Vi Agra Falls

by Mary Daheim

  “Now, don’t rush off,” Herself said, wagging a finger that sported a long rose-colored nail. “I’m terribly thirsty. Do you have any George T. Stagg bourbon from last year?”

  “Ah…” Feroze’s smile froze. “Only this year’s. Will that do?”

  “It’ll have to,” Herself said resignedly, and then flashed her smile again. “Thank you. I do so love an attentive—as well as attractive—maître d’. And make it a double, hmm?”

  Judith didn’t know much about the brand Vivian had ordered except that the proof was well over one hundred. Slightly flummoxed, she asked for a Bloody Mary and began perusing the menu.

  “The tiger prawns sound good,” she noted.

  Vivian waved a hand. “Oh, let’s not rush to order food. I much prefer lingering over a cocktail or two before I make a decision about eating.”

  “You forgot,” Judith said, trying to sound pleasant, “that I’m still a working girl.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Vivian replied with a sly smile.

  Judith ignored the remark. “I have to check on my cleaning woman.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll leave here at one-thirty.”

  “I’d think,” Herself declared with a touch of asperity, “that if you still employ that religious fanatic, she could work without supervision.”

  “Of course,” Judith replied, “but nothing is carved in stone when it comes to running a B&B. There are always changes I have to make to accommodate the different wishes of the guests who—”

  “Ah!” Herself exclaimed. “Our drinks.”

  Judith handed the menu to Feroze. “I’ll have the tiger prawns and mussels in the coconut and curry sauce, please.”

  Their host nodded. “And you, madam?” he said to Vivian.

  She tapped her glass. “I’ll have another one of these. And please call me Vi.” She licked her crimson lips. “Everyone I’m intimate with does.”

  “Very good. Vi.” Feroze made a little bow and walked away.

  “Really, Judith,” Vivian said severely, “you should learn to relax. It’s no wonder you have so many health problems. You’re at an age when you simply cannot afford to take on so much responsibility.”

  For just a moment, Judith thought the warning might actually be motivated by consideration. But that didn’t fit Herself’s character. Joe’s ex was rubbing another soupçon of salt into her rival’s wounds.

  With effort, Judith shrugged off the comment and changed the subject. “Have you heard from your daughter recently? Joe got an email about a week ago.”

  Herself took a deep drink of bourbon. “She’s finally getting married.”

  “She is married,” Judith said, wondering why Caitlin Flynn’s mother wouldn’t keep better track of the daughter she’d had by Joe. “The wedding was in April. Joe and I sent her a set of custom-made wineglasses.”

  “Oh.” Herself bit her lip. “Yes, of course. I’ve been so busy with this move. I lost track of time. Anyway,” she went on after another deep swallow of her cocktail, “Billy didn’t want to go all the way to Switzerland. He says it’s too cold there.”

  “They got married in Paris,” Judith pointed out. “Caitlin’s husband is French.”

  Vivian waved both hands. “Swiss, French, Italian—it’s all the same these days. The European Union, you know. And travel is such a hassle.” She narrowed her eyes at Judith after taking another swig of bourbon. “Why didn’t you and Joe attend the wedding?”

  “We couldn’t afford it,” Judith admitted. “We’d spent a couple of weeks in Scotland last March.”

  “Scotland!” Vivian shook her head in dismay. “How awfully dreary for you! All those bagpipes and whistles. Or do I mean thistles?”

  “We actually had a good time,” Judith said. “Bill and Renie went with us. The men fished most of the time, and Renie and I…managed to keep busy.” It was best, Judith decided, not to mention the dead bodies they’d encountered at the castle in the Highlands. “How do you think Billy is going to like living here?”

  “We’ll see,” Herself said with a hardening of her jaw. “I promised him a yacht.”

  “Why couldn’t he have a yacht in Florida?” Judith asked innocently.

  “The gulf can be dangerous,” Vivian replied, polishing off her drink. “Sailing is much safer around here.”

  Judith couldn’t argue. “That’s very generous of you.”

  Vivian shrugged. “Potsy was a very generous man.”

  “Potsy?” Judith said, puzzled. “You mean Billy’s father?”

