by Mary Daheim
“No, no,” Arlene said, handing the paper over to Judith. “I think it’s Vivian’s guest list. Do you know any of these people?”
“I hope not,” Judith replied, studying the handwritten names. “This looks like Vivian’s horrible penmanship,” she said, recalling the erratic and overblown style from the infrequent postcards Herself had sent from the Florida gulf. “There must be thirty names here.”
“No addresses or phone numbers, though,” Arlene pointed out.
“The only names I recognize are Frankie and Marva Lou Buss,” Judith said. “Was there another page?”
“This is all I found when I was looking for Tulip’s favorite ball,” Arlene replied. “Why? Do you think there were more guests at the party?”
“I never counted them,” Judith said. “But look at this double space toward the bottom of the page. At the top Vivian’s written ‘VIPs,’ so I’m assuming that’s her pretentious way of identifying her friends and relations. Then, after skipping a couple of lines, she’s put in ‘HH’ but there are only three names. What do you think that stands for? And since the neighbors were invited, where are we listed as guests?”
“You’re right,” Arlene agreed. “This must be only the first page. I’ll go back into the hedge and see if I can find more.”
For Judith, the task of crawling around in the hedge was just short of attacking an Afghani terrorist camp. Arlene, however, was unperturbed.
“How did this get into the hedge in the first place?” Judith asked her neighbor.
Arlene’s face puckered as she considered the question. “I assumed it was with everything else that ended up in the cul-de-sac. Maybe Vivian or Billy had the list to keep track of who came and who didn’t.”
“Maybe,” Judith said. “I wonder if…oh, never mind.” She smiled at Arlene. “Good luck in the hedge. Do you want me to help?”
Arlene was aghast. “With your artificial hip? Goodness, we don’t want more ambulances and medics around here, do we?”
Judith sobered quickly. “No. We do not.”
An hour later, Arlene returned. Judith marveled at her tidy appearance. “How do you manage not to get leaves and twigs and all that other stuff on you?”
Arlene shrugged. “I bonded with the hedge years ago. It’s like part of the family.” She sighed. “But I didn’t find the rest of the list, only Carl’s bedroom slippers and one of our kids’ pacifiers.”
“You mean your grandkids?”
“No. That pacifier’s been there for going on forty years,” Arlene said. “Carl’s slippers have only been missing since 1994.”
Judith pointed to the original guest list that Arlene had left on the counter by the computer. “Do you want this back?”
“I’ve no use for it. Maybe you can figure something out. You are,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes, “the sleuth, after all.”
“Not this time,” Judith asserted. “I’m staying out of it.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Arlene said indulgently. “See you later.” She left via the back door.
Judith stared at the wrinkled and slightly soiled piece of paper for almost a full minute. Useless, she thought. The only names she knew belonged to two of her B&B guests. A couple of others seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps people Joe had mentioned either from the police department or the cop bars. Maybe he’d recognize some of the invitees if they’d crawled out of whatever place they’d occupied in Vivian’s past. But asking him would only reinforce her husband’s conviction that she wanted to get involved. Judith picked up the sheet of paper, walked over to the stainless steel trash can by the hallway door, stepped on the pedal to open the lid—and paused.
“You in some kind of trance?” Phyliss asked as she came into the hall from the basement. “Pastor Goodheal stands like that when he’s about to lay hands on our sick brethren.”
“He does?” Judith said vaguely. “I mean…” She went to the counter and slipped the alleged guest list in a drawer. “Does he cure anyone?”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘cure,’” Phyliss replied. “Two weeks ago Wilma Wallup came to Pastor Goodheal with a terrible rash. He told her—and rightly so—that she couldn’t expect an instant miracle. Her faith was too weak for that. But he sold her some of his Saintly Salve, and last Sunday she showed up looking much better and hardly itching and scratching and wiggling around like she usually does during the sermons.”
Judith tried to keep her expression blank. “He sells medicine?”
“Oh, yes, and it works wonders! I use his Heavenly Heat Liniment for my bursitis all the time.”
“That’s…good,” Judith says. “I assume he doesn’t charge much for his remedies.”
