by Mary Daheim
Inga’s raisinlike eyes scrutinized Judith. “Oh. You’re that detective’s wife. Yes, we’ve met.” She hesitated, perhaps trying to recall if the meeting had been satisfactory. “Very well.” She snapped her fingers at the hostess, apparently signaling that she wished to be seated.
“How’s Freddy this morning?” Judith asked after they’d been seated toward the rear of the restaurant.
“Not so good,” Inga said, disdaining the menu. “He had a very bad night. I hardly slept at all. Griselda’s sitting with him now. I just had to get away for a bit. It’s so difficult to watch him suffer.”
“Emotionally, you mean,” Judith said, wearing her most sympathetic face.
“Yes, of course. Freddy’s so sensitive.” Inga paused as a waitress whose name tag read “Greer” poured coffee and asked for their orders. “See here,” Inga said, tapping the table, “I want a three-egg omelet with Gruyère cheese and porcini mushrooms. Whites only, no yolk. I’d like the leanest hamburger patty you have, well done. Seven-grain toast, two slices, no butter. And a glass of goat’s milk.”
Greer, who had iron-gray hair and looked as if she served herself nuts and bolts for breakfast, glared at Inga. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, you will,” Inga asserted. “And you’ll do it with haste.”
“I do what’s possible,” the waitress retorted. “Yesterday you wanted quail eggs. We couldn’t do that.”
Inga shook her head. “Nonsense. I had quail eggs. Four, to be exact. Of course it took forever to be served.”
“Ha!” Greer cried in derision. “How many eggs do you think we could squeeze out of those canaries your brother has stashed back in his zoo? Most of those birds are males.”
“What?” Inga exploded. “Don’t you dare tell me—”
“Honey,” the waitress interrupted, “I wouldn’t try to tell you anything. You know it all. And you’ll get what we got.” She turned to Judith. “How about you? Grilled lamb kidneys, maybe?”
“No,” Judith replied, “I don’t eat lamb kidneys.”
“Well,” Greer replied, “some goofy woman around here does. She ordered them yesterday from room service. What kind of nut eats innards?”
“That nut would be my cousin, Renie,” Judith murmured, then meekly asked for the number three special of ham, toast, hash browns, and two eggs.
“How would you like your eggs?” the waitress inquired.
“Any way the cook wants to make them,” Judith said, handing over the menu. “Thanks.”
The waitress started to walk away, but Inga had one more request. “Separate checks. You hear me?”
Nodding, the waitress kept walking.
Inga reached into her purse to take out what looked like a paperback book, but was a reference guide to theatrical bookings. As she flipped through the pages, she kept shaking her head. She also scratched her hands, which seemed less blotchy than Judith remembered from the previous day.
“Do you have allergies?” Judith inquired politely.
Inga looked up over her half glasses. “Yes.” Her eyes went back to the guide.
“I do, too,” Judith said. “Especially this time of year. The pollen bothers me quite a bit.”
Inga ignored the comment.
“I admire the way you take care of your brother,” Judith said after a lapse of at least two minutes. “Particularly when he’s so sensitive and such an outstanding artiste.”
Inga not only looked up, but closed the book. “Our parents died young. Being somewhat older than Freddy, I virtually raised him. Make no mistake—I was more than willing. Freddy’s such a special person.”
Having struck the right note, Judith nodded sympathetically. “You’ve done a wonderful job. I’m sure you’ve been a large part of his success.”
Inga shrugged. “The talent is his. I’ve merely encouraged him and tried to give him guidance in his career.”
“Your participation must ease Mr. Fromm’s responsibilities as well,” Judith remarked.
“Well.” Inga put a hand to her bosom and made a futile attempt to look modest. “Mr. Fromm handles the business side mostly. But it’s true—not that I like to flatter myself—that I make many of the artistic decisions. For example,” she went on, pointing to the guide, “I select certain venues for Freddy and submit them to Mr. Fromm with a strong recommendation. He then follows my instructions and takes care of the actual arrangements.” She tapped the guidebook. “It occurred to me that Freddy should get away for his next engagement. Europe, perhaps. He’s never been there, and the change might do him good. Too many sad memories for him now in the States.”
