by Mary Daheim
“Huh? Arunitz? I don’t remember any Russians from church. Hey, got to go! Say hi to Grams! Kristin’s saddling up!”
It occurred to Judith that Kristin was so big she could put on a saddle and carry about four farmhands around the wheat ranch without breaking a sweat. Sighing, she replaced the phone and returned to the task of cleaning up the kitchen. When the phone rang again, she hoped it was Mike, trying for a better connection. Instead it was Dooley.
“Guess what!” he burst into her ear. “I had my CB on, and something weird has happened!” He took a deep breath, his voice cracking. “Mark Duffy has been arrested!”
SEVEN
“MARK DUFFY?” JUDITH was incredulous. Mark’s tall, dark, handsome image rose before her eyes, the perfect husband to the perfect wife. As a homicidal maniac, only Wilbur Paine was a less likely suspect. “On what grounds?” asked Judith in a breathless voice.
“Breaking and entering,” came Dooley’s reply. “John Frizzell caught him trying to climb in the basement window of their rental house.”
Mark Duffy as a burglar was only slightly less hard to take in than Mark Duffy as a murderer. “There must be a mistake. Or does John have a grudge against Mark?”
“I don’t know. Want to go down to headquarters and see what’s happening?” Dooley sounded eager.
Taking in the chaos of her kitchen, Judith winced. “Gosh, Dooley, it’s after eight…Can’t we just call?”
“Awww…” Dooley’s voice wound down with disappointment. “Come on, Mrs. McMonigle, you don’t want to prevent me from doing my duty as an Explorer?”
Judith weighed domestic chores against civic responsibility. The Rankers’s relatives were gone, for all intents and purposes. No one else was due at Hillside Manor until Tuesday afternoon. “Okay.” Judith sighed. “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
On their way downtown, Judith asked Dooley to point out the Frizzell rental. “It’s on my paper route,” he said, “but I never collected. They always paid by mail.”
Judith slowed at the bottom of Crabtree Street. A modest white bungalow nestled between an older three-story apartment house and a brick duplex. Behind tightly drawn drapes, a single light glowed amber.
“Cozy, maybe,” remarked Judith. “But a far cry from the Tresvant place up on the Bluff.”
“That’s a mansion,” agreed Dooley. “My buddies and I used to sneak over the fence and play spies. Old Miss Tresvant threatened to call the cops on us once.”
Judith pictured the Tresvant house, an imposing brick and stone turn-of-the century estate in a parklike setting. Its baronial splendor had been well-suited to a timber magnate, but was something of an anachronism in the last decade of the twentieth century. Judith wondered if John would return to New York now that both Sandy and his aunt were dead. Certainly there was nothing to hold him on the Hill. Assuming that Wilbur Paine wasn’t a murderer, he and his law firm could handle John’s local legal business.
Downtown was virtually deserted at nine o’clock on Easter night. The sun had come out in the morning, but a late afternoon rain had left the streets a shiny black. Judith had no trouble finding a parking place next to the Public Safety Building. She and Dooley went inside and asked directions to the homicide division. They were waiting for the elevator when Kate and Mark Duffy emerged, looking shaken to their shoes.
“Judith!” exclaimed Kate in her wispy voice. “How kind of you to come!”
“Ah…well, thanks, but…” Judith submitted to a hug from Kate and a pat on the back from Mark.
“I posted bail,” he said, his chiseled features grim. “I don’t understand why John is being such an ass about this. He wouldn’t even look at us when he was pressing charges, then he high-tailed it out of here like a rocket without saying a word. I suppose it’s because he’s not himself.”
“Of course he’s not,” agreed Kate, taking her husband’s arm. “John’s beside himself with grief. He wouldn’t even come to the door when Mark rang the bell. Poor man, he must have been sitting alone in the dark, mourning.” Her pale lashes fluttered up at Mark. “To be fair, how could he expect that you’d be looking for our wheelbarrow on Easter Sunday?”
Mark gave a little shrug of his broad shoulders. Over the years, his efforts on behalf of the parish and the school had been surpassed only by those of his wife. “I planned on taking tomorrow off. I usually do on Easter Monday. Kate’s been nagging me to get some yard work done.” He smiled down on his mate, whose sweet face glowed up at him in a mutual display of devotion.
