Holy Terrors

by Mary Daheim

  “Next time bring four, you lazy old skinflint,” snarled Gertrude as Judith walked into her bedroom later that evening. “How about lemon meringue for a change?” Judith paused as her mother’s face turned red. “Don’t you dare tell me to go pucker myself!” Gertrude slammed down the phone, then gave her daughter a faintly guilty look. “Okay, okay, so I used your stupid phone. Vanessa is a real crab. She ought to keep a civil tongue in her head.”

  Judith suppressed a smile. Auntie Vance was the one person in the world who could get the better of Gertrude. Indeed, Auntie Vance could probably have gotten the better of international terrorists. She had, on an infamous Christmas past, even told Dan McMonigle where he could stick his figgy pudding. With a sprig of holly. Dan had never forgiven her. Auntie Vance didn’t, as she’d so aptly put it, give a rat’s fat ass.

  The phone rang. Gertrude, sitting six inches away, refused to answer it. Sighing, Judith trudged across the room and picked up the receiver. To her surprise, the caller was John Frizzell.

  “I just wanted to thank you again for your kindness today. And your cousin’s, too,” he went on in a lifeless voice. “I didn’t have her number. It’s hard to pick a Jones out of the phone book.”

  “They’re unlisted,” said Judith, “but I’ll pass your message along. How are you feeling?”

  “Rotten.” The word sounded hollow. “I’m leaving for New York Friday. Would you mind checking out the house next week to make sure all the mail has been stopped? I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “Oh—sure,” Judith replied, responding to the bleakness of John’s voice. How sad, she thought, that he was forced to ask a virtual stranger to help him out. “No problem. Who’s the landlord?”

  “Somebody over on the East Side,” said John. “He owns a bunch of rentals. I imagine he’ll try to get new tenants in here by the first of the month. I’ve leaving the place pretty tidy.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Judith said consolingly. “If there’s anything else I can do, John, let me know.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded humble. “I guess everybody really does hate me. I’ve gotten a lot of crank calls and even a couple of letters today. Eve Kramer is furious, but at least I can understand her anger. I don’t think it has much to do with me being…what I am.”

  Gertrude was tugging at Judith’s slacks. “Who is it?” she hissed. “That fruitcake?”

  “People can be terribly small-minded,” Judith said, trying to escape from her mother’s verbal clutches. “But you’re right about Eve—she’s mad because she’s lost a fine assistant on short notice.”

  “Yes, I think so. Eve has her faults, but she’s not narrow-minded.” For the first time, John sounded faintly cheered. “I guess you could say I know All About Eve.” He actually laughed. “God, I loved that movie! Bette Davis was divine!”

  Judith concurred. “By the way, John, do you have some relative named Stella?”

  There was a silence on the line. Then John’s voice resurfaced, puzzled and devoid of cheer. “No. I haven’t any relatives. Not since Aunt Emily died.”

  “Does the name mean anything to you?” Judith asked as Gertrude finally heaved herself off the bed and began to clump out of the room on her walker.

  “It does sound familiar,” John conceded. “Now where have I heard it…?” His voice trailed off.

  “From Wilbur Paine?” hazarded Judith.

  “Wilbur?” There was another, briefer silence. “I don’t remember. Excuse me, Mrs. McMonigle, there’s someone at the door. Maybe another casserole. Or a bomb threat.” With a lame laugh, John Frizzell hung up.

  Judith had barely replaced the phone when it rang again. This time it was Joe, full of apologies and, he confessed, a pastrami on rye. “It’s almost nine o’clock and I’m just getting around to dinner. Chainsaw murder out in your old neighborhood. Somebody’s bookie didn’t pay up. Let’s just say he went all to pieces.”

  “You ought to choke on your pastrami for that remark,” said Judith, lying down on the bed and turning the three-way light to low.

  “So what did you want to tell me?” inquired Joe. “How the touch of my hand at the base of your neck can send shivers up your spine?”

  Since it was the utter truth, that was precisely what Judith would have liked to tell him. But she reined in her tongue and stuck to the facts. As concisely as possible, she related her visit with Father Tim, her interview with Eve Kramer, her exchange with Eddie La Plante, her accidental meeting with Norma Paine, and the phone call from John Frizzell.

