Hocus Croakus

by Mary Daheim

  “At least we assume she didn’t check out permanently,” Renie noted as they began to ascend to the top floor.

  “I hope not,” Judith responded.

  The elevator stopped three times to let guests on and off. When the cousins reached the Polson suite, Griselda answered their knock.

  “What now?” she asked in her usual no-nonsense manner.

  “Is it inappropriate to wish Freddy good luck for tonight’s performance?” Judith asked.

  “It’s unacceptable,” Grisly retorted. “First, you never wish a performer good luck. Second, he’s in his room, trying to focus. This is going to be very difficult for him.”

  Judith and Renie had managed to inch their way inside the suite. Lloyd Watts was sitting at a desk, intent on what looked like a set of matchboxes. A pugnacious Inga Polson was standing by the window.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Inga declared. “These rooms are off-limits to everybody but the troupe.”

  “There’s not much of it left these days, is there?” Renie shot back.

  Inga recoiled. “What a dreadful thing to say!”

  Renie shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it? Who’ll be Freddy’s assistant?”

  Inga turned to Judith. “Who is this person? Where did she come from and why?”

  It dawned on Judith that Renie hadn’t met all the Mandolini stage-family members. Quickly, she introduced the two women to her cousin. Inga looked affronted; Grisly was indifferent.

  “Freddy doesn’t need a female assistant,” Grisly put in. “Lloyd can do it.” She gestured at the young man behind the desk. “He conceived of the trick. It’s utterly amazing. Which means,” she continued, advancing on the cousins, “neither of you should be up here spying on us.”

  “Hey,” Renie said, holding up her hands to fend off Grisly, “from the looks of it, Lloyd could be building a farm. All he needs are some pigs, chickens, and a lot of horse poop.”

  With a wave of her arm, Judith intervened before Grisly could verbally or physically attack Renie. “It was Inga I really wanted to see. Could she spare me a moment in her own room?”

  Grisly scowled at Judith. “Why?”

  Inga, however, seemed curious. “Can you be brief?”

  “Oh, yes,” Judith assured the other woman. “I can.”

  Inga nodded once. “Very well. Come along.” She started to cross the room in the direction opposite to Freddy’s lair. Judith followed, but Renie remained in place.

  “Inga!” Grisly shouted. “If you’re going to talk to Mrs. Flynn, take this other thing with you. In case she can’t keep her big mouth shut, I don’t want to have to rough her up. Lloyd’s trying to concentrate.”

  Walking past Grisly, Renie smirked. “Want to take this out into the parking lot later?”

  “Love to,” Grisly retorted.

  Inga’s bedroom was a smaller version of Freddy’s, but, with its wild ginger motif, just as elegantly appointed. The cousins were not invited to sit. Inga paced in front of the white-pine armoire, rubbing the backs of her hands.

  “Well, what is it?” she demanded.

  Judith took a deep breath. “Is it true that you fired G. D. Fromm?”

  From the surprised look on Inga’s face, it was obvious that this was not the question she’d expected. “Why is it any of your business?”

  “Because,” Judith said quietly, “I think he’s making you sick.”

  Inga had stopped pacing and put her hands behind her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Your hands,” Judith replied. “And other parts of your body that have a rash.”

  With a curious look at Judith, Inga flopped down on the bed and examined her hands. “They’re better.”

  “I’d expect so,” Judith remarked. “What is it about him that you’re allergic to? Or does he give you a nervous rash because he’s difficult?”

  Inga looked bewildered. “That’s what Doc Engelman said, but when I went into Glacier Falls the other day to see a dermatologist, she thought it was a contact allergy. There’s no allergist around here, so I’ll have to wait until we move on to make an appointment.”

  “I’ve noticed you don’t wear jewelry,” Judith said, leaning on a wild flower–covered chair. “Your watch is pinned to your bodice. Is that because you’re allergic to gold?”

  “Oh, very much so,” Inga replied. “I’ve never been able to wear gold—or silver.” She looked closely at Judith. “Are you saying this could be a metal allergy?”

  “It’d be the first thing that would come to mind,” Judith said.

