Here Comes the Bribe

by Mary Daheim

“Don’t complain,” Renie advised. “You know Joe will tell you what these bozos had to say for themselves.”

  “It’s not the same,” Judith asserted. “Men aren’t as attuned to nuance and body language.”

  “True,” Renie agreed rather absently, as if the statement wasn’t worthy of further comment. “I don’t suppose you have a prime suspect?”

  Judith glared at her cousin. “This is where, if I happened to be a Brit, I’d say, ‘It’s early days.’”

  Renie grinned. “Or early daze, as in—”

  “I get it,” Judith interrupted. “I should start making Mother’s lunch. It’s going on noon. And no, I’m not making you anything. What time did you eat breakfast?”

  Renie made a face. “About an hour ago?”

  “That’s what I figured.” Judith went over to the refrigerator. “It’s a shame Mother keeps her eyes glued on her TV. She might’ve seen something in the backyard.”

  “Like what? Millie going ker-flop?”

  “Well . . .” Judith paused before removing a bologna package from the refrigerator. “I don’t imagine there was much to see, really.”

  “Go back over what you told me about Millie and the orange juice,” Renie urged.

  “I’m not sure it was orange juice,” Judith admitted. “We keep at least three kinds in the fridge—orange, tomato, and cranapple. Of course the residue in the glass would show which of the three it was.”

  Renie looked thoughtful. “Allergies, food restrictions,” she murmured. “I know all about the allergy part from my younger years. I assume Millie had a list of the verboten items?”

  “She showed it to Joe.” Judith scowled at her cousin. “What are you implying?”

  “Well . . .” Renie paused. “I can only judge from my own experience with allergies. Even though I’ve outgrown some of the tougher ones like wheat, milk, vegetable oil, eggs, I still have the nut and peanut problem. Thus I’m very careful about what I eat when I don’t know all the ingredients.”

  “Are you saying that Millie poisoned herself?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Judith sighed. “It’d be a weird way to commit suicide.”

  “Where’s that list she showed Joe?”

  “Millie must’ve taken it back to the room,” Judith replied, moving away from the table to look out through the dining room and into the hall. “I haven’t heard the cops come down yet. I’ll try to waylay them before they leave.”

  Renie shook her head. “I’ll do that now and save you a trip upstairs. Besides,” she added with a grin, “I enjoy seeing a crime scene almost as much as you do.”

  “That does it!” Judith exclaimed. “I’m coming with you.”

  The two officers had just come out of Room One when the cousins reached the top of the stairs.

  “Mrs. Flynn?” the younger and the shorter of the two said—and saw Judith nod. “The room’s off-limits until it’s been thoroughly processed. We have someone on the way to do that now.”

  “Okay,” Judith conceded. “Wait—where did Mr. Schmuck go? I assume this was the room he occupied with the deceased.”

  “No idea,” the other patrolman replied. “Maybe to one of the other rooms up here?”

  “Maybe,” Judith muttered. “Did you find anything of interest?” she asked in a brighter tone.

  The older, taller cop frowned. “Such as?”

  “A sheet of paper,” Judith answered. “It was a list of dietary needs.”

  Both policemen shook their heads. “Sorry,” the second cop replied. “Not even in the wastebasket. Did you need it?”

  “My guests apparently do,” she said. “Maybe it’ll turn up somewhere later.”

  The cops both nodded, touched their regulation hats, and headed downstairs. Judith remained in place.

  “You wouldn’t,” Renie whispered.

  “It’s my house,” Judith asserted.

  “No, it’s not. It belongs to your mother. She inherited it from our grandparents.”

  “Well, it’s my B&B,” Judith declared. “I have a license to prove it.”

  “A license to snoop, you mean. Oh, go ahead,” Renie said, sitting down on the divan next to the stair railing. “I’ll stay out here and read the dog-eared magazines you leave for your guests.”

  “They’re current!” Judith snapped. “That Vanity Fair just came out yesterday. I bought it at Falstaff’s grocery store.”

  “Hunh,” Renie grumbled. “I guess it was the picture of Charlie Chaplin on the cover that fooled me.”