“John borrowed the wheelbarrow a couple of months ago,” put in Kate as what appeared to be a gang of murderous drug dealers were hustled into the elevator, “not long after they moved into their rental. He forgot to return it, and when he didn’t answer the door, Mark decided not to bother him in his time of sorrow. Lord help John, he was so devastated that he didn’t even go to church today.”
“I see,” said Judith, but wasn’t sure she did. At her side, Dooley fidgeted, disinterested in the discussion of manners and mores. “So he called the cops on Mark for trying to reclaim the wheelbarrow?” inquired Judith, shifting her tote bag from one hand to the other.
Kate clung to her husband’s arm, oblivious to the six-foot, six-inch screaming maniac with shoulder-length hair and a long, matted beard who was being hauled past them in handcuffs. “John thought Mark was a burglar! Imagine! Bless his heart, John wouldn’t listen to reason. He called 911 and the police came right away, as I guess they were sort of watching the house, and John pressed charges. Hysteria, I suppose. Not in his right mind.” Sadly, she shook her head. “But I’m sure when he realizes what he’s done—after the shock of Sandy’s death wears off—he’ll come to his senses and apologize. At least Mark is free, and thank the Lord that all’s well that ends well.” She looked up again at Mark, smiling beatifically.
“That’s good,” said Judith, lacking her usual conviction. “Have a nice holiday.” She nodded at Mark, who was caressing the hand that Kate was resting on his arm.
Kate’s blond eyebrows lifted. “You’re not coming home with us for coffee and cake? But I thought you were here to help.”
Judith shuffled a bit awkwardly as three screeching, kicking, cussing prostitutes were herded into the elevator. “Actually…I came down with Dooley because he’s an Explorer. He needed a ride and his folks are…”
“Drunk,” said Dooley, saving Judith but not sparing his parents. “I mean, just enough so they shouldn’t drive. They belong to MADD.”
“Oh.” Kate looked disappointed, though whether in Dooley’s family or Judith’s lack of support was impossible to tell. “Still,” she brightened, “it gave us a lift, just seeing friendly faces in this place.” A little shiver underscored her point. “Really, jail isn’t at all nice.”
“True,” agreed Judith, willingly being dragged off by Dooley toward the next empty elevator, which was blessedly devoid of perpetrators. “Good night, now.”
“Yuk!” exclaimed Dooley as the doors slid shut and he leaned against the rear of the car. “Mrs. Duffy is unreal! All that mushy stuff. And I can’t believe she’d make Mr. Duffy go chasing a wheelbarrow on Easter Sunday.”
Judith wrinkled her nose. “Neither can I.”
The doors opened onto the fifth floor. Judith and Dooley stepped out, following an arrow pointing to the homicide division. “You mean you don’t think he really was trying to get his wheelbarrow back?”
“I think,” said Judith as they turned a corner and saw the office they were seeking at the end of a long hall, “that the only thing more farfetched than Mark Duffy breaking and entering is Mark Duffy looking for his wheelbarrow on Easter Sunday.” She broke stride just long enough to ruffle Dooley’s unkempt hair. “Come on, Dooley, the first thing you have to study in detective work is people. Consider their character and draw logical conclusions. Granted, people don’t always do logical things. But they usually act in character. Besides, have you ever seen the Duffys’ yard?”
“Sure. They’re on my route, too.”
“They’ve got a lovely house, but they’re no gardeners. A few bulbs, perennials, half a dozen rose bushes, and about four shrubs. Mark Duffy needs a wheelbarrow like I need ten more pounds.”
Judith paused at the open door. A stained mahogany desk ran along one wall. A chunky Japanese woman with glasses dangling on a chain eyed the newcomers quizzically. Before she could ask what they wanted, Joe Flynn ambled out from a side door, a paper cup of coffee in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other.
“Well! Two of my favorite Crimestoppers,” he greeted them with forced cheer. It struck Judith that he wasn’t entirely pleased by their visit. “What’s up?”
“Mark Duffy, on charges,” replied Judith. “What’s with him and John Frizzell?”
“Good question.” Joe’s eyes darted around the reception area, as if he was hoping someone would rescue him. He took a couple of quick swigs of coffee. “Mark’s story is lame, but John’s reaction was out of proportion. According to the patrolmen, he went off his head and pulled a gun on Mark.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Dooley.
