Vi Agra Falls

by Mary Daheim

  “What’s all this racket?” Gertrude demanded. “I’m trying to watch Oprah.” She jabbed a finger at Caitlin. “I know you.” Suddenly she stood stock-still and bit her lip. “Or maybe I don’t.” The old lady stepped back and slammed the door.

  “Mrs. Grover,” Caitlin murmured. “I haven’t seen her since your wedding. She must be really getting up there.”

  “She’s getting…older,” Judith conceded, allowing Caitlin and Frankie to walk ahead of her. “She’s sometimes forgetful. I’ll take you to visit her at a more…ah…convenient time.”

  Marva Lou wasn’t anywhere on the main floor. Judith assumed she’d taken the bottle up to her room. Frankie didn’t ask after his wife’s whereabouts, but collapsed on one of the sofas.

  “I could uthe a drink,” he murmured. “Got any brandy?”

  “Yes, I’ll get it after I tend to your scratches,” Judith replied. “They look superficial.”

  “Call a dentith,” Frankie yelped as Judith headed for the guest bathroom. “I got to thee one today.”

  Judith paused under the arch between the living room and entry hall. “It’s almost five o’clock. You’ll have to wait until morning.” She kept going, ignoring a few choice cuss words from Frankie.

  After Judith had quickly assembled the necessary first-aid items, she went into the dining room. Caitlin was already there.

  “Maybe I should go,” she murmured. “Or do you need help? You must have other guests staying here.”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, pouring an inch of brandy into a snifter, “except for the unexpected vacancy, I’m full up. Why don’t you get your things from your mother’s house and come back? I’m okay as long as I can get Renie out of the garage.”

  Caitlin looked uncertain. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She hesitated. “Is she all right?”

  “Renie?” Judith was surprised by the question. “Yes. That is, as all right as she ever was.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Caitlin’s fair skin flushed slightly. “It’s the rabbit and the ape and…Bill. It seems a…little…odd.”

  “It may strike some people that way,” Judith said, forcing a smile.

  “Of course.” But Caitlin didn’t sound convinced. “With your mother in the toolshed and your cousin in the garage…Never mind. I’ll collect my luggage now.”

  Great, Judith thought, trudging into the living room. Caitlin probably figures her father married into a bunch of lunatics. I hope she doesn’t pass that along to Vivian.

  “Here you are,” Judith said, handing the snifter to Frankie. She set the antiseptic, cotton balls, and some Band-Aids on the coffee table. “Shall I take care of those scratches, or will you?”

  Frankie sipped brandy and shook his head. “Go away.”

  “Sure.” Judith was only too glad to comply. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a scattering of glass near the baby grand piano. “My Lalique mermaid vase!” she cried, and remembered the sound of glass breaking just before Frankie and Doug had erupted through the French doors. “That was a Christmas present from Renie and Bill!”

  Frankie just kept sipping.

  Judith shot him a dirty look, snatched up a copy of the Wall Street Journal from the coffee table, and hurried over to the piano. She was gingerly picking up pieces of precious glass and placing them on the newspaper when Renie came through the French doors.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Your vase,” Judith said between clenched teeth. “Those idiots broke it.” She didn’t care whether Frankie heard her or not.

  “No!” Renie grabbed a bronze bookend shaped like a buffalo from the shelf near the piano. “Let me at ’em!” she yelled.

  Judith blocked her path. “Please. Not now. I’m really upset.”

  Renie sighed heavily and put the bookend back on the shelf. “Okay. But only for your sake will I forgo violence.” She bent down and gathered up the three purple gladioli that had reposed in the vase. “The carpet’s wet. I’ll get some rags. How much are the Busses paying for their stay?” she asked, raising her voice.

  “What?” Judith looked at Renie. “So far, not including tonight, three hundred and twenty dollars.”

  “That vase cost three-sixty plus tax,” Renie said loudly, marching past Frankie. “Charge them double.”

  “I’m thuing!” Frankie shrieked. “I’m calling the polithe!” He struggled to his feet, rammed against the coffee table, and knocked over the brandy snifter. It fell to the floor and rolled onto the hearth, where it smashed into a hundred pieces. Frankie paid no attention and staggered to the phone on the cherrywood table.

