Home Sweet Homicide

by Craig Rice

  “Why not?” Dinah said.

  April sighed. “The picture of Mr. Holbrook’s daughter is pretty lush, what with those beads and peacock feathers. But she’s big and blonde and a little on the beefy side. She doesn’t look any more like Bette LeMoe than—Archie does.”

  Dinah stared at her. Archie let go of the leash, and Samson, thoroughly unnerved by now, ran for home.

  “Do you mean,” Dinah said grimly, “that we went through all this, and chased a cat up a telephone pole, and I went around limping all day, just to find out—nothing?”

  “Listen, Goony Gussie,” April said. “We found out something very important. We found out that Bette LeMoe wasn’t Mr. Holbrook’s daughter. That’s a big help. Because now we know Mr. Holbrook wouldn’t have wanted to murder Mrs. Sanford because she was mixed up in the Bette LeMoe case. All we have to do now is find out who did murder Mrs. Sanford.”

  Dinah sniffed, and said nothing.

  “And,” April said, “let’s get that bandage off your ankle before we get home and Mother sees it and wants to know what happened to you.”

  Removing the bandage took a little doing, and considerable debate as to procedure. April borrowed Archie’s Boy Scout knife and tried slitting it down the side. That didn’t work. Dinah suggested trying to soak it loose with nail-polish remover. April reminded her they didn’t have any nail-polish remover. Finally Archie, in exasperation, grabbed one end of the bandage and yanked. Dinah yelped once. The bandage was off.

  Dinah put her ankle sock and shoe back on again and they started home.

  “Stop limping,” April whispered as they crossed the front porch.

  “It’s a habit now,” Dinah said in a melancholy voice. “I’ll probably limp all the rest of my life, and it’s all your fault.”

  They went into the house and headed for the kitchen. On the table was a big lemon pie, put there to cool, with a thick, delicately browned meringue. On the stove was the meat loaf, ready to be put into the oven. It smelled—heavenly! There was a casserole of scalloped potatoes waiting beside it and, wonder of wonders, onion soup simmering on the low burner. April sniffed ecstatically and said, “Super!”

  Jenkins, Inky, and Stinky were sitting on the kitchen floor, gazing wistfully at the stove. The makings of a magnificent salad were on the rack in the sink. The biscuits were cut out and ready to be baked.

  “April,” Dinah said happily, “he’s as good as handcuffed right now.”

  April frowned. She said, “Listen! Is that the washing machine?”

  They listened. It was the washing machine. And, in the back yard, Mother was whistling The Wreck of the Old Ninety-seven, loudly and cheerfully.

  With a sudden premonition of disaster, April ran into the back yard, Dinah and Archie close behind her. She stopped just beyond the porch and said, in a scandalized voice, “Mother!”

  “Oh, hello,” Mother said. “It was such a nice day, and I had some spare time, so I decided to wash all the old camp blankets. The last ones are in the washer now. Want to help me hang up?”

  “But, Mother,” Dinah said. “Your new manicure!”

  Mother stared at her. Her jaw dropped. She said, “I forgot all about it.”

  She looked at her hands, and so did the young Carstairs. The three-dollar manicure was an utter ruin!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “It’s a good thing Estelle sold you a bottle of matching nail polish,” April said sternly. “Honestly, Mother, at your age!”

  “I’m still young enough to make mistakes,” Mother said very meekly. “And I’m very sorry, and I’ll never do it again.”

  “Hold still,” April snapped. She squinted critically at her handiwork. “It’s going to be as good as new.”

  “You’re an angel to put the new polish on for me,” Mother said, “and Dinah’s an angel to finish hanging out the blankets. Honest, I just forgot all about having a new manicure. It was such a beautiful day—”

  “And you just felt like washing blankets,” April said. “I’m just thankful you didn’t feel like painting floors or something. Of all the impractical people!”

  Marian Carstairs said, “April. Would you kids like me better if I were more practical? Because I try to be practical.”

  April finished the last fingernail. “We couldn’t like you better,” she said slowly, “no matter what you were more of. And now sit there and don’t touch anything until that polish is good and dry.”

  Mother spread out her fingers, sat very still, and said humbly, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t get inspired and wash any more blankets for at least a week,” April said, starting to take the pins out of Mother’s hair.

  “No, ma’am,” Mother said, just as humbly.

