Holy Terrors

by Mary Daheim

  The topic had turned a bit more grim than Judith had intended. “In other words, you have all sorts of options.” She tilted her head, watching the sunlight dance off Wilbur’s glasses. “It’s not a huge amount. Nothing like Emily Tresvant’s wealth.” Judith’s laugh was intended to sound self-deprecating, but came out hollow. “I don’t suppose,” she went on guilelessly, “that poor Emily realized Sandy wasn’t a woman?”

  Wilbur’s cheeks turned pink. “Shocking business. I’m just appalled. Emily must be turning over in her grave.” He clicked the ballpoint pen several times in agitation. “Excuse me, I mustn’t breach client confidentiality, of course. But facts are facts. It’s quite clear that John Frizzell and Sandy…whatever her…his name was, were not husband and wife. Emily specified that John must be a respectable family man in order to inherit.”

  That, Judith realized, might explain Sandy’s charade. But it hadn’t dawned on Judith until now that Sandy’s real identity was as much of a mystery as his murder. Hopefully, Joe was working on that angle. “That’s true,” agreed Judith, giving Wilbur a sympathetic look that invited his confidences. “I hope this tragedy doesn’t complicate your role as the Tresvant attorney. Will Sandy’s status change John’s inheritance?”

  Wilbur, clicking away at the pen, turned from pink to puce. “Well, um, the law isn’t fond of surprises. This unfortunate matter raises, ah, questions. Emily was a great one for codicils. “Purposefully, he put the pen back in the drawer and slid it shut. It was obvious that Wilbur wasn’t going to say any more.

  Judith’s brain went into high gear, and she took an outside shot: “For the life of me, I can’t see why Eve Kramer feels she should get involved in litigation. Her role seems quite obscure.” At least, Judith told herself, the statement as worded was true enough. The insinuations were another matter.

  The color drained from Wilbur’s face. For a moment, his lower lip trembled, and Judith noticed that he kept his hands, which she presumed were shaking, under the desk. “Eve is acting foolishly,” he said at last. “She hasn’t a prayer of breaking the will.”

  The phone buzzed on Wilbur’s sleek mahogany commode behind the desk. He turned on the speakerphone to hear his secretary announce the arrival of a client whose family prominence was as old as the city itself.

  “My father, who helped found this firm, and his father played golf together,” Wilbur said in tones of reverence. “God love the Borings, they’ve been faithful to us over the years. I can’t bear to think what would happen if they took their business elsewhere.” Wilbur’s lower lip actually quivered.

  Reluctantly, Judith realized it was her cue to leave. She stood up and proffered her hand. Wilbur took it in a limp clasp. “Thanks so much,” she said, with her most winning smile. “I’ll go home and think over what you’ve told me about Dan’s money. Maybe I should discuss it with Mike when he comes home from college. By the way,” she added at her most casual, “does John really have any children?”

  Wilbur gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. At this point, I don’t even know who Stella is.”

  Judith’s eyebrows shot up. “Stella?” The name struck a familiar note. Someone else had mentioned it earlier, but offhand, Judith couldn’t recall the reference. “Stella who?”

  “I have no idea. Luckily, I don’t have to. If anything had happened to John, Emily’s money would have gone to this Stella.” The phone buzzed again. Wilbur jumped. “Excuse me, I really must see Mr. Boring. He’s such a busy man.”

  Still smiling, Judith backed out of the office. “So are you, Wilbur,” she said. And, she thought to herself, a nervous one. Judith wondered why. Unless, of course, he was about to lose the Boring business along with Tresvant Timber. That, she realized, would be enough to make any senior partner edgy.

  And poor.

  NINE

  PHYLISS RACKLEY HAD recovered. The roar of the vacuum cleaner could be heard in the second-floor precincts as Judith entered Hillside Manor. Gertrude, who had fought Phyliss to a standoff over the years concerning housekeeping procedures, had retreated to the family quarters, no doubt smoking and sulking with a vengeance.

  Judith decided not to interrupt Phyliss’s work. She wanted to talk to her about Emily Tresvant, but once she started, the garrulous cleaning woman wouldn’t shut up. With guests arriving the next day, Judith had to make sure that she had her house in order. She herself would tend to the kitchen. At least the fridge was stocked for breakfast, with enough sausage, eggs, bacon, and ham left over from her Saturday expedition to take care of the two couples who were coming up from Oregon for a three-night stay.

