Vi Agra Falls

by Mary Daheim

  “Pigs,” Arlene said in disgust as they went down the half-dozen steps to the basement. “Is Adelita an assistant or the maid? Whatever she is, she isn’t doing much to earn her money around here.”

  “That depends,” Judith murmured as Arlene rapped loudly on the basement door, “what she has to do to earn it.”

  Arlene stared at Judith. “You mean…?”

  Judith shrugged. “Who knows, with this bunch.”

  The women waited for over a full minute. Arlene knocked again. “Vivian? Yoo-hoo!”

  “Maybe,” Judith suggested, “she’d rather not face you after last night. It might be just as well if we went—”

  “Nonsense!” Arlene interrupted. “I don’t hold a grudge. Why should she? Exchanging an occasional blow with someone doesn’t mean you don’t care for them.” She turned the knob. The door opened easily.

  Judith followed Arlene inside. The basement looked far different than it had when Rudi and Taryn occupied the house. Gone was the piano where Taryn had given lessons. The music books, the carpet, the bench, the bust of Chopin, and all the other trappings of a piano teacher had been replaced by cartons of liquor, unmarked boxes, coolers, an ugly pole-lamp, and a big freezer.

  “No Vivian,” Arlene murmured.

  Judith pointed to a small hallway. “There are a couple of rooms off of that. Mostly storage, I think, but maybe used for something else now.”

  Arlene went over to the freezer. “What would Vivian keep in here?” She tugged at the latch and lifted the lid. “Nothing. How wasteful!”

  “Let’s face it,” Judith said, shaking her head at the vast quantity of liquor, “vodka’s the only booze I know of that you can freeze. Maybe they’re waiting for some of those specialty meats from the Midwest that you can put in your freezer. Billy strikes me as a steak man. Besides,” she went on, pointing to the wall by the freezer, “the thing’s not even plugged in yet.”

  Arlene started toward the hall. “Where is Vivian?”

  “Forget it,” Judith said, moving to the door. “I really don’t want to see her, especially if she’s drunk.”

  “But,” Arlene protested, “won’t she be talkative? We might learn all kinds of lurid secrets.”

  Judith made a face. “I already know some of them. I wish I didn’t.” She led the way up the stairs. “I doubt that she’d be able to tell us much, since she insists she doesn’t know the man who was killed.”

  Arlene was right behind Judith. “Do you believe her?”

  “I suppose so,” Judith said grudgingly, reaching the walkway. “There’s the cherry tree. See the yellow tape cordoning off most of the yard? I was so focused on watching my step going into the basement that I didn’t notice.”

  “That’s gruesome,” Arlene remarked. “But intriguing. What do you think? You must have some ideas about what went on.”

  “I don’t,” Judith said, “although I have to wonder where the victim was killed. In the house, outside, or somewhere else?”

  Arlene tapped her fingers against her cheek. “If the murder didn’t happen here, it must have taken some strength to haul the body over to the tree and make it look as if he’d been hanged.”

  “Maybe,” Judith said. “But we don’t know how big the victim was.”

  Arlene shot Judith a quizzical look. “You mean small and easy to carry? Maybe a jockey?”

  Despite the grim subject matter, Judith grinned. “Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. Joe can find out.”

  “Yes,” Arlene said. “You must make him do his part. He certainly knows how to go about it. Or does he?”

  “Of course,” Judith replied. “It’s not a skill he’d forget.”

  “You never know,” Arlene said darkly. “Men forget so many things, like birthdays and anniversaries, and where they put their shoes.”

  “True.” Judith gazed around the small garden. Vivian didn’t enjoy yard work, and neither had her former tenants. The previous owner, however, had been an avid gardener. Little was left of his efforts. Small patches of grass had turned brown in the summer heat, the rosebushes had reverted to their original wild state, and weeds had choked out most of the once lovingly cultivated perennials.

  “Clues,” Arlene said. “Shouldn’t we search for some?”

  Judith shook her head. “The police are very thorough. If there was anything to find, they’d have taken it with them.”

  “Drat. No matchbooks, no cigarette butts, no cocktail napkins with scribbled phone numbers?” Arlene looked disgusted. “What kind of a murder is this?”

