by Mary Daheim
The cousins headed back into the house. “Damn it,” Judith admitted, “I am. I can’t help myself, especially when it happened on the premises. I can’t believe the media hasn’t shown up.”
Renie laughed as they went into the kitchen. “They did. You might as well live in a gated community for the time being. Those unmarked police cars outside of the cul-de-sac diverted the media ghouls. Woody has clout. They stopped me. I had to prove I was family.”
“How’d you do that?” Judith asked, slipping off her jacket.
“I called your mother. She grudgingly admitted we were all related.”
“Amazing.” Judith sat down at the computer. “Let me check limo rentals. You can man the phone.”
Renie sat down at the kitchen table. “Do I get a snack?”
“Yes. I’ll start the appetizers while you make the calls. Here’s the number for A-List Autos.”
Before Renie could punch in the number, Stuart Wicks entered the kitchen via the back hallway. “Excuse me,” he said in a tone indicating he didn’t give a hoot if Judith excused him for much of anything. “I’ve been informed that we can’t leave until the autopsy is concluded, which may not be for several days. I have to be in court Monday afternoon.”
Judith tried to look sympathetic. For all she knew, Stuart might really be a lawyer. “Can you ask for a postponement?”
“Not at this late date,” he replied, his lean features grim.
“But,” Judith pointed out, “you were booked through the weekend.”
“We intended to take a very early Monday-morning flight out of here,” Stuart said.
“To L.A.?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll have to talk to Captain Price,” Judith informed him.
“I’ll do that,” Stuart said. “Please give me his number. I’ll use my cell. I wouldn’t want to be overheard on your personal line.” He cast a disparaging glance at Renie, who was holding Judith’s phone.
Judith scribbled the official—not the direct—line to the precinct captain on a Post-it note and handed it to Stuart. She knew he wouldn’t be able to reach Woody since he was officially off duty. “Here. I hope the captain can be of help.”
“He’d better,” Stuart replied, closing his long fingers over the note as if he wanted to absorb it by osmosis. “My appearance in court involves a very serious case. Given my status in the legal community, I never deal with trivial matters.” He stalked out of the kitchen.
“American Bar Association,” Renie said. “Check him out in California and this state.”
“I will,” Judith assured her, sitting down again at the computer. “I should not only check for lawyers, but do the same with doctors and the AMA. I did find a Sophie Kilmore in the eastern part of the state, but it didn’t say she was a surgeon.”
“GPs can do fairly simple surgeries, especially the ones in small towns where they don’t have specialists. I remember when . . .” The phone rang in Renie’s hand. “I’ll get it. Hello? . . . Yes, but . . . No kidding. You mean . . . How can we see through the Hedge That Ate the Early Settlers? . . . Sure, Arlene, I’ll tell her.” Renie disconnected. “Kindred showed up at the Rankerses’ house while Arlene was with us. The rev was in Realtor mode. Carl told him to take a hike.”
“He’s working the entire neighborhood,” Judith declared. “Now I’m beginning to understand the method to Rodney’s kind of madness claiming he’s my son. But what has any of that got to do with Millie being poisoned?”
Renie looked thoughtful. “She didn’t go along with whatever scheme Rodney was hatching?”
Judith took even longer to say anything. The kitchen was very quiet. In fact, the entire house seemed unusually quiet, given that most of the guests apparently were upstairs. The only sound was the schoolhouse clock clicking its way to the three o’clock hour.
“Maybe Millie didn’t,” Judith finally said. “But what is the scheme? Pretending to be my son wouldn’t get him far, even if it were true. He claimed he had proof, but I never saw it. For all I know, his mother was named Judith Grover. You told me a bunch of them came up on the Internet.”
“Right, though with variations on Judith—Judy, Judi, Jude, and so on. Usually,” Renie continued, “the people who are listed are well known—at least in a certain circle—or promoting their business or expertise.”
“So one of them could be Rodney’s Judith Grover,” Judith mused. “Do you think we should check up on one or two of—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Renie interrupted. “I am not calling any of these women and saying, ‘Hey, it’s three o’clock and do you know where your illegitimate son is?’”