  “Are you really going to let him take off for New York?” she asked when she had finished her recital.

  “Why not? We’ve no grounds to hold him,” Joe replied. “Sure, I’d rather he stuck around, at least for questioning, but legally there’s nothing we can do. Right now, I’m more interested in your concern over Father Tim.”

  Judith kicked off her shoes and straightened the pillow under her head. Outside it was dark, but the spring air was soft and fragrant. Through the open window, she could hear Arlene Rankers screeching at Carl to set out the recycling bin for the Wednesday morning pick-up.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Judith, “I’d rather not go into my theories about Tim right now. I just got an inspiration. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She was already sitting up, feeling for her shoes.

  “Hey—what about this business of Eddie being Eve’s dad?” asked Joe. “Why the big secret?”

  “She’s ashamed of him as far as I can tell,” said Judith, leaning over the other side of the bed to push the window open another six inches. “I’ll check back first thing in the morning, okay?”

  Joe conceded that it had to be, and hung up. Judith shouted down to Arlene, who was standing in the driveway, haranguing her husband about pruning the laurel hedge some time in the near future.

  “Have you got a minute?” Judith called.

  Arlene looked up. “Of course!” Her smile was radiant. “Carl and I were just planning our summer garden. There’s something so romantic about perennials. Shall I come up or do you want to come down? I can make cocoa.”

  “I’ve got guests,” said Judith in a lower voice. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  Two minutes later, Arlene was sitting at the dinette table, relating a horror story about how Kevin had gotten a speeding ticket racing to her rescue that morning, followed by the discovery that the spare tire was also flat, the tow truck had taken an hour and a half to arrive, and Arlene had gotten into a fight with Marvin Boggs, the service station owner.

  “Marvin’s a moron,” declared Arlene, munching on a stale snickerdoodle. “I went to high school with him, and he was always getting suspended for wearing his clothes backward. He did it on purpose, you know.”

  Ordinarily Judith would have asked why, but she had more pressing matters on her mind. “Arlene, did you say that Mugs used to date Tim Mills?”

  “Yes, in college.” Arlene plucked a stray leaf out of her tousled red-gold hair. “It was just before he went into the seminary.”

  “Did Mugs ever meet his family?” Judith inquired, trying to keep her voice casual.

  Arlene was digging about in the cookie jar. “Yes. In fact, she attended his parents’ silver anniversary reception in Miles City. Lovely people.”

  The shadowy idea that had been forming in Judith’s brain moved a couple of steps into the light. “Do you remember Tim’s mother’s name, by any chance?”

  “Let me think,” replied Arlene, removing her hand and taking a bite out of another cookie. “I hear Tim’s feeling better today.” She spoke in a musing tone. “Mrs. Mills…it’s kind of an unusual name. It began with an ‘S’…”

  Judith held her breath. Perhaps the theory she’d been building wasn’t so shaky after all. “An ‘S’? What was it?”

  Arlene was munching and thinking at the same time. The dual effort was apparently too much for her. She choked on the cookie and held the last uneaten bite out for Judith’s inspection. “These ar
en’t too fresh, Judith. I’m going to make a batch of my oatmeal crispies tomorrow. Shall I double it and bring you some?”

  “Sure, sounds great.” Trying to hide her impatience, Judith attempted to get Arlene back on track. “You said Mrs. Mills’s first name was…?”

  Arlene cleared her throat a couple of times before she spoke. “Squatting Frog.” She paid no heed to Judith’s look of dismay. “She’s a full-blooded Sioux. They actually call her Sue, in fact. S-U-E.” Arlene spelled it out for clarification.

  Judith’s theory, which had been built on the premise that Tim’s mother had been named Stella, collapsed like a house of cards. Her disappointment made no dent in Arlene, who was now peering out the kitchen window, presumably in an effort to keep track of Carl’s progress with the recycling bin. “Personally,” said Arlene, giving up on trying to see her husband in the dark, “I think Indian names are fascinating. Carl used to play basketball in high school with Howling Cat Peterson.”

  “He did?” Judith remarked somewhat absently, but never doubted the fact for a minute. “Hey,” she exclaimed, feeling a new brainstorm coming on, “Tim’s mother is a Sioux? But he’s very fair. Is his father blond?”

