Holy Terrors

by Mary Daheim

  At last, Gertrude trundled off on her walker to watch her favorite soap opera. Judith dialed Joe’s direct number in the homicide division and was only mildly surprised to find him out of the office. Woody Price was able to come to the phone, however.

  “Woody,” Judith began, “are you and Joe doing any research on our favorite suspects?”

  “Research?” Woody sounded faintly puzzled. “What do you mean, Mrs. McMonigle?”

  “On their backgrounds,” said Judith, making undecipherable notes on the back of an old envelope that had brought her the plumber’s latest bill. “You know—where they came from; went to college; if they did; previous marriages, if any; all that stuff.”

  “We only run them through the computer to see if they have any priors,” replied Woody. “That is, criminal records. None of them do, although I probably shouldn’t tell you that. The most we came up with were some parking and speeding tickets.” His rich baritone took on a teasing note. “I see you were picked up five years ago for doing fifty in a thirty-five-mile zone.”

  “Dan sent me out for a case of Twinkies,” Judith said with some asperity. “Hey, wait a minute—are you including me as a suspect?”

  Woody’s voice took a turn toward remorse. “Well, not really, of course, but you were the last person we know of who saw Sandy Frizzell alive. It’s just procedure, you understand. It’d look odd if we didn’t include you.”

  Judith made a face into the phone. “Gee, thanks. I’d sure hate to be left out. Hey, where is Joe, by the way?”

  “He’s officially on his lunch hour,” Woody said, “but actually, he went up to…” Woody paused, apparently consulting his notes. “It’s one of your Catholic terms. I’m a Methodist, you know,” he added apologetically. “Lieutenant Flynn may be doing some work on this case. He went to the chancery.”

  “Oh!” The word was a little gasp. “I see. Thanks, Woody.”

  Judith stood with her hand on the phone, momentarily distracted from the homicide investigation. Woody might be right about Joe’s visit to the archdiocesan chancery office; perhaps the trip was connected with the murder case. But Judith had a feeling that something else was happening that had nothing to do with Sandy Frizzell. She realized that the kitchen floor seemed to be heaving before her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “God works in wondrous ways,” announced Phyliss Rackley, trudging in from the pantry.

  “I hope so,” breathed Judith.

  “You bet he does. Not that I’m a wagering woman, gambling being a sin that sends many a soul to damnation. But,” Phyliss rattled on, oblivious to her employer’s disturbed countenance, “there I was, putting on the last wash, and I hit my elbow on the dryer and spilled detergent all over and it made me sneeze and now my sinuses are draining like crazy. What do you think of that?” asked Phyliss, triumphantly waving a crumpled Kleenex.

  “I think that’s…miraculous,” said Judith, regaining her grip on reality. “You’ll have to give a testimonial at your church on Sunday.”

  “Witness,” said Phyliss. “We witness. You’re right, I will.” She blew her nose like Gabriel’s horn, then headed for the living room.

  Judith was restless. There was always plenty to do at the B&B, but she felt at loose ends on this Easter Wednesday. A glance at the calender told her that there were only ten more days until Joe would get the decision about the annulment. Maybe he already had it; maybe that was why he was up at the chancery office. If the verdict went against him, if his marriage to Herself was declared valid, then what? Judith couldn’t imagine getting married outside the Church. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine getting married again at all. Not even to Joe.

  For the first time since Dan died, Judith realized that it wasn’t just being freed from a miserable marriage that felt so good, but freedom itself. The thought was new and made her faintly light-headed. As a widow, she could go where she wanted, do as she pleased, kick up her heels, and suit herself.

  Yet she had done almost none of those things in the four years since Dan’s death. She’d worked her tail off to get her affairs in order, to start up the B&B, to keep Mike in college, and to make herself financially and emotionally independent. The result was that she had become a slave to her commercial venture. But at least she was her own mistress. There was no one else to whom she was accountable.

  Except Gertrude. Maybe, Judith thought, freedom was only an illusion. Coming home to Mother had its definite drawbacks. She could not imagine Gertrude and Joe living under the same roof. Until now, Judith had not addressed the problem. Her innate sense of logic told her it would not go away.

  It was, Judith realized, easier to try to solve the murder case than her personal dilemma. Pouring out the last cup of coffee from the pot she’d made for Renie and Arlene, Judith sat down at the dinette table and tried to put some of the pieces of the puzzle together. Ten minutes later, she was on the phone to Renie.

