Vi Agra Falls

by Mary Daheim

  22

  Frozen in place under the plum tree, Judith sensed rather than saw the hooded outline emerging through the gloom. Renie, however, had ignored her cousin’s advice. “Yikes!” she cried, swiveling around to peer at the ominous figure. “It’s the Grim Reaper!”

  An exasperated sigh emerged from the dark hood. “What’s going on in there?” Arlene Rankers demanded, gesturing at Vivian’s house. “It sounds like a free-for-all. Is crockery being broken? Or furniture?” She crouched by the cousins. “Should we call the police?”

  Brushing moisture from her face, Judith sank back against the plum tree. “You scared us,” she said, catching her breath and seeing that Arlene was wearing a rain poncho. “I already called. The detectives investigating the case should be arriving any moment.”

  “Those two!” Arlene’s voice dripped with disdain. “They were so rude to me, especially the young woman. I was sure they were going to haul me off to jail before I could finish folding the laundry.”

  Judith winced at the sound of shattering glass. “That bunch is going to be hauled off in ambulances if they don’t stop fighting.”

  She’d barely finished speaking when Billy and Adelita raced out of the house, down the steps, and jumped into the Aston Martin. With a squeal of tires on wet pavement, the sports car headed out of the cul-de-sac and toward Heraldsgate Avenue. Billy had been carrying what looked like a half rack of beer.

  “That figures,” Judith murmured.

  “What?” Arlene’s tone was sharp. “You mean…those two are…what?”

  “Having an affair,” Judith said.

  “Really,” Arlene said disapprovingly, “the way younger people carry on!” She shook her head and sighed. “It’s s-o-o-o romantic.” Briefly, her face looked wistful, but turned serious as she pointed to the street. “Where’s that purple car? It was here a few minutes ago.”

  “Purple?” Judith echoed. “Or lavender?”

  “Lavender, yes.” Arlene nodded several times. “Very pretty.”

  “Vivian’s Bentley arrived from Florida.” Judith slowly straightened up. The departure of Billy and Adelita seemed to have created a lull in the conflict. Voices had been lowered, and household goods were no longer being destroyed. Judith glimpsed someone in her driveway. “It’s Caitlin,” she said, and moved away from the plum tree. “I’d better stop her. She must have heard the commotion, too.”

  “Judith?” Caitlin stopped by the Ericson property. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Judith said softly. “Billy and Adelita just took off in his car. Your mother’s inside with the other Busses.”

  Caitlin reached Vivian’s walkway. “Is Mom okay? I heard an awful row when I started outside to see your mother. Then a car roared off.”

  “You heard enough,” Judith said, meeting Caitlin in front of Vivian’s house. “It’s calmed down in the last few minutes.”

  “I’d better go in,” Caitlin said, her green eyes straying anxiously to Herself’s front door.

  “It might be better if you waited until—” Judith swerved around as she heard the sound of yet another car’s arrival. “Finally,” she said with a sigh of relief. “The tecs.”

  Caitlin looked puzzled. “The…? Oh, you mean the detectives.” She smiled slightly. “I’ve been away from Dad for so long that I’ve forgotten cop lingo.”

  The white sedan was headed for Hillside Manor, but apparently the detectives spotted Judith and Caitlin. They stopped halfway through the cul-de-sac. Griffin, who was driving, rolled down the window.

  “Mrs. Flynn? What’s going on?”

  “For openers, somebody’s getting away with murder,” Judith responded. “Meanwhile, there’s been an awful row at Mrs. Buss’s house. Can we talk somewhere besides on the sidewalk?”

  Griffin maneuvered the car to the curb in front of the Ericsons’ SUV. She got out first, her no-nonsense manner apparent as she strode briskly toward Vivian’s house. Almquist took his time, long legs appearing before the rest of him emerged. Renie and Arlene had come from Mrs. Swanson’s garden, joining Judith and Caitlin on the sidewalk.

  Griffin stood rigidly by Vivian’s walkway. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Judith nodded. “The ruckus stopped when Billy Buss and Adelita Vasquez took off. Mrs. Buss—Vivian—is inside with Frankie and Marva Lou Buss. Obviously, they’ve been released from the hospital.”

  Griffin beckoned to Almquist. “Move it. We’re going in.”

  “You first,” Almquist said, rubbing his left calf. “I got a leg cramp.”

