Holy Terrors

by Mary Daheim

  A faint smile touched John’s mouth. “It did. It was perfect. Then you saw me in the rabbit suit, and from the start, I was worried. You weren’t as big a fool as most of them. But nothing happened, and I assumed I’d fooled you, too. And what a nice touch it was to implicate that pompous little ass, Wilbur Paine! He thought he was going to be a big shot, playing executor of Emily’s estate! I fixed him—and that fat old witch, Norma, too.”

  “You fixed a lot of people, John,” said Judith mildly. “Including Eddie. Your father.”

  John’s sallow skin turned even more pale. “That was an accident,” he murmured. “He came to see me and insisted I give him money, too! We quarreled. He still fancied himself a macho man.” John snorted with contempt. “I defended myself. Unfortunately, he struck his head on the kitchen counter. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

  “Yes,” Judith said softly. “I suspect he came to your house while you were talking to me on the phone the other night.” She saw the confirmation in the set of John’s jaw. “So you packaged him up and shipped him to New York along with the Duffys’ belongings.” Sadly, Judith shook her head. “You caused your own father’s death—and murdered the one person you loved. Why, John?” Judith knew she was on dangerous ground, but her prospects were looking grimmer by the minute anyway. She could only stall John for so long.

  His haunted brown eyes had a hypnotic quality that Judith had to force herself to shake off. “Why?” John echoed. “You’re so smart, why do you think?”

  Judith’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, I’ll tell you why. Everybody thought Sandy’s murder had something to do with the money. I don’t think so. I figure it was an even more basic emotion than greed. You were jealous. Sandy was falling in love with Tim Mills.”

  John’s head jerked up, and for one hopeful second, Judith thought his grip on the shovel had loosened. But his fingers tightened around the stout wooden handle, the knuckles as white as his face. “That’s a lie,” he breathed. “Sandy didn’t love Tim Mills. Sandy only pretended to be attracted to that young priest because he knew it would drive me wild! He thought if I was jealous, I wouldn’t leave him and take off with all the money. He used Tim Mills, he toyed with my feelings! Imagine! After all these years!” John looked genuinely shocked.

  “But would you have left Sandy now that you were rich?” Judith asked, her tongue feeling like lead.

  John’s eyes darted away, then back to Judith. “I…No, no, I wouldn’t have. But sometimes, I said things…It was just lately.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his shirt collar. “You straight people probably don’t believe we can have mid-life crises, too.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” Judith said faintly. “That’s the whole heart of the matter, I’d guess. I’ve been jealous in my time, too.” I’d like to kill Herself. Judith had thought as much many times over the years. The difference was, if put to the test, she wouldn’t have done it. But John Frizzell hadn’t possessed Judith’s moral principles. “Jealousy is a powerful, consuming emotion. There couldn’t be any other motive where Sandy was concerned. You two had been together for years. In your mind, you were a family man—Sandy was your family, your whole life. And then he seemed to be straying, drawn to a younger man. You couldn’t stand the idea of losing him. Even the money didn’t seem so important. You’re a collector, John. You saw only one way to keep Sandy yours for all time. And that was to kill him.” Judith’s mouth had gone completely dry, and her head fell toward her breast. Human feelings were so primitive, so fragile. Sexual persuasion was of no importance when it came to matters of the heart. All people really were created equal.

  Tears glinted in John’s eyes. “For the last two weeks, all Sandy could talk about was that young priest. He didn’t even seem to care that it devastated me. He let on that he was besotted. It wasn’t like him. In all the years we’d been together, I’d never known him to look at another man.”

  Judith tried to gauge how far John’s defenses had fallen. He was still barring the door and gripping the shovel, but his concentration was elsewhere. She took a desperate gamble:

  “What irony!” she exclaimed. “It was such a useless killing! Sandy would never have left you, even if Tim had been willing, which I’m sure he wasn’t. A celibate is most certainly not a homosexual, John. You know that.”

  John’s eyes, dulled with pain, stared at Judith. “You can’t be sure. Nobody ever can be. And you didn’t know Sandy.”

  “But I know Tim Mills,” said Judith in a quiet voice. “I also know that if Sandy had been attracted to Tim, it couldn’t have led to sex. Sandy may not have realized that, but eventually he would have had to. I don’t doubt that Tim stirred great emotions in Sandy.” Judith licked at her dry lips. “But those feelings were paternal. Sandy was Tim’s father.”

  If Judith had hoped to break John with her revelation, she was mistaken. Although he stood as if paralyzed for a long moment, his subsequent reaction was not passive, but violent. John swung the spade again, slashing the air with a sharp sound that stung Judith’s ears.

  “No! No! No! You’re lying!” He advanced on Judith, breathing heavily, with beads of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. “For that, you die!” He lifted the shovel just as Judith ducked. The shovel glanced off the pew, but John struck again. Judith screamed. She was trapped between the pews. Her foot caught on the kneeler, sending her tumbling onto her knees. John lifted the shovel once more. Judith closed her eyes tight and tried to pray.

