Cirak's Daughter

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Beth mentioned the sum with something like reverence. “And the television set and so forth were still in the house, all the stuff burglars usually take, you know. Of course, some people started a rumor that he must have had a lot of valuables hidden away and that was what had been taken; but how could you tell? His cleaning woman was the only person around here who could have known, and she wouldn’t have gone prowling through his private belongings, no matter what anybody says. Poor Marie’s been the loser, if you ask me. She used to do housework for quite a few different families around town, but nobody will hire her any more. She was living on welfare the last I heard.”

  “But that’s awful!” Jenny was more shocked by the injustice done this unknown Marie than by the horrible way her father had died. She forgot for the moment that he’d thought of her in the end and remembered only the years of misery at the Plummers’ when she’d been the child of a runaway father and an ever-complaining deserted wife. Obviously by his death, Jason Cirak had left yet another woman to suffer the consequences.

  “And they’ve still not found out what happened?” Harriet Compton pressed.

  “No, never. The coroner’s inquest brought in a verdict of death by misadventure, with insufficient evidence to show cause. They couldn’t even say for sure whether it was the injury to the front of his head or the loss of blood or the shock and exposure that he actually died from. His nose had been broken and there was a big bang on his forehead, but the skull wasn’t fractured. They figured he’d been knocked unconscious and lain there bleeding from the broken nose till the cold got him, or something. I couldn’t follow all the medical testimony. Anyway, it had happened the night before instead of in the morning, because they decided he must have been dead quite a while before Jack and I found him. At least five or six hours, they thought. They couldn’t say for sure. It had been down below freezing that night.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Early this past March. The fifth, I think it was.”

  “The fifth of March?” said Miss Compton sharply. “I thought you said you were going for a bird walk.”

  “We were. There are lots of birds around in March. Nuthatches, titmice, white-throated sparrows.…” Beth’s voice trailed off, then she pulled herself together. “Well, this is hardly the sort of conversation for the luncheon table. I hope I haven’t put you off your new house, Jenny.”

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing to do with me,” Jenny replied with her mouth so dry she could barely get the words out.

  Miss Compton wasn’t making any pretence of being easy in her mind about the incident. “I don’t like this at all, Jenny. If this is the sort of neighborhood you’ve moved into—”

  “It’s not the neighborhood,” Beth protested. “Aunt Marguerite’s lived here all her life and nothing like this has ever happened before. That’s why we’re all so sure it must have been some kind of freak accident. He must have hit his face on the steps when he fell, or—”

  “Do you honestly think that, or do you only want to?”

  “Why certainly we want to. The—the alternative would be—” Again Beth didn’t complete her sentence.

  “Murder, you mean.” No euphemisms for Harriet Compton. “So I suppose the property owners in Meldrum put pressure on the local authorities to pass it off as misadventure and hush up the talk as quickly as possible.”

  She started gathering up her purchases. “I daresay I’d have done the same if I’d been living in Meldrum at the time. That sort of thing doesn’t help real-estate values. Here, Jenny, you take this box.”

  Jenny was aghast at the apparent callousness of Harriet Compton’s remark. Beth, however, nodded eager agreement.

  “That’s what everybody was saying.”

  Jenny tried to keep her face and voice calm. “Were Mr. Cox’s relatives satisfied with the verdict?”

  “He didn’t have any. I understand all his money went to some charitable foundation none of us had ever heard of before. It does seem an awful shame when I think of how he and Aunt Marguerite—” Beth flushed and stopped short.

  Miss Compton pounced. “You mean there was a little romance brewing?”

  “Jack and I thought so. It would have been so wonderful for both of them. Aunt Marguerite’s been a widow ever since Jack was twelve.”

  “What did the rest of the family think about your aunt’s remarrying? Not that it’s any business of mine, of course,” Miss Compton added out of politeness.

  “Oh, but it’s so nice to talk to somebody who listens!” Probably not many did, to Beth. “I can’t say Pamela and Greg were overly pleased with the idea. Greg took a dislike to Mr. Cox right away. I don’t know why, unless it was because he felt slighted. Mr. Cox didn’t invite him to dinner, the way he did us. Greg always has to be the center of attention. You must have noticed that at the Gileses’, Jenny.”