“Cheap enough,” Phyliss replied, taking off her apron. “He’s a real fine Christian businessman. Incorporated, too. His company is called Prophet and Loss.”
“Nice,” Judith murmured. “I take it you’re done for the day?”
“Everything’s slick as a whistle,” Phyliss assured her employer. “I can just make the two-twenty-two bus over on the avenue. That’ll get me to my chiropractor in time.” She put a bony hand to her gaunt cheek. “About this jaundice—what do you think?”
“Ask Pastor Goodheal,” Judith said. “Frankly, you look fine to me.”
“You never know,” Phyliss said darkly. “Your cousin didn’t think so. Of course, she is evil.”
On that note, the cleaning woman departed. Judith decided to try to get Gertrude to open the toolshed door. Respecting her mother’s privacy—and ornery whims—could only go so far. The afternoon was growing warmer. Poor circulation or not, the old lady could still succumb to heat prostration in her closed-up, airless quarters. If she had to, Judith would use her own key to get in.
To her surprise—and relief—the toolshed door was ajar. “Mother?” Judith said, going inside.
“What?” Gertrude’s tone was sharp, though she didn’t look up from the jumble puzzle she was doing.
Judith sat down on the arm of the small divan. “How come you wouldn’t let me in earlier?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“None of your beeswax,” Gertrude shot back. “Is c-l-e-v-e a word?”
“I don’t think so,” Judith replied. “Is there an ‘r’ at the end of it?”
The old lady finally looked at her daughter. “If there was, I’d circle it, squirrel-bait. You’re not as clever as you think you are.”
“Probably not,” Judith allowed. “That being so, can you explain why you wouldn’t let me—or Renie—come inside this afternoon?”
“Renie came when Vi was here,” Judith’s mother said. “How many people can I entertain at once in this packing crate of an apartment?”
“I meant later,” Judith clarified. “Renie came back, remember?”
“Maybe.” Gertrude seemed absorbed in her puzzle.
“Then I knocked on your door to see if you were okay.”
“I was. I am.” Gertrude scowled. “What’s a l-a-t-h?”
Judith frowned. “I think a lath is a wood strip.”
Gertrude snorted. “Showing off because you used to be a librarian. Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”
“You should open at least one window,” Judith advised. “It’s going to be very hot later on this afternoon.”
Gertrude, who was wearing a sweater over her housecoat, cast a withering glance in her daughter’s direction. “Hot?” She tapped her pencil on the card table. “It doesn’t feel hot to—Oops!” The lead broke off. “Drat! This needs sharpening.” She tossed the pencil to Judith, but the old lady’s aim was short; the pencil fell on the floor and rolled under the divan. “Well?” Gertrude said. “Can’t you pick it up?”
“You know I can’t bend that way with my artificial hip,” Judith retorted. “I’ll get your broom.” She went into the kitchenette and grabbed an old broom that looked as if a goat had chewed off half of the straw. “You need a new one,” Judith said.
“This thing’s a wreck.”
“So am I,” Gertrude snapped. “Don’t spend money on some fancy new thingamabob with wheels or whatever they put on brooms nowadays. It works just fine. Ask your loony cleaning woman.”
“No,” Judith said, angling the broom under the divan, “Phyliss brings a decent broom from the house.” After several swipes, the pencil rolled into sight. To Judith’s astonishment, so did three pink rose petals. “Where’d these come from?” she asked her mother.
Gertrude stared at the floor. “I don’t know.” She kept staring.
With great care, Judith retrieved the pencil—and the rose petals. “Where’s your little sharpener?” she inquired, putting the petals into her pocket along with the first two she’d found by Vivian’s gate.
Gertrude fumbled through the clutter of magazines, playing cards, the morning newspaper, and the other items on the card table, including a dish of candy and the tray with her lunch dishes. The old lady’s hands seemed to shake more than usual. “It’s by the icebox,” she murmured.
“Okay.” Judith went back into the kitchenette. The pencil sharpener was nowhere in sight. But there were three empty juice glasses in the small sink. Judith picked one of them up and sniffed. She immediately recognized the odor of whisky.
