Vi Agra Falls

by Mary Daheim

  “Fair enough,” Mavis agreed. “Tuesdays are usually quiet at the morgue, unlike the weekends or holidays. Oh, people croak, but they’re usually solid citizens dying from natural causes, so they get shipped off to their favorite funeral home. The backyard victim—whose identity is still unknown, according to the cops—was the only newcomer. The preliminary autopsy was performed yesterday, but the complete results won’t be ready for at least a week. The coroner’s office is short-staffed right now because of vacations.” She made a face. “I guess they don’t get called back to the job like TV anchors. Anyway, the initial findings were released late yesterday. Cause of death was strangulation, time of death was somewhere between ten and midnight. He’d been put in cold storage, awaiting identification. This morning a member of the custodial crew noticed somebody hadn’t closed the corpse’s drawer all the way. He took a look and discovered Mr. Nameless was the man who wasn’t there.”

  Judith shuddered. “That’s awful. Why, I wonder?”

  Mavis smiled slyly. “Isn’t that where you come in?”

  Judith shook her head. “I certainly can’t explain it.”

  “Maybe not,” Mavis allowed, “but you can figure out who, and why this guy ended up on the property of your nemesis.”

  Judith looked bleakly at Mavis. “Let’s start with how he was strangled. Was it with the rope that was found in the garden?”

  “The cops haven’t given out that information yet,” Mavis replied. “Why don’t you tell me how Mrs. Buss got so rich?”

  “She married well,” Judith replied, paying no attention to Renie’s groan. “Her wealthy husband died and left everything to her.”

  “That is so unworthy of you!” Mavis cried. “Don’t waste time. I can still get something on the noon news if you start dishing the real dirt.”

  Judith glanced at her watch. It was ten to twelve. “All I have is hearsay. Do you want to get both of us sued?”

  Mavis hesitated. “No. Let’s call it deep background. Give, Judith.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep it simple. Vivian married a rich old coot who owned a big ranch in Oklahoma. He died about a year later. She inherited everything, and then married his son, Billy, a former minor-league baseball player. Billy didn’t want to live in Florida or Oklahoma, so they moved back here to her house in the cul-de-sac. Billy and his brother, Frankie, got zip from their dad. Frankie and his wife, Marva Lou, are staying here at my B&B for a few days. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s quite a bit,” Mavis said. “God, you’ve got it all! Money, sex, violence—now put it together and we’ll both be geniuses.”

  Judith shook her head. “I can’t begin to figure it out until I know who got killed.”

  “Do you know who was at the party?” Mavis inquired.

  Judith could hardly refrain from smiling. “Well—I do have the guest list. I think. What’s it worth to you?”

  Mavis grinned. “Dinner at the Manhattan Grill?”

  Renie slid off the window seat. “For that, I’ll get the list.” She shot both women a dirty look. “I’m getting really bored sitting here like a stuffed dummy. I knew I should’ve brought Oscar. At least he’s amusing.” She stalked out of the parlor.

  “Oscar?” Mavis said with a curious expression.

  “Please.” Judith spoke through tight lips. “Don’t ask.”

  “Nothing to do with the murder?”

  “A long-standing bone of contention,” Judith replied. “Ignore my cousin. You don’t want to get sidetracked.”

  Mavis didn’t pursue the subject. “Have you been questioned by the police?”

  “No.”

  “That’s odd. Aren’t they canvassing the neighborhood?”

  “I assume so,” Judith said, “but Joe had already talked to them. I never saw the body. I don’t know what the man looked like.”

  “Caucasian, five-eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds, late sixties to mid-seventies, balding, black hair gone gray, brown eyes, small scars on left cheek and right arm, and seemingly in good health,” Mavis recited from memory. “No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle.”

  “In other words,” Judith said dryly, “he could be anybody.”

  “Exactly,” Mavis agreed as Renie returned to the parlor.

  “Here,” she said, handing Mavis a sheet of paper. “I scanned the list and made copies.” She gave the original to Judith and kept a copy for herself. “Do you want me to make your mother’s lunch?” she asked. “Or should I go help Phyliss clean the guest toilets?”

  Judith started to apologize, but stopped. “Yes, Mother will be annoyed if lunch isn’t on time. Thanks.”