  Renie stepped forward from where she’d been standing near the door. “I’m allergic to nuts and peanuts,” she said. “Especially peanuts, which aren’t really a nut but a legume. I don’t have to eat or even touch them to get a reaction. If peanuts or peanut butter are in the air, I start to wheeze and sneeze.”

  “Interesting,” Inga murmured. “Do you think it’s because women in casinos wear so much jewelry?”

  “It’s possible,” Judith said, “but I don’t think that’s the reason. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you say if you fired Mr. Fromm.”

  “I didn’t say,” Inga responded, her usual hostility absent. “But I did. Fire him, that is. He and I simply couldn’t agree on major business decisions. He’s very pigheaded.”

  “I would guess,” Judith said with a smile, “that with Mr. Fromm no longer in the picture, your rash will clear up.”

  “And the point of that was…?” Renie inquired when they were out in the corridor.

  “First,” Judith replied, “to find out if G. D. Fromm had been canned. Second, to verify that Inga has a precious-metals allergy. And third, to see if she knows anything about the gold. Judging from her reaction—excuse the expression—I don’t think she does.”

  Renie shot her cousin a quizzical glance as they entered the elevator. “The gold, as in the alleged lode on the family property?”

  “I’m beginning to think so. Now how did G. D. Fromm find out about it?” Judith paused, then answered her own question. “Because Dale Armstrong has done some work for the casino. I don’t know how he hooked up with G.D., but he must have. Fromm is the one who seems to be shedding gold dust in his wake.”

  “You can’t fool around with this, coz,” Renie declared. “When Bart Bednarik wraps up the B&B renovation, you’ll have to go to the cops.”

  “I know, I know,” Judith replied. “I still have to tell Joe about it. I’m afraid he’ll think I’m nuts.”

  The cousins got off on the casino floor. “So how does this gold thing tie into Sally and Micki’s murders?” Renie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Judith admitted with a nervous glance at her watch. It was two-thirty. “Damn! I’m stymied. There’s no one to talk to. I don’t even know what questions to ask. And I forgot to bring up Marta Ormond Flax’s sudden departure when we were in the Wild Ginger Suite. This bet with Joe has got me rattled. Where’s my usual logic?”

  “What about learning how the original trick was done?” Renie suggested as they wandered aimlessly in the direction of the table games. “Do you think Lloyd would tell us, and if so, would it help?”

  Judith shook her head. “Lloyd’s sworn to secrecy, like the rest of the company. If he weren’t, it might be helpful to—” Judith snapped her fingers. “G. D. Fromm! I’ll bet he’d rat on the Great Mandolini crew. I wonder if he’s still around. Let’s go to the front desk and find out.”

  G. D. Fromm was indeed still registered. Judith turned to Renie. “I can’t do this,” she averred. “If he’s in on the gold deal, then he may not want to talk to me. He doesn’t know you. Can you handle it?”

  Renie looked appalled. “So who am I supposed to be? The Middle-Aged Siren of the Stillasnowamish River?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Judith said. “You clean up pretty good.”

  “Come on, coz,” Renie protested, “even if I looked more like Janet Jackson instead of Andrew Jackson, I don’t see how I could begui
le the magic trick out of him. He’s on the business side, he may not know.”

  “You’re creative,” Judith said. “Check out the bars. I’ve never seen G.D. gamble, but he enjoys a drink.” She pointed to the Autumn Bar. “I’ll stay near the table games. I might even play some blackjack.”

  “Swell.” Renie stomped off to the designated watering hole.

  Judith wandered around the gaming area, keeping an eye out for Manny Quinn. She didn’t spot him, however, and finally sat down at a five-dollar blackjack game. Even as play began, she was rubbernecking for any sign of Doc Engelman. If anyone knew why Marta Ormond Flax had checked out of the resort so abruptly, it would be the doctor.

  Engelman wasn’t around, either. Perhaps he was following the horse races in the sports book. Or maybe he didn’t visit the casino every day. Judith was down thirty-five dollars before she stopped gawking.

  Half an hour had passed since Renie had gone off on her quest for G. D. Fromm. Judith was growing more anxious by the minute. She could swear that she heard her watch ticking like a hammer. She put down her last five-dollar chip and promptly lost it. Getting up from the table, she paced the floor. It was after three o’clock. Maybe she should just try to think. Logic. Reason. How many times had she solved a murder case by applying her knowledge of people and her listening skills? Why couldn’t she do it now?