  “A wasteful one,” Judith responded. “They all are. Killing creates more problems than it ever solves. I’ve never understood that sinister place in the human heart.”

  Arlene nodded. “Murder makes such a mess. Blood to clean up—a serious problem, because it leaves stains, as hard to get out as red wine. Breakage, if you hit someone over the head with heavy china. As for poison, what do you do with the leftovers? It seems so wasteful. Not to mention moving the body off the carpet because it’s in the way of foot traffic. And the noise if you use a gun! I suppose that’s why I’ve never killed Carl. It’d just make for more housework.”

  Judith shot Arlene a bemused sidelong glance. “You wouldn’t want that. I’ve never known anyone who kept a tidier home.”

  Arlene shrugged. “I rather enjoy it. Gardening, too. Obviously, Vivian doesn’t do either one.”

  Judith paused at the garden gate. “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “If I should believe Vivian about not knowing the victim.”

  Arlene’s face lit up. “Then let’s grill her! Isn’t that police talk?”

  “I’d like to grill her—on a spit over the barbecue in our backyard,” Judith muttered, lifting the latch on the gate. “Oh, damn! I shouldn’t say things like that. Anyway, my misgivings are probably off base. Sometimes I—” She stopped, staring down at two pale pink rose petals just inside the fence. “Hold on,” she said. “Where did these come from?”

  Arlene examined the petals. “Not here. All the roses have returned to their natural red color.” She beamed with excitement. “A clue?”

  “I don’t know,” Judith said. “It could be the kind of thing the police would overlook if they weren’t into gardening.” She carefully picked up the petals and cupped them in her hand. “Our roses are orange and white and yellow and red. You don’t have any pink ones, do you?”

  Arlene shook her head. “Carl and I have never been rose fanciers. Oh, they’re lovely, but they require so much care. Years ago, Mrs. Swanson tried to teach me how to grow and prune the rosebushes we had then, but they never turned out right. I just didn’t have the knack, and Carl didn’t have the patience.”

  “Mrs. Swanson,” Judith murmured. “She had gorgeous roses in her backyard. We have some, but none of them are this color. Who else around here has pink roses?”

  “The Ericsons?” Arlene suggested. “Not the Porters. They grow only a couple of climbers on trellises. One is orange, and the other is yellow. The Steins lost all of theirs to some disease a few years ago and never put in new ones.”

  They had strolled as far as the Ericson house. “I suppose Jeanne and Ted are at work,” Judith said. “Do you think they’d mind if we took a look at their garden?”

  “No. They like to show it off,” Arlene said, opening the gate with its rustic iron trellis covered by deep purple clematis blossoms. “I think they have some roses in back.” She gestured at the drought-resistant plants and grasses spaced between concrete stepping stones and tiny pebble fillers. “Ted designed all this, too.”

  “Smart people,” Judith remarked, admiring a large reflecting globe on a stone pedestal. “An architect and a lawyer, but no kids.”

  “As you said,” Arlene agreed, “smart people.”

  Judith smiled. “I defer to you. I only had one. You’ve had five.”

  Arlene shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Your kids
have turned out very well,” Judith declared as they went into the backyard. The enclosed garden was more traditional, with a small fishpond, a lilac tree, gladioli, dahlias, pansies—and roses. But none of the half-dozen bushes had pale pink blooms. “We’ve struck out.” She gazed over the wooden fence, studying the Dooleys’ white Colonial. “I don’t think the Dooleys raise roses. Only children. Besides, they’re a bit off the beaten track.”

  Arlene looked disappointed. “You don’t think the petals are clues?”

  “Probably not,” Judith replied as they walked back to the front of the Ericson house. “Still, it’s odd to find them by the Busses’ gate. Maybe somebody wore a corsage or stuck a rose in her hair.”

  Out on the sidewalk, the women noticed that their husbands had finished filling the Dumpster. The truck and its driver had left after dropping off the Dumpster, but Renie’s car was still parked in the Flynns’ driveway. Joe and Carl were nowhere in sight.

  “I wonder,” Arlene said, “how long that ugly green thing is going to sit there.”

