by Mary Daheim
“The door was open,” Judith said truthfully enough. “We knocked, but you didn’t hear us,” she added, not so truthfully. The hands behind her back fiddled with the lock. “How’s Kate?” she asked with a concern that wasn’t totally feigned.
Mark was eyeing the door as if it, rather than the cousins, had betrayed him. “That’s odd, I could have sworn I clicked the lock on the way in.”
Judith turned the knob. It moved freely. “No—see?” She paused as Mark’s confusion deepened, then continued in a brisk voice: “We saw your car parked outside and we knew you were home. But you didn’t come to the door, so we walked in and here you are.” She offered Mark a bright smile.
But Mark’s expression had turned strangely bland. “You saw my car?” His hazel eyes shifted from Judith to Renie. “You saw it, too?”
“Sure,” said Renie. “I’ve always liked your Volvo. Nice color.”
Mark advanced on the cousins, his tall, broad-shouldered figure faintly threatening. Judith and Renie felt their backs up against the door. “Actually,” said Mark, in an even, yet ominous tone, “my car is parked in a garage downtown. I was at a meeting on the East Side when they notified me about Kate. One of my clients kindly offered to drive me to the hospital. My son, Greg, brought me home. Now,” he went on, his voice rising, “what the hell is all this?”
Judith had never seen Mark angry before. His eyes flashed, his bronzed skin darkened, and he was almost shaking. She swiftly decided that the best defense was a good offense. “Look, Mark, you’ve been covering up. This isn’t a game. Not only is there a killer out there, but your wife is so afraid of something that she tried to commit suicide. Isn’t it time you stopped lying?”
Mark still looked livid, but the contortions of his face indicated he was at least thinking about Judith’s words. Somewhat to her surprise, Renie broke in:
“Hey, it’s okay.” She actually took a step forward and put a hand on Mark’s arm. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth Kate drinking nail polish remover and puking like a wino.”
“Serena!” Mark glared at Renie, but he didn’t pull away. “Watch your mouth! You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve talking about Kate that way!”
Renie was unmoved by Mark’s wrath. “Well, it’s true. Kate’s grandstanding. Or else she made a stupid mistake.”
To Judith’s surprise, Mark’s rage fizzled like a wet sky rocket. He stepped back, grasping at the balustrade. “She thought it was paint thinner.”
Renie ran a hand through her short chestnut curls. “Jeez!”
“Well, she did.” Mark’s expression was pugnacious. “She was distraught. She made a mistake. I’m glad she did, or otherwise it could have been fatal.”
“Of course you’re glad,” soothed Judith. “So are we.” She edged forward, trying to gain some physical or at least psychological advantage. “But why was she so upset?”
For all of Mark’s usually outgoing manner, he was basically a very private man. His face closed down; his heels seemed to dig into the tiled floor. “She didn’t kill Sandy. Neither did I.”
“And you didn’t break into Sandy and John’s house to get your wheelbarrow,” countered Judith. “What were you after that was so incriminating? Bottoms Up?”
Mark wilted inside his well-tailored suit. “God!” His gaze skidded off Judith like an out-of-control car off a lamppost. “What are you talking about?” he asked thickly.
Judith sighed, wishing she hadn’t put herself in the position of upsetting so many people. “It’s a matter of record. You were the cinematographer. Sandy was in the movie. To keep anyone up here from discovering your background, you went to the Frizzell house and tried to steal the evidence.”
Still clutching the balustrade, Mark rocked slightly on his heel. “I didn’t steel anything. I never got the chance.” His face had turned ashen.
“Is that why Kate tried to kill herself?” asked Judith.
But Mark’s lips clamped shut. He was staring up into the stairwell as if he expected someone to come down and rescue him. “Maybe,” he said at last, then turned back to the cousins. “Yes,” he went on a bit too hastily, “that’s what set her off. She did it for my sake. She was embarrassed over my connection with smut.”
The explanation was a little too pat for Judith. She deliberated on how far she could—or wanted to—push Mark Duffy. After all, his wife had caused him a great deal of pain in the last few hours. Porno flicks or not, he was a decent man. Judith decided against mentioning the photo of Kate in her nun’s habit.