  “I need you as a sounding board,” declared Judith. “Can you come over? I can’t leave because of the guests.”

  “I’ve got Torchy Plebuck here, going over about a hundred proof sheets,” protested Renie. “I can’t walk out on him to play Dr. Watson.”

  “How long?” queried Judith.

  Renie sighed. “At least another forty-five minutes.” She hesitated. “I’ll get there by three-thirty, okay?”

  “Fine,” said Judith. For the next hour she forced herself to work on Hillside Manor’s books, bid farewell to a temporarily rejuvenated Phyliss Rackley, and call Aunt Deb to pick her old but agile brain. If Joe and Woody weren’t doing any background research on the SOTS suspects, Judith would.

  When it came to people, Renie’s mother was a far better source than her sister-in-law, Gertrude. Although Deborah Grover was a great talker, she was also a sympathetic listener. Like Judith, she genuinely enjoyed people and had a talent for getting them to spill their troubles. Gertrude, of course, didn’t give a damn.

  “Let me see, dear,” mused Aunt Deb, “Kate Duffy isn’t a local girl.” To Aunt Deb, “girls” were defined as any female under seventy. “Fargo, I think, a feed merchant’s daughter. A very large family, though I don’t recall any of them visiting her. Odd, isn’t it?”

  It was the sort of remark that usually required no answer. Yet when Aunt Deb made such a seemingly casual statement, it didn’t come off the top of her head, but from some deep place in her mind where she had examined the matter and come to a conclusion based on her knowledge of human nature.

  “You’re right,” said Judith. “I wonder why not.”

  “Offhand, I’d say money, in the beginning,” said Aunt Deb, “but later, after Mark got established with his film production company, he could have paid their way. At least for her parents. But I don’t know if they’re still living. I certainly don’t remember Kate going back to see them.”

  Judith could picture Aunt Deb in her wheelchair, with the phone plastered against her ear and her open, sympathetic face turned toward the apartment window. The comings and goings of her neighbors were a source of constant entertainment for Deborah Grover. Much better than TV, she insisted, and Judith wished her aunt had been keeping her eagle eye on Eddie La Plante.

  “Do you think there was a rift?” asked Judith.

  “Well, I don’t know. Kate is such a sweet girl. I can’t imagine her quarreling with anyone. Yet if she got her back up, I think she’d be very hard to budge.”

  “She met Mark in Los Angeles,” Judith noted. “Did she go to college?”

  Aunt Deb uttered a plaintive little sigh of apology. “I don’t know that, either. She worked at Donner & Blitzen in better dresses before she and Mark had their first baby. Mark’s parents came out from Wisconsin to give them a hand when Christopher was born. I met them up at church. I must say his father had rather shifty eyes. Mrs. Duffy was nice enough, though somewhat flashy for my taste. But then I’ve always been a bit of a prude. Or so your Auntie Vance tells me.”

  “Auntie Vance tells us all more t
han we need to know,” remarked Judith, “but she means well. I think. What about the Kramers?”

  “Well.” Aunt Deb’s tone was judicious. She rarely criticized others, and was obviously trying to be fair. “Eve is a California girl, which no doubt accounts for a lot. People will talk. I’ve nothing against her, of course, but one hears things. It’s probably just common gossip.”

  “About her being…fast?” asked Judith, employing a term from Aunt Deb’s own lexicon.

  “Well, yes, but she’s a pretty little thing in her way, and that always gives rise to gossip. Kurt used to travel quite a bit for Tresvant Timber. He’s from California, too, but not the sort I think of as a Californian. If you know what I mean.”

  Judith did. The local consensus on Californians was that they were all glib, suntanned wheeler-dealers with no morals and a conversational bent toward litigation. Kurt definitely did not fit the mold.

  “Do you know anything about their families?” queried Judith as Gertrude thumped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

  “No, I don’t,” admitted Aunt Deb. “I’m woefully uninformed about this younger generation. When I was still able, I’d hear things through Altar Society. But now I only pick up snatches of parish news at bridge club. Most of those people are elderly, like your poor old auntie and your mother.”

  Judith’s mother was even now tearing apart a box of chocolate-covered bunnies that Tess, Uncle Al’s lady friend, had brought on Easter. Gertrude glared at Judith. “These things get smaller every year. What does Tess do, shrink ’em?”

  “The Paines are natives, right?” said Judith into the phone.