  “Hold it!” Judith yelled, moving as fast as she could to prevent Frankie from making the call. “Okay, I won’t charge you double. I won’t charge you at all if you don’t sue me instead of the jerks who knocked you around. Sit down. I’ll see if I can get you in at our dentist’s tomorrow.”

  To Judith’s surprise, Frankie backed off. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Thorry about the thnifter. Got another one? I could uthe more brandy.”

  “Wait until I talk to the dentist’s office,” Judith said, dialing the number from memory. “They’re about to close for the day.”

  Renie returned while Judith was arranging for a nine-thirty appointment. “What the hell,” Renie demanded of Frankie when she saw the glass on the hearth, “did you bust up now? You’re a one-man weapon of mass destruction. Or should I say glass destruction?” Shaking her head, she went over to the piano and used the rag to soak up the spilled water.

  “You’re set,” Judith said, hanging up the phone and turning to Frankie. “I’ll give you Dr. Fortuna’s address. His office is on top of Heraldsgate Hill, across from Falstaff’s Grocery.”

  “Done,” Renie announced, standing up. “Don’t go barefoot here, though. I’ll take care of the hearth. You tend to the patient.”

  Reluctantly, Judith went back to the dining room to get more brandy. The California foursome had just returned from wherever they’d been all day and were heading upstairs.

  “Now,” Judith said, after handing Frankie his refill and sitting down on the other sofa, “why don’t you tell me about the bad blood between you and Vivian Buss’s sons?”

  “Why do you think?” Frankie retorted, with a hostile look. “They want their greedy mother to give them thome of her money. It ought to belong to Billy and me. I don’t figure Pappy made that new will without thome kind of…whath the word? Coerthion?”

  “Coercion,” Judith murmured, watching out of the corner of her eye to see how Renie was faring with the hearth cleanup. “Why do you think that?”

  “Why do you think Vi married an old guy like Pappy?” he snarled.

  Judith nodded halfheartedly. “I understand, although Vivian isn’t as young as she claims.”

  Renie got up from the hearth, holding the pieces of shattered glass in a rag. “She sure isn’t. A long time ago, I was ten years younger than she was. Now I’m ten years older. I’m no good at math, but that doesn’t make sense even to me.” She edged past Judith and left the room.

  “I got fifteen years older,” Judith said under her breath. “Surely,” she went on, looking at Frankie, who was drinking his brandy rather fast, “your father’s wealth provided for you and Billy over the years.”

  “Pappy wath kind of tightfithted,” Frankie replied. “He did get me a hardware buthineth.” He shrugged. “I done okay, no matter what Marva Lou might tell you. Billy wath a ballplayer, but not very good. Played on the team Pappy owned. Couldn’t field a ball for thour owl thweat. Nickname was ‘Blunderbuth.’ Tried out in thpring training with the Tampa Bay Devil Rayth in Florida and got cut right off the bat—tho to thpeak. Thath why he hated Florida. Pappy got him a thporting goodth thtore back home. It went broke. Maybe Billy could’ve handled the farm. Or not.”

  “Was your father a widower?” Judith asked.

  Frankie nodded. “Yep. Ma died ten yearth ago. Wonderful woman. Never thought Pappy’d get married again. But he did, d
angit.” His eyes filled with tears. “Never been the same after Ma went.”

  Despite the damage Frankie had contributed to, Judith’s natural sympathy welled up inside. His thin hands were trembling slightly as he held the brandy snifter, and a tear rolled down each cheek. Maybe he was crying because he missed his mother—and his father. Or, she thought, his lost inheritance.

  “Excuse me,” she said, getting up. “I have to prepare the appetizers for the social hour.”

  Frankie merely snuffled. Judith joined Renie in the kitchen.

  “Now what?” Renie inquired, making drinks for herself and Judith. “Is Frankie moved to tears, or is this the Age of Snivelry? After two sentences of that lisp, I thought I’d go nuts.”

  “Don’t be so harsh,” Judith said. “Frankie has gotten a raw deal. So has Billy, though as long as he can put up with Vivian, he’ll be okay. It does make me wonder, though.”

  “About what?” Renie asked, handing Judith her Scotch.