“Was John in skin flicks, too?” asked Judith, trying to keep her tone one of polite inquiry rather than that of a relentless interrogator.
“What?” Mark seemed lost in thought. “No. I think he was a set decorator at Paramount or Metro. And Sandy only acted in a couple of those X-rated films. I don’t blame him, he was just a kid at the time, trying to feed himself.”
A portrait of Sandy was emerging in Judith’s mind: an orphan, a runaway, a lonely, unskilled youngster in L.A. falling victim to God-only-knew what perverted benefactors. That he should have ended up making skin flicks wasn’t too surprising; that he had survived the experience was. And yet the trail that had led him to John Frizzell had also brought Sandy to an untimely death in the school nursery at Our Lady, Star of the Sea. The portrait was done in mixed media, and it gave Judith genuine pain.
Renie posed the next question: “Did you know all along that it was Sandy?”
Mark frowned at her. “No, of course not! He was George back then, though he probably called himself something else in the credits. Most of the cast did. I never saw anything but the rough cut.” His long mouth twisted with irony. “It was very rough—and raw.”
Renie pressed on: “When did you figure out who Sandy really was?”
Mark didn’t need to reflect. “Not until I went into the nursery after Father Tim raised the alarm. It was a terrible shock. You know how you look at people, but you don’t really see them?” Mark passed an unsteady hand over his forehead. “For the first time, I saw the real Sandy—in death, she—he—looked quite different.” Mark paused, and Judith imagined that the lifeless, bloodless face was swimming before his eyes. “The impersonation was over,” Mark continued with an anguished expression. “Sandy was a corpse with long blond hair and bad makeup. I recognized George, and I damned near had a heart attack.”
“So he wasn’t blackmailing you, but you thought he might have one of the movies he’d acted in where you’d been the cameraman?” queried Judith.
A faint smile touched Mark’s mouth. “I only did the one.” He had relaxed a little, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other fingering his long chin. “I don’t know what I thought, really. Maybe that if Sandy had prints of the film, John might get nasty. I guess I panicked. The whole situation with Sandy posing as John’s wife and then getting murdered was so bizarre that I figured anything could happen next. I suppose I behaved stupidly.”
It occurred to Judith that Mark hadn’t acted any more foolishly—or criminally—than she and Renie had done in invading the Duffy house. Judith rationalized that the cousins had a better motive. Maybe.
“Did you ever find out if, uh, Bottoms Up was actually there?” Renie asked.
“No.” Mark loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “John never gave me a chance to explain. Once I calmed down, I realized it probably wasn’t. Kate said they brought almost nothing with them from the East. It’s not likely they’d haul along a couple of old X-rated movies.”
“Come on,” said Renie, starting for the door. It took Judith a moment to realize her cousin was talking not to her, but to Mark. “Have dinner with Bill and me and the kids. You never did know your way around a stove.”
Mark started to protest, then grinned. “Let me make sure I’m not starting a fire, okay?”
It was ten minutes before Mark finished checking out the kitchen and changing clothes. The cousins waited in the living room, speaking of neutral topics in
normal voices, and airing their conjectures about the Duffys in a whisper.
“Kate didn’t drink nail polish remover for Mark’s sake,” Renie murmured.
“Right,” agreed Judith, frowning at a wood carving of Mother Cabrini with her arms around three orphans. “I wonder if she even knows exactly what Mark did in L.A.”
“She’s too naive,” responded Renie. “John must have met Sandy in L.A. But I gather Mark didn’t know John from his movie days. Speaking of pictures, have you got Kate’s?”
Judith patted her purse. “It isn’t a full-fledged nun’s habit, certainly not the kind they wore thirty years ago before they started dressing from L. L. Bean. A novice, maybe. She probably dropped out before the final vows.” She gazed at Mother Cabrini in her artfully crafted flowing veils and billowing skirts. “Holy cats!” exclaimed Judith so loudly that she immediately put a hand over her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” asked Renie, alarmed.
Judith was still staring at the small statue. “You didn’t hear Joe say it, but one of the other actors in Bottoms Up was a Kitty Cabrini. Quick, what order did St. Frances Xavier Cabrini start? They run Columbus Hospital, on Hospital Hill.”