Judith returned to the sitting room. “The sharpener must be here somewhere,” she said, gesturing at the card table.
“I don’t see it,” Gertrude responded somewhat truculently.
“Did you and Vivian have a drink?” Judith asked, sorting through her mother’s muddle.
“She did. I didn’t.” Gertrude removed a cigarette from the pack she kept in her housecoat pocket. “So what?”
“How come there are three glasses in the sink?”
Gertrude was having trouble lighting her cigarette. She finally put the slim lighter down and took the cigarette out of her mouth. “How do I know? That goofy Phyliss probably drank some of my juice.”
“If she did, she’d wash the glass,” Judith pointed out. “You know she always leaves everything spick-and-span.”
“So she forgot.” Gertrude kept her eyes on her lap.
“I don’t think so,” Judith snapped. “Mother, why won’t you tell me who came to see you today? Besides Vivian, I mean.”
Gertrude glared at her daughter. “You don’t need to know everything I do around here. Beat it.” Her fingers still shaking, she knocked over the candy bowl. Several pieces of candy scattered all over the card table—along with the pencil sharpener. “Ha! There it is! I knew I put it someplace.”
With a resigned sigh, Judith picked up the sharpener and whittled the pencil into a fine point. “Here. Finish your puzzle. I can’t believe you won’t tell me who visited you. What’s the big secret?”
None too steadily, Gertrude unwrapped some kind of chocolate ball. “I’m too old to do a lot of things,” she rasped, “but I can still keep a secret. Now go away and forget about what I do when you’re not watching me like a hawk.”
Judith had no choice. She left the toolshed and walked out into the bright sunlight. It wasn’t unbearably hot, but the rose petals felt as if they were burning a hole in her pocket.
9
Joe was in the kitchen when Judith came back into the house. “Got to leave town,” he announced, turning away from the phone directory he’d been studying.
Judith hoped he was kidding. “Why? Are you afraid of being hounded by the paparazzi now that you’re a media star?”
“No,” Joe responded in a calm voice. “Wirehoser Timber wants me to talk to some of the people who’ve worked with one of their CFO candidates. This guy lives and works in Atlanta.” He shot his wife a mocking glance. “You really think I want to go to Atlanta in August?”
“Well…no,” Judith said, “but the timing seems peculiar.”
Joe set down the can of beer he’d been drinking. “Earning big bucks is peculiar this time of year?”
“How long will you be gone?” Judith asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out by checking airline and hotel reservations,” he murmured. “Two-three days, probably. Got to figure out where this BOD is located.”
“Bod?” Judith echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Bank of Dixie, where this guy works now.” He moved to the computer and started a search. “Ah, perfect. There’s a non-stop Delta flight leaving this evening at nine-fifty. I’ll see if the shuttle can pick me up around seven.” He hurried out of the kitchen and went back upstairs.
The phone rang. “This,” Renie said, “is Bill Jones’s underpaid and underappreciated secretary making a call for He Who Wishes Alexander Graham Bell Had Never Been Born. Ask Joe if he wants to go to the ocean tomorrow and fish for salmon. My phonophobic husband just found out the Kings are in.”
“King Joe here is going to Atlanta tonight,” Judith said in a resigned voice.
“King Joe, or are you Joe King?” Renie uttered a lame little laugh. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. How come he’s going south?”
“Business,” Judith replied. “Something to do with a potential CFO for Wirehoser.”
“That beats having him stay out all night on surveillance waiting for Mr. Cheater to leave the motel after making whoopee with Mrs. Slut,” Renie said. “It pays better, too, I’ll bet. I’ve designed quite a few things for Wirehoser. They don’t stint on spending money for consultants.”
“I suppose that’s a consolation,” Judith said, pacing back and forth from the dining room’s half-door to the hallway off the kitchen. “I just wish he didn’t have to go away now with a murderer on the loose.”
“Do you want me to stay with you while he’s away?” Renie asked. “Bill’s going tomorrow and won’t get back until Friday. Of course I wouldn’t want to leave Clarence by himself. Or Oscar. He gets agitated when Bill’s not around to watch that X-rated TV channel with him.”