  “Must kill cousin.” The words came from behind Judith, along with two hands digging into her shoulders.

  “Coz!” Judith cried, trying to turn around. “What happened?”

  Renie let go. Her hair was more tousled than usual, there was a large wet spot on the front of her lime-green sleeveless sweater, and a small cut was still bleeding on her left arm.

  “I found G.D.,” she announced, taking a Band-Aid from her purse and applying it to her wound. “He was in the Winter Bar, drunk as a skunk.”

  “Did he attack you?” Judith asked in alarm.

  Sitting down at a closed roulette wheel, Renie shook her head. “I attacked him. Well, not really. It was a series of accidents.”

  “Oh, dear.” Judith felt guilty. “What happened?”

  Renie took a couple of deep breaths. “I first saw G.D. in the cabaret, when he joined Inga at what should have been our table. So that’s how I approached him—being funny, as in, ‘Aren’t you the man who sat at our blah-blah? Yuk, yuk.’ Since he wasn’t there when we got usurped, he was befuddled. And since he was wasted, it didn’t matter.”

  “So were you able to hold a conversation with him?” Judith asked.

  “Sort of,” Renie said, taking a hairbrush out of her purse. “I felt obliged to order a drink. While I waited, I made small talk to see if he was tuned in. I mentioned things like I’d won a million dollars on a quarter machine and the casino was being sold to a group of penguins and my feet were connected to my arms. No reaction.” Without using a mirror, Renie brushed her hair. “My screwdriver arrived just as G.D. was trying to relight his cigar. He knocked the drink over, which resulted in this.” Renie pointed to the stain on her sweater.

  “Did he notice?”

  “Nope. Before I got a replacement, he hit the empty glass and it broke.” Renie pointed to the cut on her arm. “I helped the bartender pick up the pieces. Meanwhile, G.D. dropped his cigar, burning a hole in his pants. ‘Your pants are on fire!’ I shouted. That got his attention, especially when I dumped his drink in his lap to put out the fire.”

  “Goodness.” Judith shook her head. “I won’t ask about your hair.”

  “I think I was trying to pull it out in frustration,” Renie said. “But I did find out about the illusion. More or less.”

  Judith’s eyes widened. “You did? Tell me.”

  “It was kind of a muddle,” Renie began. “G.D. was never sworn to secrecy because he worked exclusively on the business side. He said that if he hadn’t taken over the act, Freddy would still be pulling canaries out of his pants in Shoshone, Idaho.”

  “How did you get him to open up?”

  “After I dumped the drink on him,” Renie explained, “I mentioned that if I were a magician I could wave a wand and fix the hole in his trousers. Then I added that speaking of magic, the Great Mandolini stunk. That’s when G.D., who now thought I must be smart, came into focus and began railing against the Mandolini troupe and how badly they’d treated him, particularly Inga.”

  “Ah!” Judith smiled in approbation. “Nice work.”

  “Anyway,” Renie continued, “even though he didn’t work on the artistic side—which is why he didn’t sign an oath—most of the illusions were standard fare. The saber-and-cabinet act involved a trapdoor. After the cabinet was shut, Salome—I mean, Sally—dropped a few feet below the stage. Sawing somebody in half involves the person’s torso being lowered into a cavity on the table. The saw cuts through whatever is on top—fabric, usually. It’s all about diverting the audience’s eye.”

  “Interesting,” Judith murmured. “But not very helpful when it comes to solving the murders. Did he say anything enlightening about the individuals?”

  “Mostly that they’re all a bunch of hard-hearted idiots,” Renie said. “G.D. thinks Freddy is using Lloyd, who has the real creative talent, and that Lloyd, not Freddy, should be the star. Grisly was wildly jealous of both Sally and Micki because she’s always been in love with Freddy. Furthermore, Grisly put up the money to get Freddy started. Manny Quinn isn’t a very good gambler, but he’s an outstanding moocher who’s living off Sally’s money.” Renie paused to catch her breath. “Oh—one other thing. Inga isn’t Freddy’s sister. She’s his mother.”