  Herself nodded but didn’t say anything until after Feroze had brought her second double, along with a bread basket. “Potsy had piles of money, and despite his youthful…generosity when it came to the ladies, he was rather tightfisted as he grew older,” she finally explained. “The money mostly came from a huge Oklahoma cattle ranch.”

  “I see,” Judith said, not sure that she really did. “Then Billy could buy his own yacht.”

  Herself swallowed more bourbon. “No, no. He didn’t inherit.” She giggled slyly. “Potsy left everything to me.”

  Judith couldn’t conceal her surprise. “You mean because Potsy lived with you and Billy before he passed away?”

  Again, Vivian had to wait as Feroze brought Judith’s food. The enticingly pungent odor of curry always evoked memories of Grandma Grover’s mutton dinners as well as Judith’s first trip to San Francisco’s India House. “Wonderful,” she said to Feroze. “The stir-fry vegetables look terrific, too.”

  The owner made another little bow. “It will delight your taste buds, Mrs. Flynn.” He turned to Vivian. “Have you decided, madam?”

  She pointed to her glass. “One more.”

  Feroze hesitated. “Along with perhaps an appetizer?”

  Vivian shook her head. “Later, maybe.” She sipped bourbon and softly hummed a few bars of “My Heart Belongs to Daddy.”

  “Potsy?” Judith reminded her companion. “Gratitude? Money?”

  “Oh.” Herself’s eyes weren’t quite focused. “Yes. All of it.”

  “All of…?” Judith let the words dangle as she tasted a tiger prawn.

  “Of course Potsy left me all his wealth,” Vivian finally said, sounding a little defensive. “Why shouldn’t he? I was his wife.”

  So,” Judith said to Renie over the phone three hours later, “I couldn’t do anything else except leave Herself at Taj Raj. She never did order lunch. I almost expected her to climb up on the table and burst into a torch song. I’ve no idea how she got home. If she got home.”

  “I forgive you,” Renie said. “I should’ve known she’d screw you over. She always does. But let me get this straight—she married this rich old coot, he died ten months later, and then she married his son, Billy, less than a year after Potsy popped off.”

  “That’s the gist of it,” Judith replied. “Billy and his brother, Frankie, didn’t get a dime.”

  “Not fair,” Renie pointed out, “but what is? Did Herself mention if Billy has a job?”

  “The only job he ever had was playing baseball,” Judith said, going to the front door, where a taxi had just pulled up. “He wasn’t very good at it and never made it past the minors, where he played for the Nowata Flycatchers, a team Potsy owned in Oklahoma. Billy’s fielding wasn’t very good, which is how he got the nickname ‘Blunder’ Buss. Hey, I’ve got guests arriving. Talk to you later.”

  Judith went out to the porch to greet a young couple from British Columbia. By six-thirty, Hillside Manor’s guest rooms were all occupied. The social hour was in full swing, with appetizers of fresh vegetables, three kinds of dip, mini-bagels with lox, cream cheese, red onion, and capers, as well as the usual choices of sherry, lemonade, and sodas.

  The day ended on a quiet note. After Joe’s initial shock at the news that Vivian had returned, he wavered back and forth about whether he should go see his ex-wife.

  “Damned if you do,” Judith said, as she and Joe got ready for bed, “and damned if you don’t. For all I kn
ow, she passed out after she finally got home.”

  Joe agreed. “She’s not going anywhere for a while.” His tone was rueful. “Unfortunately.”

  “She hasn’t changed except that she must be really rich,” Judith mused. “You’d think she’d want to move to a bigger house. That bungalow is hardly the style of a wealthy widow.”

  “You’re just hoping she feels that way,” Joe said, putting an arm around Judith’s waist after they’d gotten under the covers. “Like it or not, I should go over there tomorrow and make a courtesy call.”

  “That,” Judith pointed out, snuggling closer to her husband, “doesn’t sound like you.”

  “What I really mean,” Joe said, pausing to yawn, “is that I’d like to kick her butt from here to Florida for being a lousy mother. I can’t believe she didn’t know that Caitlin got married. That’s a new low, even for Herself.”

  “After all these years living abroad, Caitlin must be used to being neglected,” Judith said. “She’s carved out a very nice life, given the poor example set by her mother. I’ve always insisted she takes after you, not Herself.” She paused. “Do you ever wish you could see her more often?”