  “Oh, for—!” Griffin swallowed the rest of her invective. “Fine. Why don’t you go back to the car and order a pizza?”

  “Good idea,” Almquist said cheerfully.

  “I’m not serious,” Griffin retorted. “Get over here. Follow procedure. Why did I ever—” Again, she clamped her mouth shut.

  Caitlin stepped up to the female detective. “Let me go in first. I’m Mrs. Buss’s daughter.”

  Griffin expelled an exasperated sigh. “I don’t care if your mother’s the Queen of Sheba. We follow procedure. Move back, please.”

  Reluctantly, Caitlin obeyed. Almquist ambled to the walkway. “Should we draw our weapons?” he asked in a doubtful voice.

  “Yes,” his partner snapped. “This may be a hostile situation. Don’t you know the rules?”

  “Oh, sure,” he replied, “but I don’t know what’s happening.”

  Griffin uttered a snarl-like sound. Taking out her service automatic, she went up the porch stairs to the front door. “Police!” she shouted. “Open up!”

  Watching with obvious anxiety, Caitlin grabbed Judith’s arm. “Please—isn’t there some way I could go in? I…feel so guilty!”

  “Of what?” Judith asked in alarm.

  The younger woman let go of Judith and hung her head. “Of betrayal. Of being disloyal to my mother. You can’t understand.”

  Before Judith could respond, the front door opened. “Put that gun down,” Marva Lou Buss commanded. “We have a truce.”

  Holding weapons aloft, the detectives went inside. The door closed, but Caitlin rushed up to the porch, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

  “That’s it,” Judith muttered. “I’m going in, too.”

  “Oh, crap!” Renie exclaimed. “I’ll have to go with you.”

  “Not without me,” Arlene declared, following Renie, who was already behind Judith as she went up to the door.

  The scene in the living room was deceptively calm. Vivian lay limply on the sofa, gold sandals peeking from under a scarlet, green, and black caftan. Frankie Buss sat in an armchair, looking rumpled and weary. Marva Lou stood in front of the TV, her pallor contrasting with red blotches on each cheek. Evidence of a battle was obvious. The television screen had been shattered, a chair was upended, and a small statue of the Venus de Milo had more than her arms missing. Two lamps had been toppled, a broken beer bottle’s contents stained the carpet, and all three of the alleged participants looked spent.

  “Now what?” Vivian muttered, narrowing her eyes at the newcomers. “Where’s the icebag?” She squinted at the gaudy Murano chandelier, the room’s only illumination still in working condition. “Where are my sunglasses? I can’t stand that glare!”

  Griffin returned her handgun to its holster. “Mrs. Buss,” she said to Vivian, “we understand a domestic disturbance has occurred here.”

  Marva Lou stepped forward, rubbing her upper arm. “A family fracas, that’s all. We’re fine now.”

  Vivian darted a malicious glance at her sister-in-law. “Speak for yourself, you viper.”

  “Now, now,” Frankie began, but was interrupted by Caitlin.

  “I’ll get you an icebag,” she said to her mother, whose right eye was red and swollen. “Maybe I can find your sunglasses.”

  “Don’t bother,” Vivian snapped, groping under her backside. “I’m sitting on them. They’re broken.” She glared at Marva Lou. “You owe me four hundred dollars. They�
�re top of the line.”

  “I owe you?” Marva Lou sneered as Caitlin went to the kitchen. “Ha!”

  Griffin appeared impatient. “Are you people going to act like civilized human beings? If you can’t, we’re done here.”

  “They’re fine,” Almquist said. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” Judith stood by the front door, willing to bar it if the detectives tried to leave. “You’re not done. You’ve only started.”

  Griffin swerved to stare at Judith. “What are you talking about?”

  “I haven’t told you what may be a key to solving this case,” Judith said. “I’m sure the rest of these folks would also like to hear it.”

  “Oh, for—!” Fiercely, Griffin shook her head. “This isn’t amateur night. You’re wasting our time.”

  “No, I’m not,” Judith insisted. “For starters, tell me about Aileen Rosenthal, the woman who claimed the dead body.”

  “I talked to her on the phone,” Griffin replied, looking defensive. “His daughter knew about his visit here, but she was upset because he didn’t return when he said he would. She insisted that was unlike him, so she contacted the local police. The vic’s description fit her father. She came up here, IDed him, and asked to claim the body for burial.”