“Oh, sure, I designed their PR program when they put up that new addition about five years ago,” replied Renie. “They’re the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Oh!” It was Renie’s turn to look astonished. “Oh, no!”
Cocking her head to make sure Mark hadn’t yet come back downstairs, Judith folded her arms across her breast. “Now there’s a reason for Kate to drink nail polish remover. Imagine what would happen if it got out that she was cavorting in the buff in skin flicks?”
Renie’s grin practically split her face. “I want the video! I’ll show it at the next Parish Council meeting. I’ll send a copy to the Pope!”
“You’re cruel,” reprimanded Judith, but she couldn’t help smiling at her cousin. “Unfortunately, you’re also typical. Every single SOT would just love to get their mitts on a print of that film and see Kate Duffy make a fool of herself. No wonder she hasn’t had much to do with her family, between leaving the convent and making dirty movies. It would be bad enough for any self-respecting wife and mother, but for the saintly Kate, cavorting around as Kitty Cabrini would be positively fatal.”
“And funny.” Renie was still grinning. “Kate has no chest. Better it should be Norma Paine.”
“Knock it off,” commanded Judith in a whisper, then raised her voice as she heard Mark’s tread on the stairs. “On the other hand, it could have been a box turtle. Oh, hi, Mark,” she said, looking up in feigned surprise. “Do you know anything about reptiles?”
Mark’s grin was a bit off-center. “No,” he replied, gazing at each of the cousins in turn. “But I know a couple of snakes in the grass when I see them.”
Judith and Renie had the grace to blush.
FIFTEEN
THE ONLY UNHAPPY customer that night at the B&B was Gertrude. Her supper was over an hour late, the scalloped potatoes were half raw, and her tapioca pudding had curdled. If Judith didn’t stop gadding all over town instead of tending to business, the focal point of which was her aged and infirm mother, there was going to be Big Trouble.
“Shut up and peg out,” ordered Judith, pushing the cribbage board at Gertrude. It was almost eight p.m., with the California guests having arrived dead tired at seven-thirty, the four Nelsons off to dinner, and the Alaskan couple ordering pizza in their room, apparently distrustful of any restaurant that didn’t feature muskrat. Or so Judith had decided, often finding visitors from the forty-ninth state a bit eccentric.
Gertrude moved a red peg eight holes along the crib board, in a manner similar to her clumping guidance of the walker. Her beady eyes glistened at Judith. “Ha! I got His Nibs! That’s one more—I’m out!” She yanked at the last peg and gave her daughter a triumphant look. “Waxed you again, dopey. You’re not much of a card player. How about a little rummy?”
“You’re a little rummy,” murmured Judith as the buzzer rang in the third-floor bedroom to alert them that someone was at the front door. “Drat, one of the guests must have forgotten the key.”
Judith was wrong. Joe Flynn stood in the twilight, holding a huge bouquet of spring flowers. “Give these to the old bat and get on something elegant. We’re going to Bayshore’s for drinks.”
“Joe!” Judith grabbed the proffered bouquet, taking in the heady fragrance of the flowers and Joe’s presence on her doorstep. He was dressed in a charcoal suit instead of his usual sports coat, and he looked extremely dashing.
“Go,” ordered Joe before Judith could protest. “I’ll have you home by ten.”
Judith went. She put the flowers in a vase in the kitchen, lied to Gertrude about her sudden departure, and hastily donned a raspberry-red cotton knit dress with a wide black woven belt. In less than ten minutes, she was back downstairs. Joe was on the sofa, reading the evening paper.
“Homicide Detective Joe Blynn? Can’t these reporters ever get it right? I’ve been Finn, Lynn, Quinn, everything but Rin Tin Tin. Hell, I’ve been on the force for almost thirty years!” He scrunched up the paper and angrily tossed it in the direction of the fireplace.
“Is that a story on the Frizzell investigation?” asked Judith. “I haven’t seen the paper tonight.” She gave the crumpled first section a wistful look.
“No, it’s the chainsaw murder. Sandy’s old news. Hey,” he said, brightening as he gazed up at Judith. “You look terrific.”