  The phone rang, and Judith half expected it to be Cousin Renie, inquiring about the interview with Wilbur. Instead it was a prospective guest, asking if Judith had a room with a mirrored ceiling. Resisting the urge to tell the gentleman caller that he could turn the dressing table on its side and try crawling under the furniture for the same effect, Judith merely answered no. Disappointed, the man hung up.

  Finally, Judith turned to her answering machine. Three potential reservations, two for May, one for June, and an inquiry about catering a wedding reception droned into her ear. There was no message concerning Sandy’s murder. Judith felt a sense of letdown. Maybe Renie was right—she was indeed hooked on crime.

  Sneaking upstairs to avoid both Phyliss and Gertrude, Judith changed out of her orange linen shirtdress and donned slacks and sweatshirt. Half an hour later, she was thawing two chicken breasts in the microwave when Phyliss Rackley came into the kitchen with a laundry basketful of dirty towels.

  “Off gallivanting, your mother said,” remarked Phyliss, balancing the basket between her knee and hip. She was a squat woman in her sixties with sluggish blue eyes and gray sausage curls that squirted out all over her head. “I hear you found another body.” Her phlegmatic manner indicated that as usual, she took all manner of strange events in stride.

  “I didn’t find it,” protested Judith. “I wasn’t even there.”

  Phyliss didn’t bother to look disappointed, but shifted the laundry basket and started for the basement. “You’re out of bleach,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Wait up, Phyliss,” Judith called after the other woman. But Phyliss, the ties of her tennis shoes undone and a row of ragged lace hanging out from under her striped housedress, had disappeared through the little passage that led to the basement.

  Judith started peeling potatoes, remembered the chicken breasts were still in the microwave, removed them to a paper towel on the counter, and wondered if Joe had the lab report on the rabbit suit back yet. Perhaps he would call her. Then again, maybe not. She could call him. Her eyes roamed to the phone on the wall by the swinging door that led into the dining room. Judith didn’t want to appear too aggressive in terms of their relationship. On the other hand, her inquiry was strictly business. In theory, the investigation was none of her business. Judith’s brain went round and round, in rhythm with the potato peeler.

  A scream from the basement brought her tumbling thoughts to a dead halt. Judith dropped a potato in the sink and ran to the stairwell. Another sound pierced her ears, this time more like a screech.

  “Phyliss!” she shouted. “What’s wrong?”

  There was no answer, only another screech and several thuds. Judith started down the stairs.

  Phyliss stood by the clothes dryer, holding a struggling, clawing Sweetums in her hands. “Your idiot cat tried to put himself on the spin cycle. Why don’t you send this thing to the pound?”

  “Damn,” swore Judith, hurrying to Phyliss and taking the irate animal in her arms. Sweetums growled ferociously and went for Judith’s face. “No, you don’t, you horrible beast. Next time, try the washer. As usual, you’re filthy.”

  Minutes later, when Sweetums had been subdued by a dish of cat tuna, Phyliss emerged from the basement, rubbing her arms. “That gruesome little devil better not have rabies,” she said. “He got me real good. My nerves can’t take it, my colitis is
acting up something fierce. Can’t you train him not to take naps in the dryer?”

  “I’m trying to teach him to sleep in the microwave, but he won’t go for it,” replied Judith, taking the tea kettle off the stove and pouring boiling water into a blue ceramic pot. “Phyliss, do you remember when you worked for Emily Tresvant?”

  Phyliss snorted. “I’ve been trying to forget for years. She was a real cranky old bat. Worse than your mother.”

  “Wow!” Judith got out a pair of mismatched mugs and set them on the dinette table. “Is that why you quit?”

  Easing herself into a chair, Phyliss accepted the mug of tea and poured in what appeared to be half a cup of sugar. “Absolutely! She was too cranky. Fussy, too. Wanted everything perfect. Gave me migraines. I don’t know why she cared, she never had company. She just sat there in that big old barn of a house and watched television. I don’t think she knew what was on half the time.”

  “When was that?” Judith queried.