“Remarkable,” Judith murmured. “I don’t see how you do it, especially after Freddy has suffered two terrible losses. You must have known Sally and Micki extremely well. I’m sure you’re grieving, too.”
“Of course.” Inga turned in the direction of the serving area. “What’s taking that waitress so long? Did the cooks all go on their break at the same time?”
“The restaurant’s quite busy this time of day,” Judith said, “not to mention filling the room-service orders. I’m sure our food will be up shortly.” Without missing a beat, she sang another verse of Inga’s praises. “It’s wonderful to see such devotion of a sister to her brother. I hope you’re not wearing yourself out, Ms. Polson. If you’d like me to spell you for a while later today, I’d be happy to sit with Freddy.”
Inga eyed Judith with suspicion. “Now why would you want to do that?”
Judith held up her hands. “Because I like to help people. Because you must need some relief. Because I’m kind of at loose ends around here. I’m not much of a gambler.”
Inga was musing on Judith’s reasons when their orders were delivered. Judith thanked the waitress while her companion inspected the items as if she were doing scientific research.
“Where’s the salt substitute?” Inga demanded.
“You didn’t ask for it,” Greer replied. “If I were a mind reader, I could be part of your brother’s act.”
“I asked for it yesterday,” Inga retorted. “You should pay more attention to your customers.”
“You should pay a bigger tip,” Greer shot back. “Try to hold yourself together while I go to the substitute-salt mines out back.”
“You have to watch these people every second,” Inga declared after Greer had wheeled away. “You have to watch everybody. I’m not a trusting person, which is good.”
“With your keen eye,” Judith said, “not to mention your intuitive sense, you must have some idea of who killed Sally and Micki.”
Inga, who hadn’t waited for the salt, paused with a forkful of omelet almost to her mouth. “What makes you think that?”
“You said as much when we spoke at the casino entrance yesterday,” Judith replied. “You were upset because Joe—my husband—didn’t seem to take your ideas about the case very seriously.”
“Oh.” Inga glared at Greer, who had returned with the salt substitute.
The waitress slapped the shaker down on the table. “Was that fast enough or should I have had it flown in by bald eagle?”
“You’re very cheeky,” Inga declared. “I should report you to my dear, close personal friend, Pancho Green.”
“Go ahead,” Greer responded, one fist on her hip. “He’s my dear, close brother-in-law. Pancho always likes a good laugh.” To underscore the point, Greer added a facetious, “Har, har,” and clomped away.
“Really,” Inga huffed. “That woman is impossible. How do the other customers put up with her?” Not waiting for an answer, she scratched her hands and stared into space. “What was I saying?”
“That you knew who killed Sally,” Judith replied.
“Oh. Yes.” Inga took a big bite of toast, chewed, swallowed, and resumed speaking. “I wouldn’t want to make any accusations just now. Not after Micki was murdered, too.”
“Micki told me she knew who killed Sally,” Judith said.
Inga stared. “S
he did? Who?”
“She never got a chance to say. We were interrupted.”
“Hunh.” Inga looked puzzled. “That’s very strange.”
“Why is that?”
“It just is.” Inga stuffed her face with more omelet.
“Do you know who this Marta woman is? The blonde who was holding the saber?” Judith asked.
Inga shook her head. “No idea.”
“She must be a suspect,” Judith pointed out.
“I suppose,” Inga allowed. “But I can’t think why. She’s a complete stranger.”
“I’m sure the police are checking her out thoroughly,” Judith said. “She might have been brought back to the hotel by now.”
A slight shrug of Inga’s shoulders seemed to dismiss Marta Ormond Flax. “If I become too fatigued this afternoon, I may call upon you. Where can you be reached in the meantime?”
Judith explained why she wouldn’t be at the casino until later in the day. “It’s a nuisance,” she complained, “but necessary. Home improvements take more time—and money—than you could ever imagine.”
“Maintenance is all I worry about,” Inga asserted. “We’re on the road too much to worry about whether we have the latest furniture style or the fanciest washing machine.”