  Judith cocked her head to one side. “And?”

  “There was some confusion at the morgue after Ms. Rosenthal arrived. Since cause of death had been determined, she was allowed to take the body.” Griffin shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “Not quite,” Judith countered.

  “Oh, shut up!” Vivian cried, taking the icebag from Caitlin, who had returned to the living room. “You’re the biggest meddler I’ve ever met! As for your awful neighbor,” she went on, pointing to Arlene, “get her out of here—and take your cousin Weenie with you.”

  Judith shot Vivian a severe look. “I’m not finished.”

  Marva Lou’s expression was malicious. “I like this. I want to hear it. Go ahead, Mrs. Flynn.”

  Judith turned back to Griffin. “Did you ask Ms. Rosenthal if she had any idea who might have killed her father, or what he was doing at the Buss’s house?”

  “Of course,” Griffin responded. “She insisted he had no known enemies. As for coming to this house, his daughter figured he’d tagged along with some old buddies he’d known when he lived here several years ago. Ms. Rosenthal added that her father had worked for the city and still kept in touch with some of his former colleagues.”

  Judith persisted. “Such as who?”

  “She didn’t know. Once she got back to Culver City, she thought she might find some information about his cronies. An address or phone book, maybe. She promised to let us know.”

  “How,” Judith asked, “did she explain her father having someone else’s wallet in his possession?”

  Griffin made an impatient gesture. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Bear with me,” Judith urged. “I have valid reasons.”

  “It’s fascinating,” Marva Lou put in. “Just like watching TV.”

  Griffin gave the other woman a withering look. “This is real. We don’t promise happy endings.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Frankie murmured.

  Judith kept her eyes on Griffin. “Well? What about the wallet?”

  The female detective took a deep breath. “Ms. Rosenthal guessed he’d found it somewhere. Her father often gambled in Vegas or Laughlin. The wallet was returned to Mr. Brooks in Henderson. There were thirty or forty dollars in it. Mr. Brooks said that was about what he thought he had left when he couldn’t find his wallet at New York, New York.”

  Judith frowned. “At…you mean the casino in Vegas?”

  “Of course.” Griffin looked peeved.

  Vivian, who was holding the icebag to her eye, made a clumsy effort to stand up. “I wish you’d all leave. Now. I must rest.”

  “Good idea,” Almquist said. “I could use some shut-eye, too.”

  Judith ignored him. “So,” she said to Griffin, “you got no leads out of this Ms. Rosenthal, nor did you ever sit down and talk to her.”

  “It hardly seemed necessary,” Griffin asserted. “She was grief-stricken, she’d been twelve hundred miles away when her father was murdered, and she couldn’t think why he’d been killed. We’ll follow up when she’s had time to go through her father’s personal effects.”

  Vivian had managed to stagger over to Judith. “Do I have to ask these cops to throw you and those two other bitches out of my house?”

  “Yes,” Renie said. “I’d kind of like that.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Arlene declared. “I’ve never been thrown out of anybody’s house in my life, and I’m not starting now. It’s—it’s unneighborly, that’s what it is.”

  Judith hadn’t budged from her stance by the front door. She turned suddenly as a noise outside caught her attention. The doorknob was moving. With a sense of anticipation, she stepped aside.

  Terri walked across the threshold but froze in place as she saw the gathering in the living room and the wreckage that was evidence of a brawl. “Oh! What’s all this?”

  “They’re just leaving,” Vivian said, bracing herself on the upended chair. “Fix yourself a drink. Get one for me.” Her good eye blinked several times. “Wait—why are you here? I thought you’d gone away.”

  “Not yet,” Terri replied, leaving the door open. “Come on in,” she said to someone on the porch. “Mom’s having a party.”

  To Judith’s surprise, Mandrake Stokes entered, smiled, and removed his hat. What amazed her even more was the couple that followed him into the living room. An almost unrecognizable Wilbur and Patrice Griggs arrived, wearing Armani suits and smug expressions.

  “Hello, Mrs. Flynn,” Mrs. Griggs said to Judith. “Hello, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to Vivian. “Two Mrs. Flynns in the same room? Or only one?” Her gaze fastened on Vivian.

  “Oh, no! No!” Vivian cried, and fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  Caitlin was the first to rush to Vivian’s assistance. Arlene, ever helpful, was right behind her. “Just let her come round,” Arlene advised. “She’s obviously had a terrible shock.”

