by Mary Daheim
A million bucks, mused Judith. It was a lot of money to pay for a view, no matter how spectacular. Was it, she wondered, enough to kill for?
Judith thought not. Despite what Joe had said, money wasn’t the only eternal motive.
SEVENTEEN
THE BUFFET SUPPER had not gone well. Perhaps it was the weather, oppressive and unnatural. Perhaps it was the makeup of the gathering, a highly competitive, overly energetic, relentlessly optimistic group. Perhaps it was Judith herself, whose distraction with the murder case caused her to forget the teriyaki chicken wings, drop the Viennese torte, and leave a spoon in one of the molded salads. Although the event’s organizer graciously told her everything had been wonderful, Judith knew better. She had driven home in an utter funk, and was cheered only slightly by the fact that all her phone calls had been returned, including the one to Renie.
But Joe was not at home or at work when she rang him back. Since it was going on ten p.m., Judith fretted. Fifteen minutes later, she recalled that he and Woody and a couple of other police officers were going to the baseball game. Judith was relieved.
Eve, thankfully, was in. Judith asked after Eddie, who, Eve replied plaintively, had not yet been found. Judith then asked Eve another, seemingly less painful, question. The answer satisfied Judith.
Quinn McCaffrey sounded sleepy, as if his vacation had been undone by the trek to the aquarium with his children. Again, Judith’s inquiry was simple. Quinn’s reply confirmed her suspicions. With a sense of growing triumph, Judith called Renie.
Bill, who hated the telephone almost as much as Gertrude did, answered. His wife, he reported in an aggrieved voice, was out at some half-baked dinner meeting for half-witted graphic designers who didn’t know enough to stay home where they belonged. He was on his way to bed, which, his tone implied, was where any sensible person ought to be at such a late hour.
Judith had to agree. Taking a chance that the game had been a short pitcher’s duel, she tried Joe’s number again, but had no luck. Worn out by her exertions, she went to sleep with the light still on.
Joe called while Judith was cleaning up from breakfast. Not wanting to be overheard, Judith said she’d call him right back from the private phone on the third floor. When she’d finished her recital, there was a long pause before Joe spoke.
“That’s pretty shrewd guesswork, Jude-girl,” he finally allowed. “But it’s all circumstantial. And you still haven’t answered one of your own questions.”
Judith gave the phone an impatient shake. “That’s immaterial at this point. The important thing is you have to make an arrest. Now.”
“I can’t.” Joe’s voice conveyed helplessness. “Be reasonable. I need real evidence.”
“Okay.” Judith took a deep breath. “Get a search warrant.”
“For what?”
Judith told him. Joe balked. “It’s outside my jurisdiction. They’ll think I’m nuts.”
But Judith was adamant. “Not when they find Eddie La Plante’s body, they won’t. Just do it.” She hung up the phone with a bang.
Convinced that Joe would follow through no matter how much he protested, Judith went about her business for the rest of the morning. Phyliss Rackley showed up with various gastric complaints and a new hymn.
“It’s an inspiring piece,” Phyliss enthused, rattling the Xeroxed sheet music at Judith. “Want to hear it? It’s called ‘As the Deer Longs.’”
“I’ve heard it,” Judith replied, trying to lure Phyliss away from the antique rosewood spinet at the far corner of the living room.
“You couldn’t have,” insisted Phyliss. “It’s all original. Pastor Polhamus wrote it himself. Listen to these notes of praise, you’ll be uplifted. You could use it. Frankly, you’re looking kind of peaky.”
As a concession to domestic tranquility, Judith allowed Phyliss to advance on the piano. Squatting on the stool, with her sausage curls bouncing, she began to play and sing:
As the deer longs for the harvest stores,
and the tortoise crawls along on all fours…
“Somebody kill that cat!” yelled Gertrude from the dining room. “He’s howling like a demon!”
“Mother!” Judith tried to shush Gertrude.
“Well, now!” Gertrude was smirking as she stumped into the living room on her walker. “It’s Phyliss, pitching a fit. Why don’t we shoot her and put her out of her misery?”
