell won’t be duped. Tell me, Eve, what makes a walrus tusk umbrella handle jump from fifteen dollars in somebody’s basement to a hundred and fifty dollars in your store window?”
“Careful restoration and an added zero.” Eve’s hardedged composure was unruffled. “Come now, Norma, you’re still irked because I discovered that your great-grandmother’s clock was gold leaf and not gilt paint. You’d never taken the trouble to have it appraised.”
“It was only a matter of sentiment to me,” huffed Norma, “not dollars and cents.”
“But Norma,” Kate said in her breathless voice, “you said yourself that clock was an eyesore.”
Norma pursed her lips. “It clashed with our Louis XIV motif. Since when,” she continued, rounding on Kate, “did you become an expert on decor? Your downstairs bathroom wallpaper has chimpanzees on it!”
Norma’s gray eyes snapped at Eve, but she knuckled under, as usual. The only member of the parish who had ever gotten the better of Eve Kramer was her comrade and rival, Arlene Rankers. The redoubtable Arlene had once ended a heated argument by dumping a kettle of soft taffy on Eve’s head during the parish’s Mardi Gras carnival. Neither Norma nor Kate seemed so inclined to violence.
A faintly bewildered Father Mills wandered into the kitchen, eyeing the women warily. “Dissension among the Marthas?” he inquired with a feeble attempt at humor. Somehow, his youth and naivete seemed at odds with his boxer’s frame. Under a shock of fair hair, his blunt features retained an almost babylike quality. Judith didn’t envy his task as peacemaker between the three warring members of his congregation.
Neither, apparently, did Mark Duffy, who had followed Father Tim as far as the kitchen door and then sensibly backed off. Mark was a tall man, with graying brown hair and warm hazel eyes. He exuded relentless good cheer, yet Judith had always sensed a hint of Midwestern reserve. “Let me guess.” He grinned, helping Judith cart the food into the parish hall. “Norma’s expounding, Eve’s carping, and my wife’s praying over both of them.”
Judith grinned back at Mark. “Close. Kate ought to pray less and speak out more,” she said, carefully removing the plastic wrap from Gertrude’s potato salad. Noting the sudden tightening of Mark’s mouth, Judith shot him a perceptive look. “Or isn’t she as easily intimidated as she seems?”
Mark inclined his head. “Under that lace exterior lurks a spine of steel,” he conceded. Judith noted the pride in his tone, but there was something else, too, which Judith couldn’t quite identify.
But further revelations were prevented when Sandy Frizzell, barely visible behind two huge bakery boxes, tottered into the hall. “Oh, help, please!” she called out in that odd, husky voice. “I can’t see!” Her maligned golden hair cascaded around her face as she struggled toward the nearest table. Judith and Mark rushed to meet the new arrival, taking the boxes one at a time.