  Arlene shrugged and, despite her criticism, ate the last snickerdoodle. “I’ve no idea. Why?” Her eyes were inquisitive buttons of blue.

  Judith’s answer was interrupted by the sound of the front door. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up, “the Nelsons are back from dinner. Let me see if they need anything.”

  Five minutes later, the well-fed guests had trundled up to bed, content to make an early night of it since they planned to rise at six a.m. to get a head-start on their sight-seeing and shopping.

  “They are now Full Nelsons,” Judith announced, resuming her place at the dinette table. “Arlene, I’m puzzled.”

  “About what?” Arlene was shaking cookie crumbs into a little bowl. “If you save these, you can use them for ice cream topping.”

  “Good idea,” said Judith vaguely. Household hints, of which Arlene Rankers had an invaluable store, were occasionally lost on Judith. “Well,” she began, unwilling to divulge her real concerns over Tim Mills, lest her neighbor announce them on what Judith referred to as Arlene’s Broadcasting System, or ABS for short, “I guess it’s because Tim doesn’t look the least like an Indian.”

  “Why should he?” Arlene noted Judith’s blank expression. “Didn’t I tell you? He was adopted.”

  Judith’s theory, now somewhat altered and still unformed, began to rise from the ashes.

  “But,” asked Renie over the phone an hour later, “do you think Tim knows who his real parents are?”

  “I didn’t push it any further with Arlene,” replied Judith. “She got off on his illness, and I didn’t want to tell her my reaction to the cause, so I changed the subject to Eve Kramer.”

  “Any insights into the Prickly Pair?” quizzed Renie around a mouthful of popcorn. “Arlene knows Eve pretty well.”

  “Nothing much pertinent,” responded Judith, wondering why all her relatives had to make so much noise when they ate. “Arlene scoffs at Norma’s insinuations about Eve’s roving eye, but I wonder if it’s not out of loyalty. For all their spats, Arlene and Eve are good friends. So are Carl and Kurt. I did gather that Norma wasn’t the only one who thought Eve had strayed upon occasion.”

  “She has some cause with Kurt roaring like a bull half the time,” said Renie. “Gee, coz, do you suppose Eve had a thing for John Frizzell?”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” Judith admitted, warning off Sweetums, who looked as if he was contemplating a spring onto the bed. “Ironic, huh? But it’d give Eve a more obvious motive than the will business, which still eludes me.”

  “It would give Kurt one, too,” said Renie, making the kind of glugging sound that gave evidence to the washing down of popcorn with a can of cold Pepsi. “Let’s see, who else have we got with apparent motives? Wilbur and Norma might have wanted to do in Sandy to keep the legal business here instead of in New York. Maybe they thought Sandy was the one who wanted to go back East.”

  “They were wrong. They should have killed John instead.” Judith discouraged Sweetums with a rolled-up magazine. “Why do I keep thinking we’ve got the wrong victim?” She sighed, a wary eye on the cat. “There’s still something odd about the Duffys. I don’t believe Mark was going after the wheelbarrow. Where do you keep yours?”

  “Out back, under the deck,” said Renie, smacking her lips.

  “Right. Mine’s in the toolshed with Dan. Most people don’t store a wheelbarrow in the house, especially not in a little bungalow like the Frizzell place. So why break in?”

  “To get something else,” reasoned Renie. “But what?”

  Sweetums was hooking his claws in the yellow flounce that ran around the bottom of Judith’s bed. She grabbed the animal by his flea collar. Sweetums yowled. Judith gave him a good shake. His grip on the flounce was firm. Grinding her teeth, she stared menacingly into his nasty little yellow eyes.

  “…letters, maybe, or a diary?” Renie was saying. Indeed, Renie had been saying a lot of things, none of which Judith had heard. “Hey, coz, speak up! Are you there?”

  “Barely,” snapped Judith, still trying in vain to unhook Sweetums. She twisted the flea collar, causing Sweetums’s tongue to jut out and his eyes to pop like a pair of Tokay grapes. He released the chintz fabric. Judith released him. Sweetums gasped, wheezed, coiled into a ball, and flung his orange-and-white-striped body into Judith’s lap. Judith shrieked.

  “Coz!” Renie sounded frantic. “Say something!”