  “Caitlin?” Joe yawned again. “Oh, sure, but given the crappy state of the marriage she grew up in, I figure she wanted to put all that behind her, maybe even me. It was no picnic for Caitlin. Most of the time Vivian’s daughter Terri lived with her dad, husband number one. But the two half-brothers Vivian had by her other husbands were a real piece of work. I’m surprised they didn’t end up in jail.”

  “How do you know they didn’t?”

  “I don’t,” Joe replied. “And I don’t want to. They never liked me, and the feeling was mutual. The word discipline wasn’t part of their vocabulary.”

  “Do you suppose they know that Herself is stinking rich?”

  “I don’t even know if they’re still alive,” Joe said in a drowsy voice. “They were headed for trouble from the day they were born.”

  A sudden, unsettling thought came to Judith, but she didn’t give it voice. Instead, she silently hoped that Vivian’s sons weren’t headed for Hillside Manor.

  3

  In the weeks that followed, Judith mercifully saw little of Vivian Flynn Buss. Her nemesis had called on Gertrude at least twice, but never stopped to see Judith—or Joe. The summer was flying by, with Judith caught up in the busy tourist season and Joe working on a couple of private investigations for corporate clients seeking deep background checks on prospective employees.

  The weather had turned almost too warm, with little rain and a prognosis of drought for the usually moist region. When Judith had any spare time off from running the B&B, she was busy in the garden, trying to prevent her flowers, shrubs, and trees from dying for lack of water.

  On the last Friday of July, a For Sale sign went up at the corner house where Miko Swanson lived. When Judith returned from Falstaff’s grocery that afternoon she stopped to talk to Mrs. Swanson, who was picking dead leaves from some pansies in a planter on her front porch.

  “We’re going to miss you,” Judith said to the elderly Japanese widow. “I hope you’ll always feel free to drop by.”

  Mrs. Swanson smiled warmly. “I shall miss all of you, too. So many years, yet I know it’s time to be sensible and accept my daughter’s kind offer to live with her and her family. It’s not so far away, after all, only over on the bluff.” She motioned at the house next door. “I must admit, I don’t miss that violinist. Oh, I was a bit…anxious when I learned that Mrs. Flynn had come back.” Mrs. Swanson made a dismissive gesture. “That is, Mrs. Buss. But all has been quiet there. They go sailing often, I think.”

  “Vivian—Mrs. Buss—was going to buy her husband a yacht,” Judith said. “Dare I ask the price of your house?”

  Mrs. Swanson pointed to the box below the For Sale sign. “Oh, please take one of those flyers. They list all the details. The real estate agent says he can sell it for seven hundred thousand dollars. Imagine! My husband and I paid twelve thousand for this house almost fifty years ago.”

  “Typical,” Judith murmured. “My grandparents paid four thousand for ours back in the nineteen-thirties.”

  Mrs. Swanson shook her head. “I don’t know how young couples can afford to live around here. That is, the ones who don’t make those big whatever-you-call-them salaries.”

  “Dot-com millionaires, mostly,” Judith said. “Some are even billionaires.” She paused as a plump, pretty, dark-haired young woman came out of Vivian’s house next door. “Who’s that?” Judith murmured.

  Mrs. Swanson moved closer to the sidewalk for a better view. The woman was heading their way. “The maid,” she whispered. “Or secretary. Hello, Adelita,” she said in a much louder voice.

  Adelita smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Swanson.” She had a slight accent and large, limpid black eyes. “How are you today?”

  “Reasonably well,” Mrs. Swanson replied. “I do not believe you’ve met one of our neighbors. This is Mrs. Flynn, who owns the bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Oh, yes,” Adelita said. “I have heard much about you.”

  I’ll bet you have, Judith thought. “Mrs. Buss and I go way back,” she said, shaking the young woman’s hand. “I understand you work for her. Or is it for Mr. Buss?”

  “I work for both,” she said. “I am what they call an assistant.”

  Judith nodded. “Did you come with them from Florida?”

  “Yes.” Adelita made an expansive gesture. “This is very different. I was born in Mexico. Here is…very northern. Not so hot, not so sweating.”

  “Do you live nearby?” Judith inquired.

  Adelita’s smile widened. “Oh, very! I live with Mr. and Mrs. Buss.”