  Judith ignored the comeback and went into Room One. She wished she’d worn gloves, but knew better than to touch the glass on the nightstand. At least, she thought, any residue would yield whichever juice Millie had poured for her husband.

  But the glass was empty except for a tiny bit of water at the bottom. Someone—Rodney or Millie?—had emptied the glass and rinsed it out. Why? To get rid of any poison that might have been added?

  She studied the rest of the room. Like all of the accommodations at Hillside Manor, the furnishings were rather sparse but comfortable. There was a double bed, a side chair, a dresser with a mirror above it, a wastebasket, and the nightstand. The bed was unmade, of course. Judith opened the closet. Millie’s crimson robe immediately caught her eye. She checked the deep pockets, but came up empty. The only items on the floor were a pair of men’s dress shoes and a pair of women’s three-inch black patent leather pumps. The open suitcase on a stand at the end of the bed was tempting, but Judith heard voices in the hall. Maybe the crime-scene detectives had arrived. She felt panicky until Renie opened the door and peeked inside.

  “Rodney wanted to get something out of the room,” she said in a low voice. “I told him he’d have to wait. But I think I heard the ’tecs arrive. You’d better come out.”

  Judith was forced to comply. “Where did Rodney come from?” she asked, making sure the door was firmly closed.

  “Room Two,” Renie informed her. “I sent him back there. Who’s staying in that room?”

  “The would-be bridal couple,” Judith answered. “But Belle and Dr. Sophie went off to the spa. I’ve no idea where Clark—the nerd—is, but he’s probably not sure where he is either.”

  Clayton Ormsby was coming up the stairs. “My blog today will be about police brutality,” he announced. “I’ve been badgered, belittled, and bedeviled by that precinct captain. Who does he think he is?”

  “Woodrow Wilson Price,” Judith said sharply. “He’s a very intelligent officer.”

  Clayton now seemed faintly bewildered along with all the other words that began with a B. “Woodrow Wilson . . . I’ve already blogged about him. He couldn’t make up his mind about the Great War. Maybe I’ll take on Neville Chamberlain instead. At least that’s not quite as dated for my readership.” He wandered off toward Rooms Five and Six.

  “His readership must be in their nineties,” Renie murmured as the cousins headed down the stairs. “That figures.”

  They were heading for the kitchen when the crime-scene detectives arrived. Judith paused, but kept going.

  “You aren’t going to grill them before they go upstairs?” Renie inquired.

  “No. What’s the point?” Judith glanced at the schoolhouse clock. “It’s almost noon. I’d better finish up Mother’s lunch or she’ll pitch a fit.”

  “And I should head home,” Renie said. “I’ve got a new graphic-design project from the county. Where’d I put my purse?”

  “By the chair next to you at the kitchen table?” Judith suggested. “I think you . . .” She stopped, seeing Renie collect the big pewter-gray satchel that looked as if she could carry most of her household belongings inside. “I didn’t see Millie’s purse in Room One.”

  Renie gazed at her cousin. “Did she have one?”

  “Yes, it was red patent leather. Didn’t you notice it last night?”

  “I was too busy trying to figure out how you could have Rodney declared insane on the spot,” Renie replied. “D
id you ever see his so-called proof about being your son?”

  Judith looked chagrined. “No. That sort of flew by me. Damn. Maybe whatever alleged document he had was in the suitcase. I should’ve checked it out. Are you going out the back way? If so, I can hurry and finish Mother’s lunch plate so you can deliver it to her.”

  Renie shrugged. “Did she see anything from the toolshed, such as Millie dropping dead?”

  “Frankly,” Judith said, adding potato chips and a sliced apple to the sandwich plate, “Mother rarely looks outside. She stays glued to the TV when she isn’t doing her jumble puzzles or checking out the daily bridge hands or being talked to death on the phone by your mom.”

  “They have their own ways of getting under our skin,” Renie remarked. “Mothers can do that, no matter how old their children are. But you’ve got to admit, they make us feel young.”

  “At least young-er,” Judith pointed out. “It’s been a long time since I hopped around on my pogo stick.”