  “Oh, yes,” said Aunt Deb with an undertone of endorsement. “Norma was a Blodgett before she married Wilbur. The Blodgetts owned a tug and barge company. Your Uncle Cliff worked for them for a while after the war. Wilbur’s father was an attorney in the old Phipps Building at Third and Douglas. I spent six weeks in that office, filling in. It was after Renie got her own apartment, and I was feeling adrift.”

  “Really?” Her native city, Judith reflected briefly, was still a small town in many ways. And Heraldsgate Hill was not unlike a country village, surrounded though it was by the greater metropolis. “I thought you always worked part-time for Mr. Whiffel.”

  “I did,” said Aunt Deb, “but that was the summer he had his prostate surgery. The Paine firm needed extra help, and Mr. Whiffel didn’t. And as I said, I felt lost with Renie almost a mile away. I guess I’m just an old fool.”

  “You talking to that old fool, Deb?” growled Gertrude, devouring two bunnies at once. “Tell her to put a sock in it.”

  Judith put a hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and made a warning face at her mother. At the other end, Aunt Deb, failing to elicit a sympathetic response from her niece, resumed speaking. “Wilbur was just out of law school. His father was very hard on him. I helped Wilbur with his first case. He was very grateful, but of course I wanted to see him do well. He’s a nice boy, if a bit timorous.”

  “Norma doesn’t give him much encouragement to be a real tiger,” Judith remarked, removing her shielding hand from the receiver.

  “She’s a strong woman,” asserted Aunt Deb. “Is that my dear sister-in-law in the background?”

  “Uh, yes, she’s having a little snack,” said Judith with a wary glance at Gertrude, who had now gulped down half of the dozen bunnies.

  “How nice,” sighed Aunt Deb. “I wish I were as able-bodied as she is. Then I could gorge myself on sweets like a greedy pig, too.” The sudden bite in Aunt Deb’s voice carried all the more force because it was so unusual. It seemed to Judith that Aunt Deb’s darker side could only be aroused by criticism of Renie, bad manners, braggarts, Richard Nixon—and Gertrude.

  “I’ve got to run,” said Judith. “Guests are coming soon. So is Renie.” A quick look at the schoolhouse clock told her that it was three twenty-five. Renie should be along at any moment.

  “Give Renie my love. I miss her so,” lamented Aunt Deb, at her most forlorn. “Call and let me know how she looks.”

  “Huh?” Judith cocked her head. “When did you see her last?”

  “At breakfast. She made me a Belgian waffle. I do wish she had more time for her old mother, but I know she has to work. Tell her not to forget my aspirin when she comes by before dinner.”

  Judith rolled her eyes. The only thing comparable to living with Gertrude was waiting on Aunt Deb. Renie had her own cross to bear. Judith started to sign off, but as usual, Aunt Deb wanted to prolong the conversation:

  “Remind your mother that I’m having bridge Friday. Tell her not to forget her sandwich.”

  “Sure, Aunt Deb, I’ll talk to you later.” Judith made the second pass at hanging up.

  “Oh, and ask Renie to pick up a birthday card for Cousin Mabel Frable when she stops to get the aspirin at Holiday’s.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her. Take care.” Judith gritted her teeth, fingers clenched around the receiver.

  “I forgot to tell you something…now what was it?”

  Accustomed to her aunt’s favorite ploy for staying on the line, Judith decided to be firm. “I’ve got to run, Aunt Deb. Renie’s just pulling up.” It was true: The door to the Jones sedan had just slammed in the driveway.

  “Oh.” Aunt Deb sounded pitiful. “I guess I’ll have to let you go then, dear. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you about the adoption some other time.”

  “Adoption?” Judith frowned into the phone. “What adoption?”

  “That’s what I meant to say,” said Aunt Deb complacently. “It was Wilbur’s first case.”

  “Oh, I see.” Judith gestured for her mother to get the door. Gertrude remained planted on her walker in the middle of the kitchen. “Yes, I’ll call you back real soon.”

  “You do that,” said Aunt Deb, with a hint of command in her wistful voice. “It’s such a coincidence that the child turned out to be Father Mills. Goodbye, dear.”

  Judith froze. “Hold it!” Renie was banging on the front door. Gertrude’s eyes gleamed mulishly as she stood rooted to the spot. “Do you mean,” Judith said to her aunt, “that Tim Mills was adopted through Wilbur Paine’s law office?”