  “Really?” Judith recalled that the owners before Vivian had raised two children in the small bungalow. “That’s convenient.”

  Adelita nodded. “Now I must go. I walk up Heraldsgate Avenue to the hilltop. It makes for good exercise.” She said good-bye before continuing on her way.

  “Adelita seems very sweet,” Mrs. Swanson remarked. “I’ve visited with her over the fence. Sometimes she gardens.” The older woman sighed. “I cannot do what I used to. It makes me sad, even angry, but that is part of getting old. I shall miss very much my own garden.”

  “It’s always been lovely,” Judith said. “Your dahlias are especially gorgeous this year.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Swanson agreed. “I’ve had good fortune with them. I hope the new owner will enjoy my plantings.” She blinked a couple of times, perhaps, Judith thought, to ward off tears.

  “I’d better put my groceries away,” Judith said. “It’s quite warm today.”

  Mrs. Swanson nodded. “The heat is good for my old bones.”

  “For my mother, too.” Impulsively, Judith hugged Mrs. Swanson. “We really will miss you. You’re a wonderful neighbor.”

  “And so are you, my dear,” Mrs. Swanson said as Judith released her. “But I doubt I’ll be leaving soon.” She gestured at the big maple tree that grew out of her parking strip. “I’d rather not be here in the fall to rake all those leaves, but you never know how long it takes to sell a house. To be honest, I think mine is overpriced.”

  “I’m not sure,” Judith admitted. “Cathy Rankers would know. I see that she’s not the realtor handling the sale, though.”

  Mrs. Swanson looked apologetic. “My husband never thought it was wise to mix business with friends or relatives. He said that often you might make a profit, but you could lose someone you love. People are far more important than money.”

  “How true,” Judith agreed, thinking how much she’d miss the old lady’s kindness and understanding. With a bittersweet smile, she got into the Subaru and drove on to her own driveway.

  Two days later when Judith and Joe were returning from ten o’clock Mass at Our Lady, Star of the Sea, they noticed a Sold sign in front of Mrs. Swanson’s house.

  “That was quick,” Judith said. “The realtor hasn’t even held
an open house yet.”

  “Maybe the realtor had a private viewing for other agents,” Joe suggested.

  “Maybe,” Judith said, but sounded skeptical. “Whatever happened, the buyer must have agreed to the asking price.”

  Less than five minutes after the Flynns had gone inside, Arlene Rankers arrived via the back door, the entrance that was always used by family and friends.

  “You left church so fast I couldn’t catch you,” she said to Judith in reproach. “We were sitting on the other side of the altar.”

  “You know we always have to get back for the eleven-thirty checkout time on Sundays,” Judith replied, and held out the mug of coffee she’d just poured herself. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Arlene sidled closer to Judith and lowered her voice. “You’ve heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Mrs. Swanson. Her house sold for seven-fifty.”

  “That’s more than was asked,” Judith said, surprised. “Who bought it?”

  Arlene began to pace the length of the long kitchen. “I don’t know. I simply don’t know.” She whirled around as she reached the swinging half-doors that led to the dining room. “But I’ll find out. You can be sure of that.”

  “I’m sure,” Judith asserted with a little smile. “Cathy, right?”

  “Either my daughter or Mrs. Swanson,” Arlene said, frowning. “I don’t like it.”

  “How come?” Judith inquired as Joe came into the kitchen from the back stairs.

  Arlene glanced at Joe. “I’m not sure. There’s something fishy about this.”

  “About what?” Joe asked.

  Arlene explained. “You’re a detective, Joe. You must have some ideas. Something’s afoot.”

  He shrugged. “This whole real estate boom on Heraldsgate Hill is no mystery. Except for some older mansions on the south slope, the neighborhood was blue-collar. Suddenly everybody got the idea that instead of rushing off to the suburbs, they could live five minutes from downtown and virtually walk to work. This became the in place, and with all that dot-com money, the sky was the limit. Old houses are torn down, big new ones go up. Longtime apartment buildings are turned into condos. Every possible commercial property is converting to retail on the bottom and residential on top. Meanwhile, the rest of the area is catching up with us. We’re going to become the first city where being poor means you can only afford to have your cleaning service come once a month. It’s ridiculous. I liked it better in the old days.”