  Renie took the plate from Judith. “Ever think that’s why you had to have your hip replaced?”

  Judith turned severe. “The surgeon told me it was congenital.”

  “It sure wasn’t congenial,” Renie said over her shoulder as she started down the hall. “But then I never had your sense of daring. You’re the one who likes to take chances.”

  “Not this time,” Judith shot back.

  But by the time she’d said it, Renie had closed the back door.

  Chapter 5

  Judith managed to catch Joe in the front hall right after Dr. Sophie had returned from the salon and been ushered into the parlor. “How’s it going?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  Joe looked disgusted. “Bunch of bilge. Nobody knows anything. We’ve only got Pot-Head and Not-Quite-All-There Belle left to interrogate. Maybe after we’re done with them you can rustle up some lunch for Woody and me.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Judith drawled. “You can both have soup.” She didn’t wait for her husband’s answer, but went through the front door.

  And kept going, along the walk, around the giant hedge, and straight to Rankerses’ garbage can. Lifting the lid, she spotted a plain brown paper bag on top. She opened it and saw shreds of damp paper. Was this a list of Millie’s dietary needs? But the pulpy remains told her nothing. Judith wondered if the police lab could do anything to reveal what words had been on the paper. Following her whim—and her curiosity—she picked up the bag and returned to Hillside Manor.

  It was going on one o’clock when Joe and Woody finally emerged from the parlor. They both looked weary.

  “Hopeless,” Joe said, slumping into a kitchen chair.

  “Obtuse,” Woody murmured, leaning against the counter by the fridge.

  “Or cunning?” Judith offered.

  Neither man commented. Judith persevered. “Are they free to leave?”

  Woody shook his head. “Not until after the autopsy is concluded. That could take until midweek, maybe longer.”

  “They can’t stay here past tomorrow night,” Judith said. “I’ve got guests coming in Monday.”

  Joe frowned. “Can’t you send the newcomers to other B&Bs?”

  Judith gave him another dirty look. “And have to explain why to Ingrid Heffelman? Forget it!”

  “Hey,” Joe said, reaching out to take his wife’s hand. “Woody’s asked the patrol officers to stay close by. At least they’ll be able to keep the media out of our hair. So far, the press people don’t know there’s been anoth—an unusual occurrence here.”

  Offering Woody a halfhearted smile, Judith thanked him. “It’s just that . . .” She stopped to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know how I find myself in these homicide predicaments.”

  Woody’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “The only way I can explain it is that somehow there’s an aura around you. It’s like traffic accidents. Why do so many occur at the same intersections or parts of the freeways? It’s a matter of how drivers respond or don’t respond to certain road conditions. They’re either inattentive or their vehicles aren’t safe or they’re reckless and thrive on danger because they’re curious and risk takers by nature, so they . . .” He winced. “Maybe I should’ve quit while I was ahead.”

  Judith wished he’d quit before he’d started.

  But when Woody was about to leave, she gave him the paper bag she’d found in the Rankerses’ trash. “It may mean nothing,” she’d told him. “But it’s still an odd thing for a guest to do.”

  By midafternoon, calm had settled over Hillside Manor. In the wake of Phyliss’s weekend absence, Judith never made up the beds or cleaned the guest rooms. That was up to the visitors, most of whom spent at least two nights and didn’t check out until Monday morning. The B&B offered an economical three-night weekend package.

  “Did everybody take off?” Joe asked when he came down from his den in the third-floor family quarters.

  “I guess so,” Judith said. “I saw the Kindreds leave. Maybe they’ve gone sightseeing since the wedding and reception have been called off.”

  Joe was looking bemused. “You really aren’t sleuthing, are you? I’m surprised you bothered giving Woody that paper bag.”

  Judith couldn’t quite look her husband in the eye. “With this bunch, if Millie was really murdered, I’d hope everybody did it, like all the suspects in the Agatha Christie train mystery.”

  Joe shrugged, took a diet soda out of the fridge, and exited the kitchen. Judith started choosing appetizer recipes for her loathsome guests’ social hour. She was considering something simple—like cheese and crackers—when the front doorbell rang.