  TWENTY

  JUDITH STARED AT Renie. “Inga is Freddy’s mother? Why the charade?”

  Renie shrugged. “G.D. insisted that Inga wants to seem younger than she really is. Vanity, I guess.”

  Judith made some calculations in her head. “Freddy’s not much over thirty. I figure Inga for early, mid-forties. Let’s add another five years for her. Yes, that’d work. Inga could have been a teenage mother.”

  “So who was Dad? Or,” Renie added, “does it matter?”

  “It would to Dad,” Judith replied.

  “Maybe not,” Renie put in. “Maybe Dad ran off. Maybe Dad never knew about Freddy-to-Be. Maybe Freddy made Dad disappear.”

  “Whoever Dad is,” Judith said slowly, “I doubt that he’s part of the troupe or the hangers-on. That would be too much of a coincidence.”

  Renie gazed at her cousin. “Would it?”

  Judith sighed. “It would. Still, I understand what you’re saying. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve run across that type of coincidence. Which is seldom a coincidence at all, since the connection often has had a direct effect on the murder investigation.”

  “In other words,” Renie said, “if someone is out to kill someone else, they don’t necessarily present their ID at the door.”

  “Exactly.” Judith crossed her arms over her breast. “Which gives me some ideas.”

  “Such as?” Renie inquired.

  Judith grimaced. “I have to let everything get arranged in my brain. Let’s go outside and sit by the lake. Or maybe the river. I’ve always found the river peaceful.”

  Renie stood up. “So I’m supposed to sit and watch you think? With all these fortune-making opportunities before my very eyes?”

  Judith took umbrage. “I thought you wanted to help.”

  “Hey—I know how it works when you’re in your thinking mode,” Renie responded. “You just sit for ages, and when you come up with a solution, you don’t always tell me because you’re not one hundred percent sure.” She looked at her watch. “It’s a quarter to four. If you’re not back by five, I’ll come looking for you.”

  Judith knew Renie was right. Sometimes a solution could be reached by bouncing ideas off her cousin. Other times—and this seemed to be one of them—Judith had to go it alone. Her logical mind demanded that she get her thoughts lined up like ducks on the lake.

  Which was exactly wh
at she was looking at ten minutes later. She’d gone to the river first, but the sun was out and a dozen or more children were playing along the bank. Their happy shouts would have pleased her at another time, but she needed quiet. There were a few boats on the lake, but she found a peaceful place in the picnic area. Despite the sunshine, the March temperature remained in the upper forties. It wasn’t yet spring; it wasn’t the season for dining al fresco.

  So Judith watched the mallard ducks swim and dive in the emerald-green waters. The lake was small, and its far rim nestled against the craggy slope of Mount Nugget. Patches of snow clung in deep crevasses halfway up the mountain. Two waterfalls tumbled down into the lake that fed, in turn, into the Stillasnowamish River.

  It was quiet, a perfect setting for concentration. The only sounds were the occasional chatter of a chipmunk or the caw of a crow. Grisly Vanderbehr was rich, and in love with Freddy. Inga was Freddy’s mother, not his sister. G. D. Fromm might or might not have been responsible for Freddy’s success. Either way, he had been fired by the dictatorial Inga.

  The sun scooted behind a cloud. Judith kept thinking. Manny Quinn had been living off Sally. Had he killed the goose with the golden egg, or was Sally highly insured? The latter, most likely. Show business personalities were often insured by their employers. Was Lloyd Watts so frustrated with playing second banana that he was willing to sabotage the company? Lloyd was the quiet type, to Judith, always a dangerous sort. And where did Micki figure into all of this? Where had she come from? Had she hoped to become not only Mrs. Polson, but Freddy’s new stage assistant?

  And then there was Marta Flax. She was the real mystery woman. Judith could hardly believe that Joe and the rest of the investigative team hadn’t learned more about her background. Or had they? Maybe Joe wasn’t talking because he didn’t want to endanger his wife.

  Judith kept thinking. Personalities, situations, connections—all tumbled around in her head. A picture was coming into focus, not unlike Mount Nugget’s mirrored image in the lake. When she discarded theories, studied suspects, delved into relationships, there was only one person left. She knew who’d killed Sally and Micki.