  Phyliss ran a hand through the jumble of sausage curls. “Oh—about fifteen years ago. Maybe more. Not too long after her sister died, I guess. Lucille, that was her name. I went to work for old Emily just before Lucille came home to croak. I stayed on quite a while, which was more than most of her cleaning women did, I can tell you. I don’t let things bother me like some do. One word of criticism and they’re gone. I may not have the best of health, but praise the Lord, I can still put up with a lot. Nell Whitson quit the Paines because Mrs. P said she didn’t dust the curlicues on her blasted broke mirror good enough.”

  “Baroque,” corrected Judith softly, but knew that Phyliss didn’t pay any attention. “Did you ever see John Frizzell?”

  Phyliss looked askance at her employee. “John Frizzell! A queer, huh? What a stunt! He put one over on old Emily, eh? I say, good for him. I hope he goes through her money like poop through a pigeon. Now I don’t hold with all this homosexual stuff, even though my youngest boy likes to wear women’s undies now and then. Pastor Polhamus preaches that it’s worse than playing cards, but I can’t say as I mind if Emily got herself duped.”

  Carefully turning her Caesar’s Palace mug around so that the logo didn’t show, Judith made an attempt to get Phyliss back on track. “But did you ever meet John?”

  Phyliss cast her eyes up to the nine-foot kitchen ceiling. “Can’t say that I did. Lucille got letters from him, though. I think he was in California at the time. Los Angeles. Emily heard from him, too. In fact, he called once when I was there, that was after Lucille had passed on. He was in the movie business. I answered the phone, never mind that I had an ear infection at the time, and I asked him why he’d got himself into such an ungodly line of work. He just laughed. Depraved even then, I suppose.”

  “Movies?” Judith took a drink of tea. “I thought he was in antiques.”

  “Not then, he wasn’t. Maybe he got saved.” Phyliss slurped at her mug and then shook her head. “Nope, not if he was being queer. Did I ever tell you about my sister’s boy, Randolph, in Sioux City?”

  “Often,” lied Judith. “Phyliss, do you remember anybody connected with Emily named Stella?”

  Phyliss looked blank. “Stella? Not unless that was the woman who came to do her feet. One of them podium people.”

  “Podiatrist?” suggested Judith.

  “Socialist. Held with radical ways. I’ve no time for any of it.” Phyliss’s forehead screwed up. “No, her name was Sophie. Probably Russian. If she’d had an accent, I’ll bet she’d have been foreign. She looked the type.”

  Judith kept a tight rein on her patience. A sated Sweetums planted himself at her feet, his fur still ruffled from the brief bout with the dryer. “Did you ever hear anything about what happened to John’s father?”

  Draining her mug, Phyliss delved uninvited into the sheep-shaped cookie jar on the windowsill. “Snicker-doodles, my favorite.” She munched away happily. “Kind of stale, though. Unless my bad wrist gives out, want me to bake you some gingersnaps?”

  “Sure,” Judith replied faintly. “What about John’s father?”

  But Phyliss shook her head, making the sausage curls sway. “Don’t know much about him. He and Lucille were divorced early on. I think he remarried, some Jezebel, no doubt. Old Emily didn’t speak of him much, and when she did, it wasn’t fit to print. Edgar, that was his name. A rambling, gambling man, the very worst sort. Satan’s tool. I figure he ended up in evil clutches.” The vivid expression on Phyliss’s usually impassive face conjured up images that would have made Dante wince.

  Judith backed off the subject of Edgar, who was probably as dead as Emily and Lucille. In any event, he hadn’t seemed to have surfaced for almost three decades. “Did Emily have any pictures of John?” Judith asked.

  Phyliss took out a ratty handkerchief that looked to Judith as if it had been used to blow noses in several Western states. “Pictures! She had a ton of ’em, mostly old geezers in those fancy frames that are so hard to dust. Curlicues, like Norma Paine’s broke mirror.” Applying the crumpled handkerchief to her nose, Phyliss emitted a trumpetlike blast. Judith cringed. “She had a couple of John,” Phyliss continued, punctuating her reply with several loud sniffs and snorts. “Plainer frames. In one, he’s about seven or eight, wearing a white suit and holding a flower and a string of beads. With Lucille dressing him up like that, it’s no wonder he turned out to be a queer.”