  “His father’s law office, dear. Why, yes,” Aunt Deb continued somewhat smugly, “I did the papers myself. To help out young Wilbur, you know.”

  “But I thought Tim’s folks were from Montana.” Judith waved wildly at Gertrude as Renie’s pounding increased in ferocity.

  “They were,” said Aunt Deb. “But his real parents’ relatives lived here. At least his mother’s did.”

  Judith was torn between letting Renie in herself, giving her mother a swift kick, and—irony of ironies—keeping Aunt Deb on the line. “Who were his real parents?” she asked in an eager tone.

  Aunt Deb emitted her pleasant little chuckle. “Oh, dear Judith, you know I can’t tell you that! It’s quite confidential. I couldn’t breach professional ethics, you know.”

  “But Aunt Deb, this is me, your niece! This is a murder case! You know I wouldn’t tell a soul!” Judith had turned desperate. Gertrude had sat down, munching away at more bunnies. Renie’s pounding had stopped.

  “Oh, I know you have the best of intentions,” soothed Aunt Deb, “but I still couldn’t tell you. Why, I wouldn’t even tell Renie. It’s been wonderful chatting with you, but Mrs. Parker is at my door. We’ll talk again soon, dear. Give my love to Gertrude.” Aunt Deb hung up.

  “What the hell is going on?” demanded Renie, hurtling through the back door. “The front’s locked and you two stoops are lolling around the kitchen while I get bruised knuckles. I thought you’d been murdered, too!”

  “Keep your fractured fingers off my bunnies,” Gertrude snarled. She gave her niece a sidelong glance. “I have to admit you don’t look so scruffy this afternoon. I’ll bet that rig set you back at least forty bucks.”

  Since Renie was wearing a taupe designer suit and coffee-colored blouse that had probably run close to a grand,
Judith felt it was just as well that Gertrude still thought in terms of Depression-era prices. “I was on the phone with your mother,” said Judith.

  The explanation was sufficient for Renie. She sank onto a chair across from Gertrude. “So what else does she want at the drugstore?”

  Judith told her. Gertrude finished the bunnies and excused herself to go watch her favorite afternoon talk show. “A hot topic today. Pervert clowns,” she informed her daughter and niece. “You’d be surprised how many of ’em are running around with red noses and big feet. Can’t trust ’em with the kiddies. Those baggy pants cover up more than you could guess.”

  “I’ll bet,” murmured Judith as her mother exited the kitchen. Judith’s shoulders slumped as she collapsed into the chair vacated by Gertrude. “I need to thrash all this stuff out with you, coz. I feel like I’m shadow boxing.”

  “Go ahead,” urged Renie. “Frankly, I don’t think you’ve got much to go on.”

  Judith acknowledged Renie’s assessment with a faint nod. “What I’ve got is more of an impression. I can’t put it into words, not even to you. I know who didn’t kill Sandy. But I’m not a hundred percent sure who did.”

  “Tell me who didn’t then,” said Renie, disappointment crossing her face as she shook out the empty wrappers Gertrude had left from the box of bunnies.

  But Judith shook her head. “I don’t think I should. Yet. In case I’m wrong, it could be a dangerous mistake. I have the horrible feeling that the killer is totally without a conscience. There may already be another murder.”

  Renie’s eyebrows lifted. “Eddie? Oh, no!”

  A noise at the front door indicated that the Nelsons were back from their day of fun, ready to rest up before dinner. Guests at Hillside Manor had their own keys, but Judith went out to the entry hall to play her part as the solicitous hostess. The waterfront had been wonderful; the public market had been a treat; the downtown stores had offered too many temptations. Both male Nelsons gave evidence of the last statement, being burdened with frazzled expressions and large shopping bags from Donner & Blitzen, Nordquist’s, E. Motion’s and Le Belle Epoch. Amid good-natured jibes, the quartet headed upstairs, letting Judith know they’d be in the living room for sherry and hors d’oeuvres at six p.m. The ritual was standard operating procedure for Hillside Manor, with rum punch substituting for sherry during the summer months. She was starting back for the kitchen when the couple from Alaska arrived. For the next ten minutes, Judith explained the amenities of the house to them, showed them around the main floor, and then escorted them to their bedroom upstairs. They were a taciturn pair, fiftyish, stout, and noticeably wary of anything that went on in the Lower Forty-eight. Judith left them to their own devices, hoping they were inoffensive ones, and hurried down the back stairs.