“Do you still live in Idaho?” Judith inquired.
“Yes, but not in Shoshone,” Inga replied. “We bought a house in Boise some years ago.” Having eaten every morsel put before her, she brushed off some crumbs from her navy blue dress and stood up. “I must go. Griselda is probably anxious to get to work.”
“What,” Judith asked, “does she do when Freddy isn’t performing?”
“She tends to the wardrobe, for one thing.” Inga snatched up her purse and the guidebook. “She’s a very good seamstress. You wouldn’t believe the wear and tear on the costumes. I’ll be in touch.”
Judith was drinking her last sip of coffee when she realized that the waitress hadn’t yet presented their bills. Seeing her at a nearby table, she gave the server the high sign.
“Where’s your friend?” the waitress asked when she reached Judith.
“She had to leave,” Judith said with a little grimace. “Actually, we’re not friends, we just—”
“Don’t bother to explain,” Greer interrupted with a tired smile. “You got stuck with her. It happens all the time when we get busy in the morning.” She fingered the two bills. “Do you know her room number? I can put her order with the other charges.”
A flash of generosity passed over Judith, but she dug in her heels. People who had to buy new furnaces couldn’t afford to treat people they barely knew.
“She’s the Great Mandolini’s sister,” Judith said. “I don’t know the room number, but she should be registered under ‘Polson.’”
The waitress smirked. “She should be registered under ‘Poison.’ Maybe she thinks she can make the bill disappear. That crew has made some real people go away permanently.” She glanced at the table. “No tip, either. I guess that disappeared, too.”
To compensate, Judith doubled her usual gratuity on her credit-card slip. It was nine o’clock on the dot when she reached the casino entrance and asked a valet for her car. There was no sign of Bob Bearclaw.
Or so Judith thought until she saw him walking out of the underground parking garage. Just as he reached the driveway, a black Volvo pulled up. Bob went directly to the car.
Judith watched as Dr. Engelman got out of the driver’s side. Bob had opened the passenger door and was helping someone who seemed to be having a problem.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Engelman called to Bob. “She’s still a little woozy.”
Bob called for a wheelchair. The two men carefully eased a woman out of the Volvo and held her up until the wheelchair arrived. She looked dazed and very shaky. It took Judith a moment to realize that the fragile arrival was Marta Ormond Flax. The blond hair was gone, and in its place were tufts of brown hair about an inch long.
She spoke, but with such difficulty that no one, least of all Judith, who was standing twenty feet away, could hear her.
Engelman looked at Bob. “What was that?”
“I think,” Bob replied, “she asked for Fou-Fou.”
“Oh.” Engelman nodded, then lowered his head to speak into Marta’s ear. “Fou-Fou’s fine. You’ll see her in just a few minutes.”
Marta uttered a sigh, apparently of relief. The wheelchair arrived just as Judith’s Subaru appeared from the garage. Judith passed the little group on the sidewalk. Bob smiled; Doc nodded; Marta stared into space.
Judith was shocked by Marta’s appearance. During much of the drive into the city, she wondered if extreme drunkenness could cause such a dramatic change. Of course, the missing wig made a big difference. Still, it was Marta’s demeanor even more than her looks that disturbed Judith. She couldn’t help but think that the woman might have been drugged or even poisoned.
Bart Bednarik was already at Hillside Manor when Judith arrived at ten-fifteen. “Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “The gas company doesn’t lease or sell furnaces anymore. They have a list of subcontractors they recommend. I’ve worked with a couple of them. I’d go with Fuddmeister. They’ve been around a long time.”
“Okay,” Judith said. “What do I do?”
“I’ll take care of it. Let me get their number.” Bart took a well-worn notebook out of his back pocket. “Here we go.” He used his own cell phone to make the call. Nothing happened. “Hunh. They don’t answer. Let me check the phone book. They might have moved.”
While Judith waited, she gazed around the kitchen. A large carton sat in the hallway, near the back door. Moving closer, she saw that it was the countertop stove. At least it had arrived on the premises.
Bart was still looking through the yellow pages. “Has the electrician been here yet?” she asked.