  The door to the vestibule opened. Judith heard it, rather than saw it, and held her breath. An arm lashed out, connecting with John Frizzell’s head. He crumpled like a broken doll, and thudded to the floor. Judith dared to open her eyes, but slowly.

  “So that’s where my shovel went,” said Arlene Rankers, dusting off her trowel. “Why can’t people leave things alone?”

  EIGHTEEN

  JUDITH AND ARLENE were sitting in the rectory parlor with Joe Flynn and Woody Price. The women were imbibing freely from Father Hoyle’s best bottle of scotch, and the policemen were shuffling a lot of papers. Pope Urban IV was curled up on his favorite pillow next to a small statue of St. Francis of Assisi. The cat looked as if he were contemplating making a meal out of the plaster birds St. Francis was holding.

  “Exactly how much did you hear?” Joe asked Arlene, not without a glint of admiration.

  “Enough,” said Arlene, now faintly dazed in the wake of the afternoon’s drama. John had been knocked unconscious by her blow with the trowel. Judith had run out of the church to get help, luckily finding Father Tim pulling up in his car. After unlocking the rectory, he had gone to Arlene’s aid to keep John Frizzell secure. Judith had called the police, who had sent a patrol car within three minutes. To everyone’s relief, John had submitted to his arrest without a struggle. Joe and Woody, trying to keep their astonishment to themselves, had arrived after John had been handcuffed.

  “I came along just when John was ranting about Sandy’s infatuation with poor Father Tim,” recalled Arlene, with a sad shake of her head. “I got so interested, I decided not to intrude. I mean, I felt like an eavesdropper. That is, I hated to interrupt. I’m not the sort to butt in, but I couldn’t very well leave.” Confusing herself with her own contradictions for once, Arlene wiggled in the armchair. “Then it dawned on me that John must have killed Sandy. And Judith must be in trouble. So I whacked him.” She shrugged. “Will he be all right?”

  Joe was at his most bemused. “He’ll have a hell of a headache for a while, but where he’s going, he won’t need to think a lot. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to.”

  Judith was eyeing Arlene with gratitude. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough. You saved my life.”

  Arlene looked unaffected. “I’ve always felt that a good sock in the head gets most people’s attention. It’s the least I could do.” Her expression softened slightly. “After all, you are my favorite neighbor.”

  “And vice versa,” murmured Judith. “Even if
you are a hussy.”

  “Huh?” Arlene’s blue eyes widened over the rim of her glass.

  Judith leaned back in the chair and sighed deeply. “Never mind. I’ll save that for later. Like the next time you get a bad perm. Okay?”

  Somehow, Arlene kept a curb on her usually rampant curiosity. It was, after all, not a typical day. She turned to Woody. “Where’s my shovel?”

  Woody Price wore his customary stoic expression. “I’m afraid we’ll have to impound it as evidence, Mrs. Rankers. John Frizzell did try to kill Mrs. McMonigle with it.”

  “What!” Arlene sprang out of the armchair, almost spilling her scotch. “Now just a minute, young man! Isn’t it enough that I worked my tail off to get in those bedding plants for the church? How do you expect me to plant my own annuals without that shovel?”

  Woody’s features remained unchanged. “I don’t think that’s a serious problem, Mrs. Rankers. You seem to do as well with a trowel as most people do with a shovel. Just ask John Frizzell.”

  At the Manhattan Grill, the lights were low and the steaks were rare, just as Joe had promised. Judith, however, ordered the barbecued ribs. It was the first day of May, and she was wearing green silk and an anxious expression. She had not had the time or the inclination to get a permanent as she’d originally planned. The sleeker look became her, she’d decided, almost as much as did the company of Joe Flynn.

  “You are semi-amazing,” Joe said over his thick New York cut. “The Port Authority cops at Kennedy couldn’t believe it when they opened that crate and poor old Eddie fell out.”

  “He had to be somewhere,” Judith remarked. “I think John was really conscience-stricken about killing Eddie. He not only wanted to get rid of the body, but he probably intended to give the old guy a decent burial. You know, to make amends for not having taken care of him in life.”

  Joe looked skeptical as the waiter refilled their glasses with a vintage cabernet sauvignon. “You give people too much credit,” he said, not without a hint of admiration. “He probably just figured it was easier and safer than trying to get Eddie out of the house and into the bay.”

  “Well maybe,” Judith allowed. Now that more than a week had passed since her brush with death and John Frizzell’s arrest, Judith’s interest in the case had diminished. She was all but foaming at the mouth to hear Joe’s report on the annulment proceedings.

  “By the way,” said Joe with a twinkle, “don’t tell Renie, but Kate was indeed Kitty Cabrini. According to Les, who swears he saw Bottoms Up four times at the old Green Parrot Theatre, she played a nurse who donates her body to medical science.”

  Judith rolled her eyes. “Great. You’re right, I won’t tell Renie. There’s no need for anyone to know. I also hear the Borings are going to stick with Wilbur Paine’s firm. For now.”