Judith’s response was more circumspect. “I wondered. Mark’s a big guy. John’s fairly tall, but on the slim side. I couldn’t imagine him subduing Mark unless he knew karate.”
“What kind of gun?” asked a fascinated Dooley.
“A .38 Special, carry permit in order.” He shrugged the weapon off and gestured toward the door with his coffee cup. “Listen, guys, I’ve got to run. I only came in tonight to wrap up that houseboat case on the lake. Tomorrow I’ll be going full bore on this one. Call me then, okay?”
“Hold it.” Judith planted herself in front of Joe. “First, we exchange Easter presents.” She unzipped her tote bag to reveal a lumpy parcel. “You tell us what the M.E. said, we’ll give you this. I promise you’ll like it.”
Joe scowled into the bag, then relented. “Okay, come on.” He pushed open a waist-high swinging door in the counter. The woman at the desk peered at the trio over her glasses. Judith wondered if she was the nail drummer of the previous night.
Joe’s office was as disorderly as his grooming was meticulous. File folders littered the desk, computer printouts unraveled onto the floor, the walls were covered with charts and maps, the in basket was so crammed that it pressed up against the almost-empty out basket on top, and the ashtray was full of half-smoked cigars. All but hidden among the clutter was a framed photograph which faced away from Judith. Taking in a breath of stale air, she resisted the urge to turn the picture around.
“Have a seat,” invited Joe, despite the fact that both extra chairs were covered with yet more paperwork. “Here, we’ll move this stuff onto the filing cabinet.”
Judith looked askance at the double steel cabinet that was already loaded with strange objects, including a human skull. Her darker side wished it was Herself.
“Okay,” said Joe, sitting down opposite his visitors and pitching the paper cup into a wastebasket so crammed that he had to put his foot in it to make room, “what have you got?”
“You first,” insisted Judith.
Joe started to balk, saw the set of Judith’s strong jaw, and leaned back in his chair. “Okay. The M.E. says that the fatal wound was inflicted by a sharp object about four inches long which pierced the skin an inch and a half to the left of the breastbone, puncturing the heart. Death was almost instantaneous.” Joe was reciting from memory. “Said weapon was left in the body, and was described as a pair of Japanese-made embroidery scissors belonging to Eve Kramer, owner and operator of Old As Eve, an antiques and needlework shop located at 2774 Heraldsgate Avenue. Eve identified said scissors this morning.”
Judith and Dooley exchanged startled glances. “You mean she did it?” Dooley asked.
Joe shook his head. “We aren’t saying anything. Yet. Ms. Kramer says the scissors were in her shoulder bag which was left in the kitchen off the church hall. According to her, anyone could have taken them.”
“That’s weak,” said Dooley.
“No,” countered Judith, realizing that it was Eve’s embroidery scissors she’d thought of when Joe had first mentioned the weapon that had killed Sandy. “It’s true. Everybody knew Eve carried her stitchery things with her. And she often left that bag wide open. I don’t consider Eve a trusting soul, but I’ve wondered if that was her one concession to the better side of human nature.” She turned to Joe, who was flipping through the papers he’d carried into the office. The fluorescent lighting cast a jaundiced glow on everything, including Joe’s usually rubicund complexion. “You know that’s odd—I remember seeing Eve’s stitchery in her handbag in the church kitchen, but not the scissors. And yet I saw them when I spoke to her Friday at Chez Steve.”
“Maybe,” suggested Joe, “they’d just slipped to the bottom of her bag.”
“Maybe,” said Judith, not entirely convinced. “What about fingerprints?”
“None,” replied Joe. “I imagine the murderer wore gloves, though it wouldn’t be impossible to wipe the scissors off even when they were still in the body.”
Judith’s face sagged. The image of Sandy Frizzell lying on the nursery floor with a pair of embroidery scissors sticking out of her breast was too gruesome to contemplate. “The chalk—were there footprints?” Judith asked hastily.
Joe’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You’ve been detecting. Yes. All over the place, including one odd pair that led to the cloakroom, out into the hall, and back down to the men’s room.” He eyed Judith cagily. “Shall I tell you what kind of footprints?”