  “He did seem to want to be noticed,” Jenny agreed, thinking of those hairy, sweaty, grabby paws she’d had so much trouble ducking.

  “I suppose Greg had visions of a horde of unexpected Coxes turning up after the wedding and latching onto your aunt’s money,” said Harriet Compton, who obviously didn’t believe in beating around bushes. “Some people’s minds always seem to run in that direction.”

  “Greg Bauer’s does, no doubt about that.” Beth sniffed. “If there’s a dollar floating around, you can bet Greg’s will be the first hand stretched out after it. Some of the things he’s said about me personally—well, you don’t want to hear about that.”

  Beth slung the drawstring of her hideous crocheted bag over her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bore you with family gossip. It’s just that I so seldom get a chance to say what I think. Naturally I can’t complain to Jack or Aunt Marguerite, and I wouldn’t dare breathe a word to any of the neighbors. You being outsiders—oh dear, that doesn’t sound very nice.”

  “Why not? It’s what we are,” Harriet Compton reassured her. “Jenny and I aren’t connected to anybody in Meldrum except each other, so you’re free to say what you please without being afraid it will bounce back in your face.”

  Beth smiled, showing teeth that ought to have been straightened when she was a child, then closed her unlipsticked mouth as if she’d been caught doing something wicked. “You’re so kind. Please let me carry some of those parcels for you. And you will forget what I said about James Cox, I hope?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Harriet Compton.

  Jenny nodded. Why should Beth worry? Jenny herself would be doing enough worrying for all three of them.

  6

  However grim the errand that had brought Harriet Compton to the carriage house, Jenny was glad to have her. Harriet was in the tiny kitchen now, putting away a staggering heap of groceries she’d insisted on buying. She’d chased Jenny out to rake leaves because it was such a glorious fall day and young people were better out than in.

  “Hi! Working hard?” The voice was Sue Giles’s.

  Actually, Jenny had been thoroughly enjoying herself and hated to quit for a chat with her neighbor. She tried not to look annoyed as she walked over to the hedge that separated her yard from the Gileses’.

  “No, I’m just trying to tidy the place up a little. I meant to call you later on, to thank you for inviting me to your lovely party.”

  That was a flat lie. Jenny had completely forgotten, which was understandable, all things considered, but hardly excusable. Plummers were punctilious about things like that even if Ciraks weren’t, and she’d been brought up to mind her manners.

  Sue was quite ready to forgive her. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You were the hit of the evening. People have been on the phone all day, talking about you. We had no idea you were a lady of so many talents.”

  “Oh, you mean the palm-reading act?” Jenny turned red. “I only did it for fun. It’s a way of getting to know people.” She was going to add, “I hope nobody took me seriously,” when she recalled that most of them had, Sue included.

  �
��Honestly, I don’t see how you could know all that stuff about perfect strangers. You sure hit the nail on the head with Greg Bauer, I want to tell you. And when you told Marguerite Firbelle she’d better watch her step, I almost dropped the cold cuts. If you want my candid opinion, that was another bull’s-eye.”

  Sue laughed, but her shrewish little eyes never shifted from Jenny’s face. Jenny didn’t know what to reply, so she just looked interested and kept quiet. That was all Sue needed. She leaned over the hedge and lowered her voice to the confidential, insistent murmur of the well-practiced scandalmonger.

  “I’d be the last person in the world to say anything, but if I were in Marguerite Firbelle’s shoes, I wouldn’t feel too safe, either. When you consider some of the people she’s got hanging around her—”

  Jenny didn’t like this a bit. “But I didn’t say she was in danger from a person. She could slip in the bathtub, or get an allergic bee sting.”

  “Sure, she could. Or fall down three little steps and break her neck. Or get her head bashed in by a burglar the police never found any sign of.”

  Now it was making sense. Sue wasn’t just muckraking, she was scared. Living so close to the carriage house, maybe she had a reason. Jenny said what she had to.

  “You’re talking about Mr. Cox, aren’t you?”