“I guess I won’t suggest that after all,” Judith murmured. She turned in her chair. “Did you hear the front door shut?”
“I thought it was the back door—with your mother forgetting to open it. Maybe she’s stuck between the door and the screen.”
Judith shook her head. “Joe’s still at Ron’s auto repair shop. He’d come in the back way. Let’s check on the guests. It’s too quiet upstairs.”
She led the way down the long hall. “We’ll grab some towels as our excuse for bothering this current bunch of weirdos.”
“You need an excuse? Why not just walk in and tell them they’re homicide suspects?”
“Most of them may be innocent,” Judith responded. “At least I hope so. On the other hand, they may be guilty of something else. Oh, well.” She gathered up a pile of towels from the built-in cupboards by the door that went up to the family quarters. Moving to Room Six, she knocked. “I’m not sure who’s in here. They chose the rooms after they got back from dinner late last night.”
There was no response. They moved on to Room Five—then Four, Three, and Two. Apparently, all the guests had left. The cousins stood by Room One with its crime-scene tape.
“We’re going in,” Judith announced. “I want another look at that suitcase. You can come with me or stay in the hall and sulk.”
Renie heaved a resigned sigh. “I’ll join you. Have you no respect for Woody?”
“I have enormous respect for him,” Judith said as they entered the room. “I suppose that’s why I’m trying to help him.”
“You can’t fool me,” Renie asserted. “You’re doing it for you because you like to sleuth. That’s fine. Just don’t get yourself—and me—into some tight spot where we get ourselves killed. I hate it when that happens.”
“I’m not too fond of those situations either,” Judith said, going through the suitcase. “Ah! Here’s what looks like the sheet of paper Millie showed Joe.” She stopped to read the typed words. “I’ll be darned. It is recommendations for a gluten-free diet.”
“You’re disappointed,” Renie remarked. “Me, too. I was kind of hoping for a threatening letter. Or at least blackmail.”
Judith looked puzzled. “So what was destroyed and put in the Rankerses’ garbage can?”
“Rodney’s proof that you gave him birth without noticing it?”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “If the so-called proof exists. Damn.” She glanced again at the suitcase. “There might be a secret compartment.”
Renie leaned against the bureau. “Go for it. But make it quick. I still haven’t had a snack. I may pass out before dinnertime.”
Judith barely heard her cousin. “Millie’s purse—what became of it?”
“It turned into a briefcase?”
Judith scowled at Renie. “You’re not helping. I know she had one; I saw it. It wasn’t really big like yours or even mine, but it wasn’t a little clutch type either. Give me a hand. I want to check under the mattress.”
“Oh, good grief!” Renie cried. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Come on, lift up the bottom end. I’ll get the top.”
But there was nothing to see—except the cousins staring at each other. Renie got down on her hands and knees to peer under the bed.
“I’m doing this before you ask me to because I knew wh
at would be coming next. All clear except for some bedroom slippers.” She stood up again. “Has it occurred to you that whatever you’re looking for could’ve been burned and scattered to the wind?”
“Yes,” Judith replied, “but I can only hope otherwise. It happens in mystery novels.”
“This is real life. Let’s go back downstairs where the food is.”
“Let’s not. If all the guests are out of the house, we can search the rest of the rooms. If anybody comes back, we still have the towels.”
“Please.” Renie held her head. “You can do this by yourself when they go out to dinner.”
“Okay, okay.” Judith picked up the towels.
Renie didn’t say anything until they were back in the kitchen. “Do you still want me to call the limo services?”
“Yes.” Judith opened the fridge while Renie dialed the first listing for upscale car services.
Five minutes passed while Judith wiped down the refrigerator’s exterior and Renie kept making calls. “No luck yet with the car services?” Judith finally asked.
“I’ve still got two to go,” Renie replied. She resumed dialing.