  “I wonder if Ted and Naomi actually went ahead and pressed charges against the Busses,” Judith remarked.

  “If they did, I’d like to sign the complaint, too,” Arlene said.

  Judith smiled wryly. “Isn’t that kind of…ironic? I mean, we just paid a condolence call.”

  “So? We can be sorry about one thing and angry about the other. That’s what makes life interesting.”

  “I guess,” Judith responded in an uncertain voice. “I’d better find Renie. Maybe she went with Rochelle to the Porters’ house.”

  “I suppose Carl and Joe are taking a nap,” Arlene said as they walked toward Hillside Manor. “All that exertion probably did them in. Men have no stamina.”

  Judith saw Joe’s red MG parked in front of Renie’s Camry. “I guess Joe’s taking the day off from his latest investigation.”

  “He could investigate this murder right here if he’d bother himself,” Arlene said, moving on to her own house.

  “He’ll leave that to the cops who haven’t retired,” Judith said, starting up the front steps. “See you later.”

  As soon as she got inside the house, she heard voices in the dining room. The loudest belonged to Renie.

  “I don’t give a damn if you want a three-and-a-half-minute egg,” she said harshly. “What do I look like—a Swiss watch? If you won’t eat it, breakfast’s over.”

  To avoid confronting Renie duking it out with the Busses, Judith backtracked, went up the front stairs, through the hallway on the second floor, and came down the back stairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, Renie was picking up pieces of what looked like a dinner plate.

  “Hey!” Renie shouted. “Watch out! The Oklahomans broke an egg on the floor, busted a plate, and boiled water all over your stove. I exiled them to the dining room and finished making their breakfast myself.”

  “That was nice of you,” Judith said, leaning against the refrigerator. “I think.”

  Renie glared at Judith. “Not really. I was defending your premises. After I yakked it up with Rochelle, I came in here to use your downstairs bathroom. I heard those Busses banging around in the kitchen, and Marva Lou was fiddling with your computer while Frankie was dropping everything but his pants.”

  Judith put a finger to her lips. “Keep it down,” she murmured. “They can hear you.”

  “So?” Renie was wiping up the rest of the broken egg. “I don’t care. They made a mess. They’re idiots.”

  “Well, I care,” Judith said crossly. “They’re my guests. It wasn’t their fault that their relatives got involved in a murder.”

  Renie stood up. “Whose relatives don’t? Not ours, that’s for sure. Are you going to start defending Herself? Sheesh!” She tossed the dirty dishcloth into the sink.

  The only way Judith could shut Renie up—short of throttling her—was to keep quiet. The schoolhouse clock indicated it was almost noon. Ignoring her cousin, Judith opened the fridge and took out baloney, mayonnaise, and a cube of butter.

  “What are you doing?” Renie asked.

  “Making Mother’s lunch.”

  Renie’s temper, which was quick to ignite and quick to dissolve, was already on the wane. “I’ll take it out to her. I should pay a duty call. Mom is next on my list. I have to cut her toenails. I’d rather work out under a hot sun on a Georgia chain gang. Breaking up rocks can’t be any harder than cutting Mom’s nails. They’re so thick I practically need a saw. And she squirms.”

  “I understand,” Judith said. “All too well.”

  The phone rang. Judith picked up the receiver from the counter.

  “The media is here,” Rochelle Porter said. “Do you want to hide?”

  “Oh, drat!” Judith cried. “I was hoping they wouldn’t show up. Thanks for the alert. Yes, I’ll seek refuge in the toolshed with Mother.”

  “Who was that?” Renie asked after Judith disconnected the call. “What’s wrong?”

  “Rochelle says the media has arrived. I want to avoid them. You know what it’s like if Mavis Lean-Brodie is here from KINE-TV.”

  “Mavis has sometimes been your ally,” Renie pointed out. “She’s only doing her job.”

  “I don’t care,” Judith asserted. “That is, I don’t want any more exposure about my reputation as FATSO.”

  Renie was obviously trying not to smile. “That Web site your admirers set up should be good for business.”

  “It’s not,” Judith snapped. “I’ve made darned sure that they don’t mention the name of my B&B. That would only bring in the ghouls and thrill-seekers.”