  After taking a sip of her drink, Judith set her glass on the counter and removed a block of sharp cheddar from the fridge. “First, we don’t know the victim’s identity. That’s crucial, and yet it strikes me as some kind of…oh, I hate to use the word, but it’s a clue. The dead man had to be known to somebody at the party.”

  “Or known to the neighbors in the cul-de-sac?” Renie suggested.

  “I doubt it,” she said, grating cheese into a bowl. “Can you think of anybody in this close-knit neighborhood who’d kill someone?”

  “It did happen once,” Renie reminded Judith, referring to the previous murder in the cul-de-sac. “All human beings are said to have the capacity to kill in certain situations.”

  “I don’t think this murder was caused by desperation or in self-defense.” Judith used the back of her hand to wipe perspiration off her forehead. The temperature had risen, inching toward ninety. “Hey, get me two cans of Dungeness crab from the pantry. Thanks.”

  “Keep talking,” Renie said, moving down the hall. “I can hear you.”

  But Judith didn’t respond. The young men from Virginia had entered the house and were going upstairs. Not wanting to raise her voice lest they hear their innkeeper discussing motives for murder, she waited until her cousin was back in the kitchen.

  “Go on,” Renie urged.

  “We’ll keep the neighbors out of this,” Judith said. “A couple of people have mentioned that Vivian was a more likely victim. On the surface, that makes sense. But who would benefit from her death?”

  “You,” Renie responded with a grin.

  “Get serious.” Judith opened the cans of crab.

  “Billy?” Renie offered, her expression serious. “This is a community property state. He’d get everything unless Vivian’s made some other arrangements or they signed a prenup.”

  Judith shook her head. “The point is, she’s not the victim. Still, her sudden wealth must be tied into the motive for killing Mr. Mystery. The killer—let’s assume it was the killer who snatched the body from the morgue—didn’t want the victim IDed. Why? If I knew that, I might understand the motive and have a better chance to figure out whodunit.”

  Renie sipped her bourbon and looked thoughtful. “That angle makes sense. What about blackmail? What if Herself killed—what was the old coot’s name? Poopsy?”

  “Potsy,” Judith corrected her cousin. “No. Vivian’s got a lot of faults, but she wouldn’t kill an old guy whose number was coming up anyway. Unless,” she went on, “she…um…wore him out.”

  “So he died happy,” Renie mused. “Thus, my blackmail theory is kaput. Okay, what do we know for certain about the victim?”

  “He was late sixties, early seventies, and in good health,” Judith replied. “Average height, weight, brown hair going gray. Nothing extraordinary—unfortunately.”

  “Was he at the party?”

  “No,” Judith said. “Joe would’ve mentioned that if he had been. The cops obviously came up empty.”

  “So he shows up after the party,” Renie murmured. “When? You told me it broke up early. The murder took place between ten and midnight. Who stayed on besides Flora Bunda? The two half-brothers?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Judith said.

  “If,” Renie said slowly, “the victim had stolen ID from a guy in Nevada, maybe he came from there. If so, he had a purpose.”

  Judith nodded. “Yes.” She stopped in the middle of peeling a ripe avocado. “Herself never lived in Vegas or anywhere else in Nevada. She hauled Joe there for the quickie wedding. But that doesn’t mean that some of the men she’s known—and the list is long—haven’t a Nevada connection. Maybe,” she continued, lowering her voice as she heard the honeymooners in the entry hall, “it’s time to call Uncle Al.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Judith replied, “I just remembered that some mail came for a J. C. Agra a while ago. The substitute carrier left one letter at the Rankerses’ and the other one here.”

  “You told me about that,” Renie said. “You think those letters were for Herself’s first husband? Is Johnny Agra still around?”

  Judith’s expression turned grim. “I think maybe he’s not. At least, not as of the last few days. I’m wondering if he’s the murdered mystery man.”

  13

  Uncle Al answered the phone on the fifth ring. “What’s the score?” he asked in his typical fashion. “I see somebody else cashed in his chips by your place the other night. What’s the morning line on whether or not you’ll nail the killer? I’ll take five-to-one. It’s money in the bank.”

  Judith was accustomed to Uncle Al’s sporting attitude. “How come,” she asked, “you’re not at the track today?”

  “Bunch of nickel nags running,” Uncle Al replied. “No big stakes races on a Wednesday. Maidens, claiming, glue-factory futures. Why? You want a tip? I’ve got one for tomorrow in the sixth. Little Juice, probably going off at eight-to-one.”