“What?” Bart looked up from the phone book’s furnace section. “The electrician? Oh, no, not yet. It’ll be Artie Chow after all. His collarbone wasn’t broken. He should be here around noon.” He went back to his search of the listings. “That’s funny. I can’t find Fuddmeister in here.”
“When was the last time you worked with them?”
Bart looked vague. “Oh—four, five, maybe six years ago.”
Judith looked annoyed. “Have you considered that Fuddmeister might have gone out of business?”
Bart looked befuddled. “Gosh. That could be.” He put the phone book down and scratched his head. “Now what?”
“Surely,” Judith said in a barely controlled voice, “you’ve worked with other furnace companies in the past six years. Think fast, Bednarik,” she ordered, one eye on her cutlery block. “I’m reaching for the carving knife.”
Bart started to laugh, then quickly sobered. “You did have some guy pop off in your sink, didn’t you?”
“That’s how all of this started,” Judith replied. “Now come up with a name. Quick.”
Bart retrieved the yellow pages. His eyes darted through the listings. “Here—Hugo’s Home Heating. I did a job with them last fall. They were okay. As far as I could tell.” He grabbed his cell phone and dialed the company’s number.
Dreading what debacle she might overhear on Bart’s end of the conversation, Judith went out to the back porch. Sweetums was sitting in the garden, swiping at a stone bird in St. Francis’s left hand. Except that the statue of St. Francis had never held a stone bird in that hand. The bird was real. Judith screamed at the cat. The bird flew off and Sweetums snarled at Judith.
Grabbing a broom, she waved it with menace as she started after the cat. But if Sweetums wasn’t quick enough for the bird, he could easily outrun his human. In a flash, he disappeared behind the toolshed.
“Hey!” Bart called from the house. “I got them! They’ll be here tomorrow.” He seemed surprised by his coup.
Judith put the broom aside. “Tomorrow?” she echoed, going back to the kitchen. “Does that
mean I’ll have to come back to sign off on the damned furnace?”
Bart rubbed the back of his head. “I guess so.”
Judith thought hard for a few moments. “I’m not doing that. The electricity’s still off, right?”
Bart nodded. “Until Artie gets here.”
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” She picked up the phone book. “Hugo will fax me the contract at Heraldsgate Hill Mail & Dispatch. I’ll sign it and fax it back.” She flipped through listings. “Call Hugo, then have them call the store. I’m leaving now and I won’t be back until my vacation is over.” She shoved the directory at Bart. “Got it?”
For once, Bart looked a bit sheepish. “I got it. I’ll call right now.”
“Good.” Judith grabbed her purse and started for the door.
“Hey,” Bart called after her, “did you want to go through your mail? I’ve been saving it in that pile by the computer.”
Judith glanced at the foot-high stack that looked mostly like catalogs. There would be bills, of course, and perhaps some reservation requests. But they’d have to wait. For once, Judith couldn’t stand being in Hillside Manor for another minute. The lack of electricity and water, the disarray in the kitchen, the furnace that could blow up at any moment, the absence of furniture to replace the pieces that had suffered damage in the fire, even the late stages of winter debris that Judith hadn’t yet cleared away in the yard—all made her want to get away. It was like being with a once-healthy, robust loved one wracked by disease. Even though improvements had been made, Judith’s cherished home wasn’t the same. The warm feeling she’d experienced the previous day had evaporated into an imaginary cloud of lethal carbon dioxide fumes.
To her surprise—and relief—the fax process at the mail and dispatch store went smoothly. Judith got back into the car and headed for the freeway. An hour and a few rain squalls later, she was almost to the turnoff for the family cabin. On a whim, she pulled into the open area that had once been a playing field for family baseball and badminton games. At present, it was full of heavy-duty equipment, most of which Judith didn’t recognize.
What was more surprising was that the workers seemed to be concentrating on the area near the highway rather than the building site another twenty yards closer to the river. It looked to Judith as if the men were using a dredger. She spotted Dale Armstrong in an orange hard hat and tried to make herself heard over the noise of the machinery.