  “It annoys you because the acronym got screwed up,” Renie said. “I know, I know—Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders should be FASTO, but FATSO is easier to remember. Good Lord, you haven’t been fat since you were a kid. Get over it.”

  Judith scowled at Renie. “You know I’ve always had to watch my weight. You, on the other hand, could eat your way through six aisles at Falstaff’s Grocery and never put on an ounce.”

  Renie shrugged. “So? It’s my metabolism. How many times do I have to tell you—you’re five-nine, you’ve got a good-sized frame. You can gain or lose twenty pounds, and most people don’t notice the difference.”

  Judith’s expression remained sour. “Look outside and see if Mavis is there. I’ll finish fixing Mother’s lunch.”

  With a resigned sigh, Renie went out the back way, apparently also wanting to avoid the Busses. Judith tiptoed to the swinging half-doors between the kitchen and dining room and peeked in on her guests. The couple looked as if they were almost finished eating their late breakfast.

  “What now?” she heard Marva Lou ask softly.

  “We wait,” Frankie replied, also in a low voice. “We can’t risk anything else.”

  Judith moved out of sight, but continued to listen. The Busses, however, remained silent. A couple of minutes passed before they wordlessly left the dining room and headed for the front stairs.

  Renie came hurrying in through the back door. “No Mavis,” she announced. “KINE sent a young man I don’t recognize. But I almost never watch the TV news. Both the daily papers are here, and a couple of other television vans. I couldn’t make out the logos. That Dumpster blocked my view, and I didn’t want to be seen.” She stared closely at Judith. “You look weird. What’s wrong?”

  “The Busses,” she said. “They’re up to something. I wish I knew what it is. I hope it doesn’t involve murder.”

  8

  Judith related the brief exchange between Marva Lou and Frankie. “I wonder what their real reason was for visiting Billy and Vivian. Could it be about Herself inheriting all that money?”

  “That’s a good guess,” Renie replied. “As far as Billy’s concerned, he married his father’s fortune. But Frankie’s left out in the cold.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, “but Vivian’s marital track record isn’t very good. If she runs true to form, Billy could find himself dumped after a few y
ears.” She placed some apple slices on Gertrude’s tray. “Do you still want to take this out to Mother?”

  “Sure. You stay inside, away from prying eyes.” Renie picked up the tray and headed out through the back door.

  Joe came into the house a couple of minutes later. “Have you seen the news vultures?”

  “No,” Judith said. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Good thinking.” He picked up the remaining chunk of apple and took a bite. “I crawled through the hedge from the Rankerses to elude the press.”

  Judith studied her husband’s appearance. “No wonder you’ve got leaves in your hair.” At least, the hair that you still have, she thought, realizing that Joe’s forehead was growing higher and higher at a rather rapid rate. “There’s a ladybug on your pants, and some of those little cedar cones on your shoulder.”

  Joe brushed himself off. Judith saw the insect drop to the floor. “I’m taking this outside. It’s bad luck to kill a ladybug.” She went to the back door and down the steps, gently putting the ladybug in the dirt. As she watched the little creature scurry under a maidenhair fern, Renie came out of the toolshed.

  Judith eyed her cousin with curiosity. “That was a quick visit. Did you and Mother get into a row?”

  “No,” Renie replied testily. “She has a visitor—Herself.”

  “Ah. That’s why Arlene and I couldn’t get her to come to the basement door.” Judith’s gaze took in the little building where her mother had retreated rather than live under the same roof as her son-in-law. “What sort of bunk was Vivian telling Mother? Not about the murder, I hope.”

  “I didn’t stay long enough to find out,” Renie replied. “They were laughing their heads off. Maybe Aunt Gert and Vivian enjoy an occasional body in a fruit tree.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked disgusted. “Everywhere I go since I got here, I run into somebody or something that annoys me. I’d go home and get some work done on that design project for the city parks brochure, but I don’t want to get stopped by the media. I’m trapped. Who shows up next? Osama bin Laden?”

  “If you leave now,” Judith pointed out, leading the way into the house, “you’re going to have to climb up the hill from our backyard or crawl through the Rankerses’ hedge. Which, I might add, Joe just did.”