Oblivious to Gertrude’s gibes, Phyliss was already into the third verse. Judith waited as patiently as possible, then rifled through a stack of music books atop the piano.
“Isn’t that something?” asked a blissful Phyliss when she’d finally wound down.
“It sure is,” responded Judith. “But I like this version better. Here,” she said, thrusting a yellowed hymnal at her cleaning woman. “That passage has been used by several different composers. This one was done by Sister Marianne Misetich in 1973. It’s a Roman Catholic hymn.”
Phyliss blanched as she squinted at the open music book. “No! It’s a trick! What kind of popery is this?”
“Poopery, the way you sing it,” cackled Gertrude. “Wise up, Rackley, the next thing you know you’ll be wearing a St. Christopher medal around that goiter of yours.”
Judith wasn’t in the mood for the usual quarrel between her mother and Phyliss. Nor did she have time for it, since she was due to drive Gertrude to Aunt Deb’s for the Friday bridge session. “It doesn’t matter, Phyliss,” Judith soothed. “Pastor Polhamus may have done a new arrangement. Maybe you didn’t hear him quite right.”
Phyliss was looking thoughtful as well as deflated. “Maybe. My ears plug up something fierce with all this spring pollen.” She was still staring at the book. “At least he doesn’t have us singing mumbo-jumbo like this foreign stuff on the opposite page. What’s that anyway, an incantation?”
Judith glanced at the hymnal. “No, it’s just a Latin translation, the way we used to sing it. See, here’s the new version, ‘Queen of Heaven, Ocean Star’.”
“It was better in Latin,” grumbled Gertrude. “You didn’t have to know what it meant. All you had to do was sing the blasted thing.”
Judith was now staring at the music book as intently as Phyliss had done. The English and Latin words leaped out at her:
Mother of Christ, Star of the Sea,
Pray for the wanderer, pray for me…
Mater Christi, Stella Maris…
“Good grief!” Judith gasped, “Emily was right! Stella Maris has been under our noses all along! It’s not a person, it’s the Latin name for Star of the Sea!”
Gertrude’s beady eyes glittered at her daughter. “Of course it is, you lamebrain. Why didn’t you ask me? Some of us still think the old ways were best.”
Judith gave her mother a shaky smile. “So,” she said in a breathless voice, “did Emily.”
After completing the arduous task of getting Gertrude, tongue sandwich, walker, and all, up to Aunt Deb’s apartment, Judith headed for church. With Eddie still missing, and no new janitor on the scene, she would have to set up for the reception herself. It would be better to complete that job now and save the morning for preparing the food. Judith reasoned that if she weren’t so rushed, she might avoid leaving various cooking utensils in the refreshments.
Her mission didn’t take very long, requiring only a half-dozen tables and twice as many chairs for servers and pourers. The Altar Society would provide the reception decorations, assuming they could function without their laid-up president. Judith took one last look around the church hall. It seemed so benign, with its colorful banners and velvet stage curtains and racks of folding chairs. Come Monday, it would be filled again with lively, raucous students, easing the horror of last week with youthful innocence or childish heartlessness, depending on one’s point of view.
Giving herself a good shake, Judith headed for the parking lot. A faint breeze stirred the shrubbery and nudged at the gray clouds overhead. Judith was relieved. She hated April’s darker moo
ds.
A Nottingham’s truck was pulling away, apparently having completed the job of decorating the church for the first of the three weekend weddings. A scattering of white petals was left in a trail behind the truck as evidence of the delivery.
Halfway to her car, Judith came to a dead halt. The petals were evidence of something else, she realized—the missing piece she hadn’t been able to find until now. Everything fit. A bit frantically, she wondered if Joe had carried out her instructions. Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she contemplated calling him from the rectory. But Father Tim’s car was gone, and Mrs. Katzenheimer hadn’t been around when Judith had arrived. She would have to call Joe from home. He would laugh his head off when she told him about Stella Maris. How like that old traditionalist, Emily Tresvant, to revert to the Latin. She must be laughing somewhere, pleased with her little joke on contemporary Catholics. Kurt Kramer had known, Judith was sure of that now. He, too, was an arch-conservative in many ways, and his snickers of the previous day indicated he knew the truth about Stella Maris. But it was Emily who had had the last laugh.