  Sue blinked. “Oh, so you’ve heard about him already. Who told you?”

  There wasn’t much point in trying to cover up. No doubt half of Meldrum already knew about that shopping expedition and the cozy lunch at the Kum-In Kafé.

  “It was Beth Firbelle.”

  “You don’t say! I didn’t realize you and Beth were so friendly.”

  “She seems very pleasant,” Jenny replied rather angrily. Why shouldn’t poor relations have friends? She felt an urge to stick up for Beth, but it would be stupid to make an enemy of Sue.

  “My aunt and I kidnapped her,” she explained. “You haven’t met my aunt, Harriet Compton, yet, but you will. She flew in this morning unannounced, to see what I was up to. When she saw the state my house is in, she decided to stay and help me get things under control. Aunt Harriet hadn’t brought any clothes with her, so when we happened to see Beth out in her yard, we asked if she’d come for a ride with us and show us where the shops were. Then we had lunch, and Aunt Harriet got to asking her questions about the neighborhood. You know what older women are like. Naturally we were both interested in knowing who’d had the carriage house before me, and that’s how we found out about Mr. Cox.”

  “I’m surprised Beth could bring herself to tell you,” Sue answered. “I’d have thought she’d be the last person.”

  “I know, having found the body and all. She wasn’t any too keen on talking about it, but we rather pushed her, I’m afraid. Anyway, we were bound to hear it from somebody sooner or later.”

  “So Beth figured she might as well make sure you got the official version. She’s not as dumb as she looks, you know. I don’t suppose she happened to mention that there’d been a marriage in the offing, did she?”

  “She didn’t say that, no. She did say they’d been friendly with him.”

  “Um-h’m. Well, at least now the Firbelles don’t have to worry any more about the money going out of the family.”

  “But Mr. Cox wouldn’t have been after money. He was a rich man himself,” Jenny protested. “I mean, Beth gave me the impression he was.”

  Sue Giles shrugged. “You couldn’t prove it by me. They say he entertained quite lavishly. Bill and I never got a chance to find out.”

  Was Sue just being catty because Cox had snubbed her and her husband, or did she in fact know something? Jenny decided she’d better not try to handle this alone.

  “Speaking of entertaining, Sue, could I lure you in for a cup of tea right now? We’ve just been laying in supplies, and I’d love to have you meet my aunt.”

  “I really shouldn’t. I’m such a mess.” Sue made fluttering gestures at her disheveled hair and rumpled pants, but was through the hedge before she’d finished explaining why she couldn’t come.

  Miss Compton was delighted to meet Mrs. Giles. Mrs. Giles was obviously impressed by Miss Compton. Jenny was pleased with herself for having trapped another potential source of information.

  “You two stay here and get acquainted while I make the tea. Do you prefer cream or lemon, Sue?”

  “Plain milk, please, if you have it.”

  “Of course.”

  As Jenny turned to go out to the kitchen, though, she caught a rueful glance from Harriet Compton. What was that supposed to mean? Then she remembered her new aunt had been putting away the groceries just now. Could they possibly have forgotten to buy something so basic as milk?

  A glance into the refrigerator showed her they could, and had. Now what? Go back and confess? She guessed what Sue would say to that, as soon as she found a willing ear to say it into: “Oh, sure, they put on a big front, but they didn’t even have enough milk in the house for a cup of tea. There’s something funny about that pair, you mark my words.”

  She put on the kettle to boil, picked up a small pitcher, and sped up the knoll to the Firbelles’ house, hoping to find Beth alone in the kitchen. No such luck. She could hear voices through an open window, and neither was Beth’s. What of it? They were neighbors, weren’t they? And Beth could testify she was no cheapskate, even if she did have to borrow half a cupful of milk in an emergency. She had one foot on the bottom step when something she heard from above made her stop short.

  “Mother, I’m begging you one last time. We can’t let this go on any longer. The risk—”

  “Jack, you know the situation as well as I. I accept the risk, unless you accept the alternative. We shan’t discuss it any more.”

  After that, all Jenny heard was the unmistakable bang of a door being slammed. She might as well go up and ask for the milk.