“Oh—thanks.” Judith hoped she wasn’t blushing. It would be a ridiculous reaction for a woman of her age. “Renie talked me into this when we went shopping last month.”
“It’s great,” said Joe, getting to his feet. “Let’s go dazzle ’em.”
Bayshore’s was located in the curve of land that swept from Heraldsgate Hill to the downtown area. The restaurant was built on a small bluff that overlooked not only the bay, but the naval depot, the ferry docks, and the string of high-rises that rimmed the water. Judith hadn’t been inside since she’d gotten married to Dan. She was bemused by the altered decor, with the plush velvet upholstery exchanged for sleek leather, and the flocked wallpaper stripped down to the original pine paneling. Only the magnificent view and the excellent service remained unchanged.
“Garth,” said Joe in greeting to the bartender. “Send us over a couple of Anthurium Sprues.”
Garth, half-Filipino, half-Norwegian, and all first-class mixologist, made magic behind the bar. Joe and Judith sat down on a dark leather couch by the window. He lighted a cigar; she sighed with pleasure.
“I shouldn’t be here, you know,” Judith said.
“Pretend we’re looking for Eddie La Plante,” said Joe, leaning back with one leg resting on the other knee.
“Any trace of him?” Judith asked, suddenly dragged down to reality.
“No. But that may not mean anything sinister.”
Judith shivered. “I think it does. Joe,” she said, turning on the couch to look at his profile, “I’ve got some more stuff to tell you. I called today, but Woody said you were up at the chancery office.” The statement had the nuance of a question.
Joe swiveled as Garth brought their drinks, two tall glasses with an exotic flower in each and a crimson liquid that struck Judith as a lot more lethal than nail polish remover. “Thanks, Garth. Run us a tab.” Joe cocked his head at Judith, the cigar perched on his shoulder like a parrot. “Yeah, I went to see Father Gonzales. He used to be pastor at St. Henry Emperor’s when I lived out there. I wanted to check out Hoyle and Mills. They seem okay. It’s too bad Frank Hoyle took off for the week. He might have been some help.”
Judith’s panic ebbed, replaced by disappointment. “Oh,” she said somewhat faintly. “Yes, yes, Father Hoyle could have provided us with some information,” she went on rather hastily. “He might even have known who Stella Maris is.”
“Whoever she is, she’ll be rich if anything happens to John. According to Wilbur, if Emily d
ied without heirs, the entire estate went to Stella.” He raised a red eyebrow at Judith. “If I were John, I’d be nervous.”
“If John had been Sandy, it would all make sense.” Judith sipped experimentally at her drink and was relieved to discover it wasn’t as potent as it looked. “I gather you’ve had no luck trying to track Stella down?”
“You gather right. The only Maris I ever heard of was Roger. I doubt that Stella played for the Yankees. We found some S. Marises around the country, but they were all Steves, Sheldons, or Sams. Only one was a woman, and her name was Sheila.”
“Maybe Stella lives in Canada, or abroad,” suggested Judith, watching the last purple light fade behind the mountains. “How come nobody’s ever heard of her?”
Joe shrugged and puffed at his cigar. “Beats me. She may have a different married name.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter since she doesn’t get anything with John alive and kicking. Are you really going to let him take off for New York the day after tomorrow?” Judith inquired.
“Why not? I’ve nothing to detain him for. As far as I can tell, he’s the one person in the school hall who couldn’t have done it. According to you, Sandy was still alive when he got there. Father Hoyle saw John pull into the parking lot.”
“True.” Judith gave a brief nod. Halfway into her Anthurium Sprue, she was feeling very relaxed. Maybe it packed more of a punch than she thought it did. “Joe,” she began, suddenly disinterested in murder, “what’s going to happen to us?”
Joe slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know. What do you want to happen?”
Judith allowed herself to let her head rest against Joe’s arm. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel as if the last twenty-three years hadn’t happened. We could be sitting here back in the sixties, watching the same sun disappear behind the same mountains and wondering what Lyndon Johnson was going to do about Vietnam instead of who killed Sandy Frizzell. Back then, I knew what I wanted. I thought you did, too.” Her tone held a faint note of reproach.