  Judith was staring at Sweetums, who was nestling against her, a picture of purring contentment. He actually looked up and twitched his whiskers at her. Overcome by guilt, Judith stroked his ruffled fur.

  “After invading my bedroom on a seek and destroy mission, my wretched nemesis has ceased taunting me and is actually displaying affection,” Judith said in a clear, even voice. “I can’t help but suspect this is not the real Sweetums.”

  “Oh,” said Renie faintly. “I thought you were talking about your mother.”

  Filled with Swedish pancakes and lingonberry syrup, scrambled eggs, link sausage, orange juice, and endless cups of coffee, the four Nelsons ventured out into the city just after eight o’clock. Gertrude polished off the leftovers while Judith had a piece of toast and a bowl of cold cereal. By late afternoon, the four guest rooms would be full, with one couple arriving from Alaska for a three-night stay, and two single women coming in from California for the remainder of the week. The brief lull at Hillside Manor was over.

  Phyliss Rackley showed up promptly at nine, full of complaints but brimming with energy. Judith decided to make a quick run up to Falstaff’s to restock the larder. By chance, she ran into Kate Duffy, testing avocados in the produce department.

  As ever, Kate was immaculately turned out, in a crisp white blouse and flaring lime-green skirt, her honey-colored curls in perfect array and her discreet makeup freshly applied. “I’m feeling blue,” she said in a hushed voice, moving her expert hand to the early strawberries. “I think it’s so sad that there won’t be any kind of service here for Sandy. I don’t care if she was a man, John should still have a memorial Mass.”

  “It’d probably be too hard on him,” Judith said, filling a paper bag with plump oranges. No matter what the season, the produce section always smelled of damp, fresh earth and bountiful harvest. Judith was momentarily seduced by the colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables being sprayed at intervals by a gentle sprinkler system. “Going through the ceremony twice, I mean,” Judith explained, getting herself back on track. “I suppose he’s already shipped the, uh, body back.”

  Kate’s fine gray eyes furtively scanned the bins, as if the produce were eavesdropping. Falstaff’s was not yet crowded this early, and no other shoppers were close by. “This morning,” she replied in her breathless voice. “He had to wait until the police released Sandy.” A faint flush tinged her
cheeks at the mention of such unpleasant realities. “Or so Norma told me. She’s over in salad dressing.”

  Judith craned her neck, trying to see around the orderly rows of fresh spring vegetables. Salad dressing lay beyond coffee, tea, and beverages, and thus out of Judith’s vision. “Norma ought to know,” Judith remarked. “I suppose Wilbur had to make the arrangements.”

  Kate moved so close to Judith that she was practically nuzzling her shoulder. “She knows because he didn’t make the arrangements,” Kate whispered. “John insisted on doing it himself.” The faintest hint of malice flickered in Kate’s eyes, though whether it was for Wilbur or John, Judith couldn’t be sure.

  “Wilbur can’t be pleased,” Judith noted, making her tone confidential, but leaning away just enough to get at the grapefruit. “John’s costing him a bundle. In fact,” she continued, stuffing a dozen pink grapefruit into another paper bag, “John has caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people. Wilbur, Eve, Mark…Surely he’ll drop the charges against Mark now that he’s leaving town in a couple of days?”

  Kate’s color deepened. “I really don’t know. You’d think so. It would be the charitable thing to do.” She was all but muttering. “Truly, it was a very silly incident.”

  “And over such a silly thing,” Judith said with a bland smile. “Why,” she asked as guilelessly as possible, “did Mark want those scribblings in the first place?”

  Kate didn’t quite fall into the persimmons, but she definitely teetered on her sensible yet chic pumps. “Scribblings? What scribblings?” Her voice had risen, anything but breathless, and she caught herself with a hand at her throat.

  Judith shrugged and picked up a tomato. “I’m sorry, I heard a rumor that Mark was looking for some…” She paused, apparently intent on the firmness of the beefsteak variety she was fondling. “I forget, was it letters?”

  Kate’s usually sweet face had tightened. Her gray eyes turned cold as steel. All signs of the soft, ethereal creature who seemed to float through life on a celestial cloud had vanished. In Judith’s mind, an imaginary halo slipped over Kate Duffy’s head and settled somewhere in the vicinity of her ears.