  “And the Duffys got all their stuff back,” remarked Joe, polishing off the last bite of steak. “As for Our Lady, Star of the Sea, your parish may end up with Emily’s vast fortune after all.”

  Judith wiped barbecue sauce off her fingers with a linen napkin. The restaurant was busy, its darkly polished booths full of contented diners. Brass fixtures gleamed everywhere, with oak-framed mirrors giving the illusion of space without taking away the sense of intimacy. “But that will happen only if John says so, right?” queried Judith.

  Joe sipped at his wine. “I suppose. But he’s been talking to Father Hoyle. Whether or not John gets the death penalty—and I doubt that he will, given this state’s record on such crimes—he seems genuinely repentant. Hoyle figures he’ll donate the bulk of his fortune to the church to make amends. I doubt that the Kramers would fight it now. It was, after all, what Emily wanted.”

  Judith allowed the waiter to offer her a warm, damp towel and a finger bowl. “Emily was the sort who always got what she wanted. Except for my mother.” Judith laughed softly to herself at the recollection of Gertrude and Emily going head to head so many years ago.

  “What do you mean?” asked Joe, lighting up a cigar.

  “Oh—it had to do with my wedding to Dan. And Lucille’s funeral.” Judith shrugged. “Mother won.”

  “Did she now?” Joe sat back in the booth and eyed Judith curiously. “She doesn’t always, though. Or at least she shouldn’t.”

  Judith put the last rib back on her plate. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Joe, quite seriously, “that your mother would rather shoot herself in the foot than let me marry you. But that’s not her choice. What do you say, Jude-girl?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You haven’t even told me what’s going on with the annulment.” Judith sounded slightly cross.

  Exhaling on his cigar, Joe grimaced. “There is no annulment,” he said flatly.

  Judith’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” The word came out in a gasp. “You mean it’s been…denied?”

  Slowly, Joe shook his head. “There never was one. I didn’t need it. Herself had been married the first time in the Church, then by Protestant ministers the second and third times around. And she and I went to a justice of the peace in Vegas. Our marriage was never valid to begin with. I found that out over a year ago.” The green eyes slid away from Judith’s face, his expression suddenly hidden in another cloud of cigar smoke.

  Judith stared at him, her mouth gaping. “You mean…you knew all along…” She virtually pounced on the small table. “But why? Why didn’t you tell me, Joe?”

  The smoke dissipated. Joe’s round face was engagingly boyish. “Because you weren’t ready to hear it. Maybe you still aren’t.” He gave a little self-deprecating laugh that was a far cry from his usual sanguine style. “Maybe I’m just your favorite fantasy.”

  For a long time, Judith stared at him. For over twenty years, she had kept the memory of his love alive. It had sustained her during her marriage to Dan. No matter how miserable her husband had made her, she could always remind herself that no woman who had been loved by Joe Flynn was a total washout. “I don’t think it’s all been fantasizing,” she said at last, wringing the towel with her agitated hands. “But I’m not sure I want to get married again. It wasn’t my most cherished experience.”

  Soberly, Joe considered her words. “Or mine, if it comes to that.” He put the cigar down in the glass ashtray, his forehead creasing. “Okay, I too can wait. I still have a civil divorce decree to pick up. Meanwhile,” he added with the gold flecks glittering in the green eyes and turning Judith’s will to mush, “how about a lot of one-night stands, starting about now?”

  Judith lowered her gaze to the towel which she still held in her nervous fingers. “I don’t know…How would I explain it to Mother…What would Mike thin…I ought to ask Renie…” Her head jerked up. “Joe, are you sure about this marriage thing? Are you really free in the eyes of the Church? Who have you consulted about it?”

  Joe put down his cigar and reached across the table to take Judith’s chin in his hand. “Believe me, it’s true about the annulment regulations. I got it from your very own pastor. It’s strictly according to Hoyle. Want to come home with me or challenge Gertrude to a hot game of cribbage?”

  Judith gazed into the depths of Joe Flynn’s green Irish eyes. In her mind, fragments of memory joined glimpses of what was yet to come. If she wanted it enough.

  With a confident smile, Judith threw in the towel.

  About the Author

  Seattle native Mary Daheim began telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college
instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by Mary Daheim

  from Avon Books

  DEAD MAN DOCKING

  THIS OLD SOUSE

  HOCUS CROAKUS

  SILVER SCREAM

  SUTURE SELF

  A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE

  CREEPS SUZETTE

  HOLY TERRORS

  JUST DESSERTS

  LEGS BENEDICT

  SNOW PLACE TO DIE

  WED AND BURIED

  SEPTEMBER MOURN

  NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE

  AUNTIE MAYHEM

  MURDER, MY SUITE

  MAJOR VICES

  A FIT OF TEMPERA

  BANTAM OF THE OPERA

  DUNE TO DEATH

  FOWL PREY

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  HOLY TERROR. Copyright © 1992 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.