  Taken aback, Renie glowered at her cousin—and then nodded. “Will do.” She made her exit without another word.

  “Hmm,” Mavis murmured. “I don’t remember Serena as docile.”

  “It’s an act,” Judith said. “She must have her reasons.”

  “No doubt.” Mavis studied the list. “Do you know these people?”

  “Only Frankie and Marva Lou Buss,” she replied. “I think the HH stands for hired help. I also think there was another page. It ends abruptly, especially since the band had at least half a dozen musicians.”

  Mavis shook her head. “This doesn’t mean squat to me. Have you checked out anybody on this list?”

  “No,” Judith admitted, “though I wondered if Doug and Barry might be Vivian’s sons. They’re listed under that HH. There were two waiters in their forties, which would be the right age.”

  Mavis looked incredulous. “You can’t ask?”

  “Of course,” Judith responded. “Joe’s calling me around three our time. I suppose,” she continued, her eyes scanning the other names on the list, “I could ask one of the Busses.”

  “You’d better,” Mavis said, getting out of the chair. “You’re dragging your feet on this one, FATSO.”

  “Don’t use that nickname,” Judith snapped. “You know I hate it, and you also know it’s an incorrect acronym.”

  “So what? You think that as a kid I liked being called Slats and Skinny?” Mavis shot back. “I’d have dropped my maiden name of Lean long ago if I hadn’t already become well known in TV before I married Lance Brodie. See you later…FASTO.”

  The anchorwoman was down the front porch steps before Judith could catch up with her. The KINE-TV technical crew members were by the van, apparently having finished filming anything that might be worth five seconds of viewing time.

  “Let’s hit it,” Mavis called to her colleagues and pointed to Vivian’s house. “We’re going to see the Busses.”

  Good luck, Judith thought as Arlene slipped out from around the end of the hedge. “What’s happening?” she asked, standing at the bottom of the steps.

  “Just routine,” Judith said. “KINE’s anchorwoman was out of town yesterday. Mavis Lean-Brodie’s making up for lost time.”

  “Ah.” Arlene watched the TV group head across the cul-de-sac. “Tell me,” she said, lowering her voice, “is that her real hair?”

  “I think so,” Judith replied.

  “It’s too perfect,” Arlene contended. “It’s got to be a wig. What about her eyes? Are those colored contacts? Is it true that when she’s sitting at that desk giving the TV news she doesn’t wear any pants?”

  “She wears jeans,” Judith said, noticing there was no response to Herself’s doorbell or Mavis’s imperious knock.

  Arlene was also looking in the direction of the Buss house. “Isn’t anyone home over there?”

  “I can’t tell,” Judith said. “I don’t think Billy’s car has arrived yet from Florida. It’s an Aston Martin.”

  Arlene scowled. “A what?”

  “Expensive, that’s all I know. They sold their Cadillac Escalade before they moved.” She paused, watching one of KINE’s crew go around to the side of the house, presumably to try the back door.

  “Show-offs,” Arlene sniffed. “I’d never buy a car I hadn’t heard of.”

  “No,” Jud
ith agreed, though she wasn’t sure what her neighbor meant. Seeing Mavis and her minions return to the sidewalk, Judith turned back to Arlene. “I’m going inside before Mavis nails me again.”

  She hurried into the house. There was no sign of Renie in the kitchen. A strange smell and a dirty saucepan in the sink were evidence that she’d cooked something on the stove. From the back door, Judith saw her cousin carrying a tray into the toolshed. She decided to tend to business, using the phone in the living room to inform Ingrid Heffelman at the state B&B association that a sudden vacancy had opened up.

  “Oh, dear God!” Ingrid howled after Judith identified herself. “I’ve been praying that I wouldn’t hear from you! If that man who got murdered near Hillside Manor was another one of your doomed guests, you’re getting your innkeeper’s license stripped ASAP!”

  “I don’t even know who got killed,” Judith said indignantly. “This time, I had nothing to do with what happened. It’s only a coincidence that the body was found in a neighbor’s yard.”