Belatedly, it occurred to Judith that Emily Tresvant was the forgotten soul in all the events that had transpired over the past week. It was Emily, after all, whose death had triggered so much mystery, confusion, and speculation. Judith decided to slip into church and offer a prayer for the old girl’s soul.
During the day, only the south entrance was kept unlocked. Security was a problem in any urban parish, even without murderers lurking in the nursery. Judith crossed herself, went through the vestibule, and entered the church.
In the wan April light, the masses of flowers in the sanctuary looked subdued, as if they were waiting for the Wedding March as their cue to burst into dazzling color. Judith admired the freesia, iris, tulips, and narcissus with their background of bridal wreath. The stately Easter lilies had already been shunted off to the side altars. Kneeling at the communion rail, Judith wondered if someday soon she and Joe would be joined in Holy Matrimony in this very church. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
So did the sound which emanated from the other side of the altar. Judith hadn’t seen anyone in the church when she had entered, but the enormous floral arrangements blocked her view of the north transept. Briefly, she attempted to pray, asking for the repose of Emily Tresvant’s soul. She had gotten halfway through her second Hail Mary when she heard another noise, this time of soft footsteps on the carpeted floor. Out of the corner of her eye, Judith tried to glimpse her co-worshipper. She could see nothing but a dark figure, partially obscured by a spray of lilacs.
Judith rattled off another Ave in her head, anxious to be gone. The other person’s presence made her nervous, though she wasn’t sure why.
Before she could get to her feet, the figure approached with a quick, light tread. John Frizzell knelt next to her and offered a tentative greeting.
“I thought you were leaving for New York today,” Judith whispered.
“I am. I’ve got a four-thirty flight,” replied John, also in a whisper. “I came to see Father Mills about establishing a memorial to Sandy. But he’s not in. I saw your car in the parking lot.”
“Right,” said Judith, managing to get up, though her legs were suddenly unsteady. “Good luck, John. I’ll check on the house.” She offered him an uncertain smile.
John was also standing again. “What do you think about the Star of the Sea altar?” He’d stopped whispering, but his voice was very soft. He gestured to the other side of the sanctuary where he’d apparently been praying. “I know of a seventeenth-century Italian Madonna at a shop where I worked in New York. I’d like to donate it in Sandy’s name to replace the present statue. It’s a bit chipped, you know.”
“It sounds lovely,” Judith said. “I’m sure the parish would be grateful.” The statement wasn’t entirely convincing, for Judith wasn’t sure she believed it herself.
John put a hand on Judith’s arm. “Here, take a look. The Madonna I have in mind is taller by at least four inches. See what you think about the proportion. They might have to replace the velvet hanging behind it, get a longer one.”
Reluctantly, Judith let John guide her over to the side altar with its representation of a blue-and-white-clad Blessed Virgin with stars in her halo and ocean waves at her feet. “Eve could help choose something appropriate,” Judith remarked. “She has excellent taste.”
“She has a big mouth,” said John, so softly that Judith almost didn’t catch the words. He’d stepped to one side, and was reaching down to pick up an object from the floor between the small altar and the entrance to the sacristy. Judith’s eyes widened as she saw the shovel Arlene had been wielding the previous morning. John’s refined features were strangely twisted, all semblance of constraint evaporated. “Did Eve tell you about Eddie?” he demanded, his voice now rising. “She didn’t tell me. She even refused to admit we were related because she wanted Eddie kept such a deep, dark secret!”
“Hey, John, she gave you a job,” Judith asserted, wondering how fast she could run on her shaky legs. “She’s helped support Eddie for some time. If she’d told people about Eddie, Emily would have been outraged. She despised him, she would have raised an awful ruckus. Eve’s done her best. What more can you expect of a half-sister?”