“Coz,” Judith said in a warning voice, “no more nonsense about your stupid stuffed animal. At least Clarence is a real bunny.”
“And oh so soft,” Renie murmured. “You should see him in his new swim trunks.”
“Good grief. I’m hanging up now. Stay home. I’m fine. It isn’t as if the house will be empty.”
After disconnecting, Judith removed Herself’s guest list from the drawer. A second reading of the invitees brought no further enlightenment. But there was something familiar about two of the three names listed under “HH”: Barry Henckel and Doug Campbell. What, she wondered, did “HH” stand for? And why did she care?
Judith jumped when the doorbell rang. She assumed it might be the young men from Virginia, but Adelita Vasquez stood on the front porch, smiling brightly. “Señora Buss wishes to speak with Señor Flynn,” she said. “It is very important.”
“Mr. Flynn is about to leave town,” Judith replied. “Tell Mrs. Buss to check in with him when he gets back.”
Adelita’s smile fled. “But he must talk to Señora Buss! She is very upset! She requires his…how do you say? Counsel?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was almost three-thirty. Joe had plenty of time to prepare for his trip, but Judith was reluctant to give Vivian the satisfaction of having her ex do her bidding. “I’ll see if he has time before he leaves for the airport, okay?”
Adelita looked downcast. “Oh, I so hope he can help! Señora Buss wishes to leave town, too.”
“She does?” Judith stared at the young woman. “Why?”
“So much tragedy,” Adelita replied, wringing her hands. “The man in the tree. Pobre hombre! Señora Buss thinks it is a warning.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, “I don’t get it. I thought she didn’t know the man. Why would she consider his murder a warning for her?”
“Fate,” Adelita replied somberly. “Karma, she calls it. Maybe because of her plans to build the condominiums. She has received threats. And Señora Rankers tried to kill her.”
“No, she didn’t,” Judith asserted. “Mrs. Rankers was just…up
set. That’s her way of expressing strong emotion.”
“It is a very frightening way,” Adelita said, her dark eyes narrowing. “Could she not simply say how she feels instead of hitting Señor Buss over the head?”
“Mrs. Rankers only whacked Mr. Buss after he tackled her,” Judith stated firmly.
Adelita stood her ground. “It is still a very bad thing for her to do.” Before Judith could further defend her neighbor, the young woman shifted gears, her expression humble. “Please, please. Ask Señor Flynn to call on Señora Buss as soon as possible. She is in much distress.”
“Maybe she’s sober,” Judith muttered under her breath.
Adelita looked puzzled. “Pardon?”
“Ah…I said that…may bees see over.” Judith forced a smile. “It’s an old family saying. About bees in the garden, going from flower to…never mind. I’ll tell Mr. Flynn that Mrs. Buss wants to see him. I can’t promise he’ll have time before he leaves, though.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Adelita made a little bow and left.
Judith went into the kitchen to use the intercom and pass on the request. Joe’s response was a reluctant grunt.
“Does that mean you will or you won’t?” Judith asked.
“I’ll do it after I finish making the travel arrangements,” Joe answered after a pause. “It’s too late to take the shuttle—they’re all booked. Can you drive me to the airport?”
Annoyed, Judith leaned against the wall and fought the urge to say no. “I can if you don’t mind waiting until after the social hour. I’m not abandoning the guests. If you’re only going to be gone for two or three days, why can’t you take your car and leave it at the airport?”
Joe was aghast. “Leave my classic MG in a public garage? Are you nuts?”
“Okay,” Judith said, “but don’t blame me if I can’t get you there on time. Why don’t you call a cab?”
“A cab?” Joe practically shouted into the intercom. “Do you know what that’d cost?”
“I thought this Wirehoser job was bringing us great wealth,” Judith said quietly. “Won’t they pay for a cab?”
“Not until I submit my expenses,” Joe replied. “Hey, I can’t argue right now. I’ve still got some loose ends to tie up.” He switched off just as the doorbell rang again.