  “When it comes to you,” Ingrid snarled, “there is no such thing as a coincidence. Some people collect stamps. You collect corpses. I mean it. Another one of your homicidal adventures will shut you down for good. You won’t pass muster with the review board like you did last time after that music guy who was staying at your B&B got whacked.”

  “That’s not what I’m calling about,” Judith said in her most self-righteous voice. “Two guests checked out early, and I wanted to—”

  “Checked out in what way?” Ingrid demanded. “Were they carrying luggage or stuffed into body bags?”

  Judith forced herself to stay calm. “They left in perfect health. I simply wanted to let you know that I have a vacancy, in case anyone asks. That’s what you want innkeepers to do during the busy summer season. How much more professional can I be?”

  “I get all shivery when I’m forced to recommend your House of Horrors,” Ingrid asserted. “I feel as if I’m sending visitors to Iraq.”

  “Knock it off,” Judith snapped. “Your point is made. I’m hanging up now.” Putting the receiver back into its cradle on the cherrywood table, she entered the kitchen as Renie arrived via the back door.

  “Oh,” Renie said innocently, “you’ve finished your gig as a media star. Shall we TiVo the five o’clock news for posterity?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” Judith retorted. “I’ve just gone a couple of rounds with Ingrid Heffelman.”

  “She didn’t ask for your autograph?”

  “Drop it.” Judith opened the fridge. “What did you feed Mother?”

  “My special shrimp dump,” Renie replied. “You had a hard-boiled egg and some shrimp in the refrigerator. She loves it.”

  “She would,” Judith muttered. “My mother may be the only person in the world besides you who can stand to eat that crap.”

  Renie hopped up onto the counter. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t make enough for us, too.”

  “Thank God. I’m having a BLT. You’re on your own.”

  “I’d like a BLT. Make one for me, and I’ll tell you who your mother’s visitor was yesterday.”

  Holding a package of bacon, Judith stared at her cousin. “How did you get that out of her?”

  “By putting a big dose of vodka in her ice tea,” Renie replied. “How else do you think I could get her to eat shrimp dump?”

  Judith couldn’t help but grin at Renie. “Clever, if sneaky. I should’ve guessed you had a reason for being so mild-mannered when I asked you to fix Mother’s lunch. So who was her mystery caller?”

  “A woman named Flora Bunda,” Renie replied, “fleeing the cops.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Renie shook her head. “Oh, no. She was the stripper at Vivian’s party. She never got the chance to take it off because of the brawl.”

  “Why,” Judith asked, setting a tomato and some lettuce on the drain board, “was Flora avoiding the…Flora Bunda?”

  Renie smirked. “Yes, as in floribunda roses. I wondered when you’d twig to that. So to speak.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith said dryly, “you know her real name?”

  “No,” Renie replied ruefully. “I don’t think your mother knows it, either. But at least you know where those rose petals came from. They were a big part of her act, and hence the stage name of Flora Bunda.”

  Judith grimaced. “I don’t recall seeing anybody at the party covered in rose petals.”

  “Partially covered,” Renie corrected. “Your mother said the stripper was no spring chicken. Flora changed into her costume after Herself’s condo shocker. By the time for her act, the band got into it with the guests. She was told to wait until the dust settled, but it never did. She was stuck in the basement because she was to come out that way, bumping and grinding through the garden gate. Her clothes were upstairs.”

  Judith frowned. “So?”

  “Your mother didn’t know why she couldn’t go upstairs to get them,” Renie said. “It sounds as if she spent the night in the basement and didn’t emerge until after the cops showed up.”

  “It makes no sense,” Judith murmured, putting bacon slices into a skillet. “If time of death was between ten and midnight, this Flora person must have been in the basement when the murder occurred. Did she hear anything? See anything? Or was the murder committed off the premises? I’d certainly like to talk to her.”

  “You could call No Nudes R Good Nudes and ask for her.”

  “Funny, Coz,” Judith muttered. “I wonder if Flora stole Mother’s engagement ring.”

  “Her ring is missing?”

  Judith nodded. “Flora couldn’t have come to the toolshed until after I served Mother’s breakfast. The cops showed up long before that. I searched everywhere for the ring, but couldn’t find it. And I certainly didn’t see Flora anywhere. Did Mother say if the stripper was still wearing her costume when she arrived?”