John was advancing with the shovel in his hands, carrying it like a Highland warrior wielding a claymore. “It’s not what I expect from her, but what she expected from me! I was glad for the job at the time, but I wasn’t about to let her move into my personal life. She and that eagle-eyed husband of hers might have figured out the truth about Sandy.”
Judith tried to keep calm, but it was no mean feat, with John’s breathing growing more irregular and his entire body taut with strained nerves. “Okay, it seems as if it served both your purposes to keep your family ties a secret. That was fair enough. So what more did you want from Eve?”
“I didn’t want her at all,” John said in a sullen voice. “She wanted me to take on Eddie’s care, just because I came into money! But she wouldn’t even tell me who he was until I inherited! Then she wanted Kurt’s share, out of the old will. She’s a bitch!”
Judith made a faint gesture with one hand as she tried to backpedal toward the main altar. The wedding flowers’ heady scent reached her nose, an oddly discordant sensation. John and Sandy had made a mockery of marriage, all for the sake of a fortune. Sandy would never benefit, and John’s crimes had repealed his rights. Judith’s frenzied brain tried to compose a coherent response. “Eve’s waspish, I’ll grant you that. I tell you what, let’s drive over and talk to her. Maybe the two of you need an intermediary, okay?”
John’s thin face split into a rictuslike grin. “I intend to give her what she needs.” He gave the spade a lethal swing, narrowly missing the statue of Our Lady behind him. “And you, as well, for you infernal meddling!” He came at Judith, still grinning. She let out a little squeal of fear, then whirled around and ran toward the entrance to the south vestible. But John was too quick for her, hurtling over a row of pews and beating her to the door. The grin was gone as he stood before Judith, barring her way.
“The police came this morning,” he said, his voice once again soft. “They asked a lot of questions. There were only two people who could have seen those cartons in the hallway—you and your cousin. Neither of you were home. I came up here and noticed your car. You weren’t in the hall, so you had to be in church. Which one of you told that Irishman about the boxes?”
“Well,” said Judith, trying to keep calm and play for time, which was her only possible ally, “Kate Duffy said you didn’t bring much out West with you, so I couldn’t imagine what you were sending back. Unless,” she added pointedly, “it was the Duffys’ stolen goods. Nobody would look for them in New York. What was it you really wanted, Mark’s camcorder?”
John’s face fell. “Yes. But there was nothing of interest on the tape. Just a bunch of silly kids chasing eggs.”
“B
ut Eddie saw you, right?” Judith was having trouble staying on her feet. She desperately wanted to collapse into the nearest pew. “When? While you were using the key you stole from Quinn McCaffrey to get into the entrance of the school by the dumpster?”
John’s eyes flickered, though whether from astonishment or anger, Judith couldn’t tell. “Yes,” he said on a hostile note. “I’d taken the key when I went to see him last Friday about a donation to the school.”
“And you took Eve’s scissors when you went to pick up your final paycheck from her at home last Saturday. Why pick on Eve, John? Because she wanted your help with Eddie?”
“Because she demanded it,” John replied, a nerve twitching by his eye. “She was green with envy because I ended up with all the money. But she and Kurt didn’t deserve a dime. The bitch was even serious about trying to break the will!” John’s thin lips quivered with indignation. “Kurt would rather have seen the parish get all the money instead of me!”
“So you parked your car across the street and sneaked into the school hall,” said Judith, wondering wildly who might be due to show up in the church. The organist, perhaps, or someone from the Altar Society. “I noticed the petals on your Peugeot when I saw it parked in the lot. It didn’t dawn on me until just now that they wouldn’t be there unless you’d parked somewhere else first—and you had, across the street and down the block under those plum trees. Nobody left working in the school hall could see you from there. Sandy was already dead when I talked to you.” Judith gulped at the horror that had taken place while she and the others had gone about their innocent, ordinary business. “That was the part I couldn’t figure out—where the car had been before you pulled into the lot in plain sight of Father Hoyle. Then you must have gone into the men’s room to wait. You found Wilbur’s rabbit suit and put it on. That must have come as a pleasant surprise.”