  She raced up the stairs making as much noise as she could, so they wouldn’t think she’d been hanging around overhearing what they’d said. Now she knew she hadn’t imagined the feeling of tension in this house. Risk, Jack had said, and he’d sounded distraught. Marguerite Firbelle, on the other hand, answered Jenny’s knock looking calm and collected as usual.

  “Why, Jenny. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to be a pest, Mrs. Firbelle, but Sue Giles just dropped in for a cup of tea and would you believe that with all that enormous shopping we did today, we completely forgot to buy milk? Could you possibly spare just a drop?”

  “Certainly. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thanks, but I mustn’t. I’ve put the kettle on, and they don’t even know I’m not there to rescue it. When I realized about the milk, I just grabbed the pitcher and rushed madly over here. Now I’ve got to rush madly back.”

  “Then I mustn’t keep you, must I?”

  Marguerite Firbelle took the pitcher into the house. She seemed mildly amused. Or was it relief that was causing those well-controlled features to relax a bit? Jenny had no time to wonder. She accepted the half-filled pitcher when the woman brought it back, burbled her thanks, and hurried home, knowing Mrs. Firbelle and perhaps Jack also would be watching to make sure she did.

  Harriet and Sue hadn’t missed her. The ripple of voices from the living room told her they were getting along just fine. She needn’t break her neck hurrying with the tea. That was a lucky break. Jenny needed time to catch her breath and sort out her thoughts.

  Beth’s account of how her father died had shaken her badly, and there was no sense in trying to pretend it hadn’t. Those remarks of Sue Giles’s a few minutes ago hadn’t made her feel any better. And that risk Jack Firbelle was so uptight about, was it something that affected just him and his mother, or did it involve the whole village?

  What was going on in this supposedly humdrum little place? Was Jason Cirak killed simply because he’d had the bad luck to move into the wrong house? Was that bloodstained jacket, mailed to Harriet Compton from this address so long after he’d b
een found right outside that back door with his skull bashed in, somehow involved with his mysterious death? Or did it mean there’d been another murder, one that nobody even knew about yet?

  “How’s the tea doing, Jenny? Want some help?”

  Harriet Compton’s voice jolted her back to the business at hand. She called back, “Just coming,” and picked up the tray she’d been absent-mindedly getting ready while she pondered.

  Jack Firbelle was the man on the pan when she carried it into the living room. “He’s never done a tap of work that I know of,” Sue was informing Harriet. “He passed the bar after he finished law school, but he’s never gone into practice. He’s supposed to have a weak heart, but I notice it never keeps him from doing anything he wants to.”

  “Beth seems willing to earn her keep, anyway,” Jenny ventured. “She was out working in the garden this morning.”

  Sue shook her head. “Oh, Beth’s willing enough, I guess. Has to be, in her circumstances. I don’t know why her aunt lets her go around looking like a walking ragbag the way she does.”

  “Has Beth always lived with Mrs. Firbelle?”

  “No, only for the past five years or so. She arrived one day in a taxi with a bunch of junk, and there she’s stayed. If you ask me, Jack’s hanging on to her so she’ll be there to keep house for him when Aunt Marguerite goes. Then there won’t be any excuse for Pam and Greg to move in. Greg thought he was doing a big thing for himself when he waltzed Pam Firbelle to the altar, but he’s had a rude awakening, I can tell you that. Old Maggie’s a lot tighter with a dollar than he expected her to be, and Jack’s not going to be any different when his turn comes.”

  Jenny began to wonder if Sue Giles had had an eye on either Jack or Greg before she married Bill. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman and she couldn’t be much over forty, if that. Bill Giles must be at least fifteen years older than she, a quiet man with a middle-aged spread, who didn’t look as if he’d be an exciting husband. If it wasn’t a disappointing marriage, then what had planted all these sour grapes in Sue’s personal vineyard? Was she this catty about everybody in Meldrum? If so, how could she be such a popular hostess? Both Greg and Jack had been wading into the goodies last night as eagerly as the rest of the crowd and not being stingy with the compliments to the cook, either.