  “Your mother seemed a little confused about that,” Renie replied. “Flora had a blanket over whatever she was or wasn’t wearing.”

  “We’ll have to find out who she is,” Judith said, tearing off lettuce leaves. “Put some bread in the toaster.”

  Renie hopped off of the counter and crossed the kitchen to Grandma Grover’s breadbox. After eighty years, the painted cherries-on-a-stem décor had faded and a faint line of rust showed around the edges. Judith was too sentimental to replace the metal heirloom.

  “Why,” she asked, “did Mother take pity on Flora?”

  Renie sighed. “I suppose Vivian set her up. She’d already been to see your mother. Flora claimed she was avoiding police persecution for taking part in a pro-bingo rally. She gushed about Vivian’s affection and esteem for your good-hearted mother because…blah-blah-blah.”

  “Good grief,” Judith muttered, flipping the bacon. “The bingo bit sounds like something Herself would use to gain Mother’s sympathy.”

  “If Flora swiped your mother’s ring, Aunt Gert may not think so highly of her,” Renie pointed out.

  “True,” Judith agreed. “If she believes Flora took it. If, in fact, Mother simply hasn’t mislaid it.” She finished making the sandwiches. The cousins sat at the kitchen table, temporarily lost in thought. “I feel stymied until I talk to Joe,” Judith finally said. “He can at least tell me who he knew at the party.”

  Renie’s expression was ironic. “And if he pitches a five-star fit because you’re trying to solve the case?”

  “That’s a chance I have to take,” Judith said. “I can’t get anywhere if I don’t know who’s who. And nobody knows who the victim is.”

  “Not true,” Renie remarked. “The killer knows.”

  Judith didn’t argue.

  Three o’clock passed with no word from Joe. Judith was tempted to call his hotel, but she waited. Finally, at three-thirty the phone rang just as Frankie and Marva Lou came through the door. “You have mail,” Judith called before pressing the receiver’s on button.

  “Muggy,
hot, humid,” Joe said without preamble. “Do not complain about our local weather. It’s not that bad by comparison.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” Judith said, and paused. “I hate to, but I must ask a question.” She paused again.

  “Well?” Joe finally said when his wife remained silent. “What?”

  Judith took a deep breath and summoned up her courage. “How many people did you actually know at Herself’s party?”

  “Oh, for—” Joe stopped. “Okay, I knew you couldn’t resist. There’s not a damned thing I can do about it from here in Atlanta, so I might as well cooperate. I suppose I could hire a bodyguard for you.”

  “Renie’s staying with me,” Judith said.

  “Renie’s a little squirt with a bad shoulder and—” Joe hesitated. “Is she in a good mood?”

  “Temporarily,” Judith replied, “but that won’t last. It never does. I rest my case.”

  “Don’t feed her,” Joe urged. “Then I know she’ll be ready for war.”

  “I’ll have to feed her,” Judith said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I don’t want her going to war with me.”

  “Right. Okay,” Joe went on, resigned, “what’s your question?”

  “Which partygoers did you know?”

  “The waiters,” Joe replied. “Vivian’s boys by a couple of husbands before me. They’re not boys anymore, must be in their forties. Barry Henckel and Doug Campbell. I didn’t recognize them at first. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen them. Vivian says they’ve been a lot of help since she moved back. They both work in the restaurant industry.”

  “Their names were familiar,” Judith said. “Do they live nearby?”

  “They do now, though they’ve been all over in the food industry—Paris, Rio, New York, New—”

  “Spare me the details,” Judith broke in.

  “Fine.” Joe’s tone was faintly sarcastic. “Barry lives in town, not far from the zoo.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “Spare me the editorial comments,” Joe grumbled. “I really wish you weren’t—Oh, skip it. There were a couple of cops I knew from way back, Carney Mitchell and Andy Pruitt. Both retired. Andy spends half of the year out north and winters in Arizona. Carney lives east of the lake. I saw some other familiar faces, but couldn’t place them. They may’ve been city or county workers. Some of those guys were regulars at the cop bars back then because we were all headquartered in the same part of town. Vivian had quite a few fans in those days. She was a pretty good torch singer. Maybe she kept in touch with some of them.”