Judith listened with mild interest as she considered her family dinner entrée. Too late for pot roast. She’d thaw some salmon steaks that were in the fridge’s freezer compartment. Her attention was caught by her cousin’s expression of surprise.
“What do you mean?” Renie said into the phone. “Oh. I see. Has the limo been returned? . . . Who did you say rented it? . . . Spell that . . . Got it. Thanks.” She hung up. “The limo itself was rented by someone named Floyd Kronk—that’s with a K. Two Ks, one at the beginning, one at the end. It was returned this morning. The limo, I mean. Not one of the Ks.”
Judith sat down across from Renie. “Floyd Kronk? Who is he?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Whoever he is, he’d have to show a valid driver’s license, right?”
“True.” Judith was silent for a few moments. “Let me put that name into the computer.” Without much hope of finding such a person, she moved to the far end of the counter. “Nothing,” she said, “except for a Disney character.”
Renie shrugged. “Too bad it wasn’t Mickey Mouse. He’d be easy to pick out of a police lineup. Oh—Kronk has a local address. Let’s try the old-fashioned way.” She turned to the directory’s white pages. “Here’s F. F. Kronk. He lives over on the bluff.”
“He does?” Judith was flabbergasted. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Let me see that number. I’m going to call Mr. Kronk.”
Renie handed over both the phone and the phone book. Judith punched in the number, but after eight rings she expected to hear Kronk’s voice mail. Instead, a raspy male voice said hello.
For once, Judith didn’t resort to fibbing in the interest of truth and justice. After being informed that Kronk had indeed driven the Schmucks to Hillside Manor, she asked where he’d picked them up.
“Bottom of the hill,” Kronk replied in his gruff voice. “Right by that goofy-looking music museum. Tourists, right? Everybody goes to see all that stuff at the Center.”
“Actually,” Judith confessed, “I’m not sure they are tourists.”
“Could be so,” he conceded. “They didn’t want to hear my usual spiel about the city. They were too busy yakking among themselves. That’s fine with me, I get damned sick of giving all the blah-blah to visitors who end up moving here and ruining the place. Traffic! Specially when I have to drive that damned stretch thing. I might as well use a bus for my customers.”
“Maybe,” Judith said hopefully, “they were discussing their plans after they got here.” She carefully avoided saying “schemes.”
“Could be,” Kronk agreed. “They were sure tickled with themselves. From the bit I heard, maybe they were bird-watchers, real excited about pigeons. Guess they don’t have ’em where they live.”
“Maybe not,” Judith murmured. “Actually, they came here for a wedding. Did they mention that?”
“If they did, I didn’t hear it,” Kronk replied. “For all I know, they could’ve come to town for a funeral.”
Judith didn’t comment. The obvious remark would have evoked the tragedy in Hillside Manor’s backyard. Neither she nor Renie needed any reminders of another death so close to home.
But she did catch the remark about pigeons. Apparently, she was supposed to have been one of them. At least they hadn’t mentioned a dead duck.
Chapter 7
Why,” Judith said, “would anybody poison Millie? If, in fact, she and not Rodney was the intended victim?”
“Because they’re both obnoxious?” Renie suggested.
“They’re all kind of strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was some kind of act.” She frowned. “In some ways, it is. Look at the reverend—he’s got the real estate scam going on. Maybe he’s not actually a preacher.”
“He can’t be both?” Renie tapped the table with a long fingernail. “If Kindred is really some kind of minister, it’s a fringe sect. Those groups are usually small. The main man—or woman, for that matter—can’t rely on the collection basket to make a living.”
“Good point,” Judith allowed. “Of course I originally believed they were from Southern California. They have even more oddballs there than we have up here. Of course, they have a bigger population to draw from.”
Renie nodded. “Bill’s theory about our suicide rate—and San Francisco’s—being so high is because all the crazy people from the East and the Midwest keep running farther and farther away from what they think is the source of their problems. They end up here or in the Bay Area and can’t go anywhere beyond that. Both cities have all those attractive tall bridges, so they jump. It’s terrible, because of course they’ve brought their problems with them. Counselors and shrinks like Bill can’t really help that much because it comes from within. They can only provide a sympathetic ear.”