  The broad-shouldered man a bit over average height wore a badge identifying him as Ethan Ethanson, city inspector. “Mrs. Flynn?” He saw Judith nod. “Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but it seems you’ve had a couple of fires here lately. I thought I should check it out. It could be a wiring problem.”

  “It’s not,” Judith declared. “Both were caused by what was in the oven and it was only smoke. Or mostly smoke.”

  “Still, I’d better have a look. Lead me to the kitchen.”

  Judith had no choice since Ethan had put one foot inside the house.

  “This is a B&B,” she explained as they went down the hall and in through the dining room. “It can get hectic sometimes, especially in the kitchen.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything, but went straight to the stove and took out a flashlight from the kit he’d carried over his shoulder. Judith tried to remain patient during the examination.

  “Well?” she said after Ethan stood up and shut the oven.

  “Everything seems to be in order,” he replied. “Are your guests allowed to come into the kitchen?”

  “They can, but rarely do.” Judith was puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

  “I work for the city,” Ethan said without any expression on his round face. “I know an unmarked police car when I see one. What’s happening around here?”

  “A guest passed away this morning,” Judith informed him, keeping her voice without inflection.

  “Sad,” Ethan remarked. “Elderly person?”

  “Old enough to die suddenly,” Judith said.

  He nodded absently. “That’s a shame. I’ll be going now.”

  Judith followed him far enough to make sure he left the house. Maybe, she thought as he closed the front door behind him, she should have asked to see his license. But he’d worn a name tag that looked sufficiently official. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder.

  A few minutes later, Agnes Crump tapped on the half door to the kitchen. “Could I bother you for some ice? Charlie has a kink in his neck. He must’ve slept wrong last night. I’m afraid my husband doesn’t travel well. He prefers staying at home, where he has his insurance agency in the basement.”

  “Come in Mrs. Crump,” Judith said. “Do you want an ice bag?”

  Agnes seemed nervous. “Well . . . if it’s not too much trouble. I was going to use a towel, but an ice bag is best
. I discovered that when I started volunteering as a Pink Lady at local hospitals in L.A. Oh—we’re in Room Five. And please call me Agnes. Everybody else does,” she added on a self-deprecating note.

  Judith smiled. “Of course, Agnes. We haven’t had a chance to visit. Is this your first trip to this part of the world?”

  Agnes had entered the kitchen, but seemed uncertain about moving her plump figure farther than the counter next to the sink. “Yes. It’s very green here.”

  “If we have water rationing, it won’t be so green in August,” Judith said, gesturing at a chair. “Do sit down. I enjoy getting acquainted with my guests. Usually, it’s under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Yes.” Agnes wriggled her way into the chair. “Yes, I’m sure it is. But it had to be some sort of accident, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course.” Judith sat down across from her guest. “I can’t imagine exactly what, though.” She refrained from suggesting Millie had mistaken Drano for tooth powder. “I understood that Mrs. Schmuck had some dietary restrictions. Or that another person in your group does.”

  “Well . . . some of us should,” Agnes said, still in that self-deprecating voice. “Charlie should, too. But we’re both so fond of eating.”

  Judith nodded. “I understand. I’ve always had to watch my weight. So does my husband since he hit middle age. It’s a struggle. Did Millie have allergies or some other health problem?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Agnes said after a brief hesitation. “Charlie and I don’t know the Schmucks all that well. You see, we’re friends with Clark’s family, especially his mother, Cynthia. I used to work for Stuart as a legal secretary.”

  “I see.” Judith wasn’t sure what she saw, except the anxiety in Agnes’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Then you wouldn’t know anything about Rodney’s ridiculous claim to be my son.”

  “Oh, my, no!” Agnes looked horrified. “Charlie and I never heard of such a thing until he got here. Well . . . he did throw out some hints about a big surprise. But we thought it had to do with the wedding. Bear in mind we aren’t intimate friends of the Schmucks.”

  Judith nodded sympathetically. “Are you acquainted with Clark’s father as well?”