  “It serves her right,” Terri declared, standing over her mother’s unconscious form like a victorious boxer. “She’s responsible for my father’s death.”

  The detectives stared at Terri. “What are you talking about?” Griffin demanded. “Who are you? Who’s your father? Mr. Di Marco?”

  “Not exactly,” Terri replied. “His real name is Johnny Agra. Given name, Carlo Giovanni Agravecchio. He had it changed to John Charles Agra after he dropped out of high school.”

  Vivian was starting to stir as Caitlin spoke to her softly and put an arm under her mother’s shoulders to prop her up. “Could you get me some water, Mrs. Rankers?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Arlene started to hustle off to the kitchen, but paused after a couple of steps. “Don’t any of you dare say anything until I get back! Or else talk louder!”

  Griffin had turned to Almquist. “Get us some backup. This case is a mess. Call in the patrol officers, or whoever can get here ASAP.”

  Almquist seemed embarrassed. “I left my cell in the car. Can I borrow yours?”

  “Oh, for—” Griffin once again stopped short. “Here,” she said, shoving her phone at him. “Do you know how to dial the damned thing?”

  “I think so.” Looking forlorn, he wandered out to the front porch.

  Vivian opened her good eye just as Arlene returned with the water.

  “I want to put my mother to bed,” Caitlin said, looking up at Griffin. “May I?”

  “Go ahead,” Griffin replied. “She’s not much help to us at the moment, and she’s taking up a lot of space in this shambles.”

  Caitlin and Arlene managed to get Vivian to her feet. Herself didn’t complain about her erstwhile enemy coming to her aid. In fact, she said nothing at all, merely moaning softly as she was half dragged, half carried to her bedroom.


  Judith had sidled up to the Griggses, who seemed to be on friendly terms with Frankie and Marva Lou. Mandrake Stokes, hat in hand, stood off to one side, looking pleased with himself.

  “Excuse me,” Judith interrupted. “Mr. and Mrs. Griggs, who are you? Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “I have to make a guess. Mrs. Griggs, your family called you Patsy, and your maiden name is Buss.”

  Patrice Griggs evinced surprise. “How did you guess?”

  “I didn’t,” Judith said. “Everything about you checked out—corn farmers from Iowa. I recalled Marva Lou talking about siblings, and how they could all turn out to be different from each other. Billy was the restless sort, Frankie liked to stay home. She ticked off those qualities along with a third, whose nature was in-between. Marva Lou said, and I quote, ‘my own sister.’ It occurred to me that in the context of what she’d been saying, that suggested she was differentiating her sister from someone else’s. Her husband’s would be the most obvious. What also struck me was a note my cousin found in Frankie and Marva Lou’s room that read, ‘Could Potsy help?’ That’s what she told me, but I realized—”

  “Hey,” Renie broke in, “I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

  “Exactly,” Judith agreed. “Anyway, it didn’t make sense because Potsy—your father—was dead. ‘Could’ implied that Potsy was still alive. I knew your husband called you Trish and that your first name is Patrice. It occurred to me that you might also be known as Patsy, but abandoned the nickname after you got married. I also remembered something Frankie mentioned about Billy and his sporting goods store going bust. He said that Billy might have done better with the farm, which I thought meant the Double UB. It occurred to me later that no one ever referred to Potsy’s spread as a farm. It was always a ranch. The only farm owners involved were Mr. and Mrs. Griggs. I figured Potsy had bought it for his daughter.”

  “My, my,” Trish Griggs said sardonically, “aren’t you clever?”

  Her husband tapped his wife’s arm. “Hold on, Trish. I think this lady wants to help, not hinder.”

  Mrs. Griggs looked wary. “I don’t trust any of these people except Mr. Stokes. And maybe my brother and his wife, since our interests are the same as theirs.” She looked at Frankie and Marva Lou. “I hadn’t seen either of my brothers in almost thirty years. I am the eldest, and as kids, our parents spoiled both of those boys. I went to the University of Northern Iowa in Cedar Falls, where I met Wilbur. We visited Pa and Ma a few times, but Billy and Frankie were never around. When Ma died, I couldn’t go to the funeral—I’d had gallbladder surgery and was laid up for over two weeks with an infection I’d gotten in the hospital. I used to be chubby, and my hair had gone gray, so when we got here neither of them seemed to recognize me.”