“You’re depressing me,” Judith declared. “I didn’t ask for a dissertation on mental illness.”
“I have to live with it,” Renie said. “I mean, Bill does talk about his job. He can’t name names, of course. In fact, he usually can’t remember them. Bill’s not good with names. He’s excellent with faces, though.”
“Too bad he can’t look at my guests and figure out which one of them is a killer.” Judith sighed. “It’d help if I knew who was the intended victim.”
Renie leaned back in the chair. “Go over the juice bit again for me, please. You weren’t specific earlier.”
“That’s because I’m not sure,” Judith replied. “The glass in Room One had been rinsed. The lab might come up with enough residue to figure out if it contained any poison. But nobody else at the dining room table—which is where Millie got it—was poisoned. That suggests that Rodney put the poison in the juice and then refused to drink it.”
“While Millie was standing there watching him?”
Judith made a face. “I know, it doesn’t make much sense.”
“Nothing about this whole mess does,” Renie asserted, getting out of the chair. “Hey, I figured out a way to convey recycling. I’ll show one of your guests entering the B&B’s front door and coming out the back way dead.”
“That’s awful,” Judith asserted. “Murder isn’t funny.”
“Everything’s funny,” Renie shot back. “You know what Grandma Grover always said—‘If I didn’t laugh, I might cry.’ Good advice.”
Judith didn’t argue.
Half an hour later, Judith heard the front door open. When she went out into the hall, she saw Dr. Sophie starting up the stairs. “Would you mind joining me for a moment in the living room?” she called to her guest.
The doctor’s eyes were wary, but she complied. Judith gestured at one of the blue sofas, waited for Sophie to sit down, and then seated herself across from her guest.
“I’m sure,” Judith began, “that you and your friends are all very upset over Mrs. Schmuck’s untimely death. I know I am.” She waite
d for a response, but Sophie’s mouth remained in a tight line. “You must’ve been close to her.”
“Fairly,” the doctor finally allowed.
“Naturally, my husband and I are concerned about liability,” Judith said, not without reluctance. “I don’t know for certain if Millie took a glass of juice up to her husband, but I’m assuming she did, since she mentioned that was her intention. She didn’t get it out of the refrigerator, so I suppose she poured some from one of the pitchers on the dining room table. Is that correct?”
Sophie seemed condescending in manner, but her answer was succinct: “Yes, I believe she used the glass that was at the vacant place setting—where Rodney would have sat—and poured the juice into it.”
“Being a surgeon,” Judith said, in an attempt at flattery, “you must have a very keen eye. Did you notice anything—however insignificant—about the glass itself?”
“Such as poison?” Sophie’s expression was ironic. “Hardly. I admit I didn’t scrutinize what Millie was doing at the time.”
The doctor’s detached attitude about the death of someone who was at least a traveling companion frustrated Judith. But the phone on the cherrywood table rang. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must answer that. It might be a guest reservation.”
It was, however, a fellow Our Lady, Star of the Sea parishioner, Norma Paine. Judith had barely gotten out “hello” before Norma broke in—and Sophie got up to make her exit.
“Arlene told me someone is offering to buy your properties in the cul-de-sac,” Norma said in a booming, imperious voice that could rattle the china on the living room’s plate rail. “I understand you and the Rankerses aren’t interested in selling, but we are. I never thought Wilbur would retire from practicing law, but he has to cut down. His health, you know. In fact, we’re thinking of retiring to Arizona. He needs more sun and less rain. Don’t you, Wilbur?” The question was somewhat less ear-shattering, obviously being an aside to Mr. Paine.
“I didn’t realize he was in poor health,” Judith said. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine with a change in climate,” Norma asserted. “Besides, I’m tired of keeping up such a big house for only the two of us. Anyway, I’d like to get in touch with those guests of yours who are buying up properties around here. Do you think they’ll offer a good price? Real estate is ridiculously high on the hill right now, so we might take advantage of it.”