  Judith guessed it was John’s First Communion photo, complete with rosary, but recognized the futility of trying to explain the ceremony to Phyliss. Indeed, Judith thought fleetingly, it would only confirm her belief in the family’s decadent ways. “Did Emily have any of him when he was older?”

  “She did. Formal like. Graduation, maybe, but none of those funny hats or long robes.” Phyliss stuffed the loath-some hanky back in her pocket. “My sinuses are plugged up something awful. John was a nice-looking young fellow, I’ll say that. I never ran into him after he moved here last winter. Or if I did, I didn’t realize it was him. Too bad he got mixed up with moving pictures. Hollywood was probably the ruination of him.”

  Renie had been right, Judith reflected. Emily had indeed possessed photographs of John Frizzell. She would not have been fooled by an impostor. Gertrude’s theory sailed out the window.

  Heaving herself from the table, Phyliss got to her feet with a deep sigh. Squat and square, she reminded Judith of a fireplug. “No rest for the wicked,” said Phyliss. “I’ve got time to do the windows in the front parlor before the wash gets out.” She paused in the doorway, her homely face brightening. “Say, that’s a beautiful picture of our Savior you got there in the living room. Almost as inspirational as the one upstairs.”

  Phyliss’s reference to Gertrude’s depiction of the Sacred Heart of Jesus which hung in the foyer of the family quarters caused Judith to wince. “Oh—yes. It’s very…moving.” Judith refrained from saying she’d been wanting to move it to the St. Vincent de Paul bag for years.

  With Phyliss in the front parlor and Sweetums asleep in the sink, Judith sauteed the chicken breasts in a bit of butter. She wished she could do the same to Sweetums. It was exactly five p.m., according to the old schoolhouse clock above the refrigerator. Usually, Gertrude was at the kitchen table by now, never having given up on the idea that “supper,” as she called it, should be served no later than five-oh-five. Judith managed to stall most evenings until at least five forty-five, and on one rare summer night the previous year, she had pushed mealtime all the way up to six-twenty. Gertrude had griped for a week.

  Apparently Gertrude was delaying her entrance, in deference to Phyliss and her chores. The phone rang. It was Joe.

  “You got any raw umber shoe polish?”

  “What?” Judith held the phone out from her ear, certain that she wasn’t hearing correctly.

  “Shoeshine, in a raw umber shade,” explained Joe patiently. “I scuffed my loafers on somebody’s weapon of choice, which happened to be a rusty harpoon. I don’t want my sartorial splendor marred
when we go out to dinner tonight.”

  “We?” Judith sounded breathless.

  “Sure. Why not?” responded Joe in his breezy manner. “Rummage around, see what you can find for my loafers. Is seven-thirty okay?”

  “Joe, I’ve already got dinner started. Besides, you agreed we ought to wait to see each other until the annulment was official.” Judith heard the pleading note in her voice and was annoyed. “It’s less than two weeks to go, right?”

  “Probably.” There was an almost imperceptible pause at Joe’s end. “Look, Jude-girl, we’re adults. We’re not trying to set an endurance record for self-denial. What’s the point of playing hide-and-seek at this stage of the game?” There was another faint pause, this time for Judith’s answer. When she said nothing, Joe continued: “What about tomorrow night?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got guests, booked straight through for two weeks. I’m just getting into my busiest season. Come Memorial Day, I won’t have any nights off until after Labor Day. I have some time to myself during the day, but evenings I stick around here. I feel I should, if only for insurance purposes.” Judith was speaking faster and faster, as if trying to convince herself as well as Joe that she was a prisoner of her own success.

  “You used to be more fun,” he said, his light tone faintly forced. “Impulsive, even. What do you do these days for laughs, watch Gertrude take out her partial plate?”

  Judith felt the sting in his rebuke. Joe was right: Before her marriage, she had been game for almost anything, at least where Joe Flynn was concerned. Hot-air ballooning over the university homecoming football game, showing up at the opera in matching panda suits, taking the city’s newest fire engine for a joyride around Chinatown—Judith and Joe had done it all. But that had been almost a quarter of a century ago. A lot had changed since then, including, Judith realized with a pang, herself.