  “No, thanks, Uncle Al,” Judith said. “I’m calling about an old pal of yours, Johnny Agra. Is he still…around?”

  “Johnny Agra,” Uncle Al said in a musing tone. “No, Johnny’s long gone. After his restaurant folded years ago, I heard he died or moved out of town. L.A., maybe. Same thing, as far as I’m concerned. Wasn’t he married to Joe’s ex at one time?”

  “The very same,” Judith said, watching Renie finish preparing the guests’ vegetable platter. “The dead body was found in her backyard.”

  “No kidding!” Uncle Al chuckled. “The TV news left out the name of the owners. They just said a corpse had been found outside of a home on Heraldsgate Hill, and then the body was stolen out of the morgue. Helluva note. You’re not even safe after you’re dead these days.” He chortled. “It wasn’t Johnny, was it?”

  “Not if he’s been dead for years,” Judith replied. “You’re sure about that?”

  “You mean, would I bet on it?” Uncle Al paused. “Depends on the odds. Could be he had a reason to disappear. Still, if he was alive, I might’ve heard something about him. I’ve got connections.”

  “Oh, yes,” Judith said, glancing at Renie. “You have connections.”

  “Not to mention,” Renie murmured, “a hotline to every gambling site on-and offshore on the planet.”

  “I was just curious,” Judith went on. “Thanks. And good luck with that hot tip tomorrow.”

  She hung up. “Uncle Al thinks Johnny may be dead. He’d bet on it, if the odds were good.”

  “Uncle Al would bet on anything,” Renie pointed out. “He put a hunsky on how long Cousin Trixie’s third marriage would last. And won. Four years, seven months, a record for her at the time.”

  “I know. It was a family pool. I missed by two years.”

  “So,” Renie said, adding one more radish to the vegetable platter, “you’re at a dead end—so to speak—with Johnny Agra.”

  “Apparently.” Judith put the crab, cheddar, and mayonnaise mixture into puff pastry shells.

  Looking pensive, Renie
sipped her bourbon. “If Johnny died here, the local papers would’ve run his obit. He was well known in the restaurant trade. Want me to check him out to see if he checked out?”

  “You mean on the computer?” Judith hesitated. “Go ahead. But if he died years ago, won’t you have to pay to get into the archives?”

  “It’s a business expense, and therefore tax deductible,” Renie pointed out. “I can give it a try.” She went to the computer.

  Judith started to turn on the oven, but decided that was a bad idea. The temperature felt as if it already must be ninety in the kitchen. Instead, she put the crab puffs in the microwave. “Any luck?” she asked.

  “No. I can only go back a year, and I’m too inept to figure out this site.” Renie signed off. “We could go to the courthouse tomorrow.”

  “It’s not worth it,” Judith said, then clapped a hand to her head. “I forgot to call Joe back about Caitlin! My mind’s turned to mush!” She snatched up the receiver from the counter and dialed Joe’s cell.

  Drink in hand, Renie wandered out of the kitchen. Judith held her breath while the phone rang four times. Just when she thought Joe wasn’t picking up, she heard his voice—barely.

  “I can’t hear you very well,” she all but shouted. “Where are you?”

  “I’m eating in…” He faded away.

  “Call me back!” Judith said loudly, and clicked off.

  Renie returned to the kitchen. “Frankie passed out,” she announced. “Or else he’s dead.”

  “Don’t say things like that!” Judith snapped. “Wake him up, get him moving before the other guests come down to socialize.”

  “Can’t,” Renie replied. “A visitor is approaching.”

  Judith stared at Renie. “Who?”

  “A middle-aged man dressed in a courtly manner.” She paused as the doorbell sounded. “Shall I let him in?”

  “I’ll do it,” Judith retorted, wondering what her cousin meant by a courtly manner. “If Joe calls back, tell him to hang on.”

  At the front door, Judith realized Renie’s description was apt. The handsome, silver-haired man with a neatly trimmed Van Dyke wore a cream-colored summer suit, a navy blue tie with a crisp white shirt, and, upon seeing Judith, doffed his navy blue straw fedora. “Mrs. Flynn?” he inquired softly.