Judith took the package out of her tote bag and handed it not to Joe, but to Dooley. “Let’s say I don’t need a lucky rabbit’s foot to take a guess.”
Joe pulled out a single sheet of paper and put it on the desk. It looked like a form from where Judith was sitting. “Okay, Dooley,” he said, “let’s have it.”
Joe whistled when he saw the green and purple costume. He stared hard at the dark stains, then shook his head. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like blood.” Judith and Dooley took turns relating their stories: Norma coming out of the men’s room with the costume, her fabrication about returning it to Arlecchino’s, Dooley’s discovery in the dumpster, and last, but not least, the scene between the Paines and Eve Kramer.
“Why the hell,” demanded Joe, “didn’t you tell me all this last night?”
Judith let out a great sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I meant to. That’s why I called in the first place.” She gave him an appealing look. “We got to talking…about other things…and I…” Her voice trailed away as she felt a faint flush creep up her face. “It’s Easter, after all. To everything there is a season, and last night wasn’t it.” Judith’s tone had become sharper, her chin thrust out. She felt Dooley’s eyes on her and swerved around on the chair to stare him down. “Don’t you dare compare me to Kate Duffy!” she admonished, leaving the boy with a bewildered expression.
“Okay, okay,” said Joe. “I’ll get this outfit off to forensics. We’ll see if this is blood, and if so, if it’s Sandy Frizzell’s. We’ll run other tests, too, and maybe we’ll come up with something that either will eliminate or implicate Wilbur Paine.” Joe had gotten to his feet, hands at his hips. “Tell me again, when did you last see Wilbur wearing this suit?”
Judith didn’t need to think. “Going into the men’s room, on my way out. As near as I can recall, it was around one-thirty.”
“What did Wilbur say?” Joe enunciated the question very clearly, as if he were speaking to a child.
Judith started to get huffy. “He said…” She stopped, a hand ruffling her new hairdo. “Actually, he didn’t say anything. He just sort of waved.”
Joe’s green eyes held Judith prisoner. “Okay. Now concentrate. Are you sure it was Wilbur you saw go into the men’s room?”
More mesmerized by Joe’s electric gaze than the question, Judith faltered. “What? Oh!” Chewing on her lower lip, she tri
ed to recall exactly what she had seen the previous afternoon. A rabbit. From the back. Purple and green, floppy ears, a fluffy tail, funny paws for feet, gloved hands. Looking tired. Or, in retrospect, furtive? Judith shook her head. “To be honest, it could have been anybody. I just assumed it was Wilbur because of the suit.”
“Right.” Joe gave Dooley a half smile. “You see, son, sometimes your eyes can deceive you. That’s one of a detective’s first rules. And remember, nobody sees the same thing the same way.” He leaned down to pick up a pen and write something in a blank space on the form he’d set in front of him. “Here, Dooley,” said Joe, handing over the single sheet of paper, “take this down the hall on your right to Officer Price’s box. Mrs. Gorai will tell you where it is. Thanks.” Dooley started off, but Joe had one last word: “You did good work. Finding this suit was a real smart bit of follow-through. I’ll see that you get a commendation.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Dooley, his fair hair seeming to spring to life. “Thanks!”
Judith had also gotten up. “I’d better go, too. I can’t think of anything else I ought to tell you.” She gave Joe a weary, almost diffident smile.
He’d come around the desk to take Judith’s arm. “You probably can, but this isn’t the time or place for it.” He paused, the green eyes searching her face, then abruptly turned and picked up the framed photograph. “This is Caitlin. High school graduation three years ago. What do you think?”
Judith studied the smiling girl with the red curls, beguiling dimples, and merry green eyes. “I think she’s lovely! She looks just like you!”
Joe laughed. “Nobody has ever called me ‘lovely.’ But thanks,” he said, sobering. “She’s quite a gal. Bright, too. A terrible temper, and stubborn as hell, but nobody’ll ever get the best of her. I hope.”
“Gee,” mused Judith, “I wonder where she got all that?”
Joe held the photograph at arm’s length and allowed himself a moment of paternal pride. “I have to admit, she’s always been Daddy’s little girl. But then,” he added on a more somber note, “Herself has never been the motherly type.”