  “And don’t move your head while I’m combing out your new hair-do,” April said. “Or I’ll be very cross.” She brushed a strand of hair over her finger and said, “What’s more, you’ve got to wear your very best house coat to dinner tonight. The dusty rose one, with the lace around the neck.” How on earth was she going to break the news to Mother that Bill Smith was coming to dinner?

  “Well—” Mother said. “But if I’m cooking, I might get spots on it.”

  “You’ve finished cooking for the day,” April said. “The meat loaf is baking, and the gravy is in the top of the double boiler, and the salad’s made, and the soup is ready to serve, and the scalloped potatoes are in the oven, and Archie’s setting the table.” She put in one last hairpin and stood back to survey her handiwork.

  Even in the old pink flannel bathrobe, and with her hands spread out like fans while the nail polish dried, and with her face covered with cold cream, Mother looked—Div! April gasped and said, “Oh—Mother!”

  “Oh, Mother, what?” Marian said.

  April grinned. “Don’t move until those nails are dry. And if you don’t do a terrific make-up job to go with that hair-do and that house coat and that manicure and that meat loaf, your children are going to run away from home, so there.”

  Marian laughed and April, remembering, laughed with her. The time Archie had gotten good and mad and decided to run away from home. And Mother had insisted on helping him. Tying his most precious possessions in a big bandanna, to be carried on a stick over his shoulder. Archie beginning to suspect he was being kidded, and getting stubborn. Finally, Mother and Archie both running away from home, ending up at a movie theater that showed a triple-feature Western bill, and arriving home at nine o’clock at night (to the great relief of a worried Dinah and April), full of hamburgers and happiness.

  “Don’t worry,” April said. “If we run away from home, we’ll take you. But don’t forget now—eye shadow ’n’ everything. And I’ll go help Dinah with the blankets.”

  She paused at the door for one last look at Mother. Suddenly she felt all warm and soft inside, as if she were going to cry. If only what they were doing was what Mother would want, if she knew about it! If only Mother would be happy with a handsome husband who was a police lieutenant!

  “Something, baby?” Mother said.

  “Yes,” April said. She gulped. “Mascara, too. And soon’s your nails are dry, hold ’em under the cold-water faucet. It makes the polish last longer.”

  She ran down the stairs and inspected everything. Archie had done a masterpiece of table setting. The centerpiece made from the best of the remaining talisman roses looked gor-gee-super-ous. Fresh candles, and polished candle holders. Bill Smith placed at the other side of the table from Mother, so he’d be seeing her across the roses.

  Everything in the kitchen was under control. Dinah was basting the meat loaf, and Archie—protesting loudly about it—was washing radishes.

  “Have you told Mother yet?” Dinah demanded.

  April shook her head. “I will, though. Right away. And we better get dressed.”

  There followed a brief debate about what to wear. Dinah favored the pink sweater and plaid skirt combination. April didn’t. Finally April said with a flash of
inspiration, “Dinah! The white dotted-swiss dresses, with the blue belts and the blue-ribbon bows.”

  “Oh, gosh,” Dinah said, slamming the oven door. “They make us look like—little kids!”

  “That’s the idea,” April said. “Gooney Gussie! you don’t want Bill Smith to look at Mother surrounded by practically grown-up children!”

  “Well—” Dinah said. “Oh, all right. This time.”

  “And you,” April said to Archie, “wash!”

  She went back up the stairs slowly, thinking of ways to tell Mother they were expecting a guest. After all, Mother and Bill Smith hadn’t exactly parted friends on their last meeting. It wasn’t an easy problem to handle.

  A confession of what they’d done, and why? No! That would make Mother self-conscious.

  They’d invited him, on their own, because they liked him? Uh-uh! That might make Mother mad.

  It had been his idea? No good. Very much no good.

  She stood, thinking, outside Mother’s door for five minutes before an idea came to her.

  Mother was taking the rose house coat off its hanger. She spread out her nails proudly and said, “See? All dry, without one nick in them!”

  “You’re wonderful,” April breathed admiringly. “Say, Mother.” This had to be handled very carefully. “That cop—Bill Smith—has to be in the neighborhood tonight and there isn’t any place he can get anything to eat. So. Is it all right if we give him a sandwich in the kitchen?”

  “April!” Mother dropped the house coat. April held her breath. Ages and ages of time went by. “A sandwich in the kitchen,” Mother said. “Utterly ridiculous! Ask him to stay to dinner, of course!”

  “Yes’m,” April said. She fled into the hall and started down the stairs. She’d just reached the landing when the door opened above her and Mother’s voice called.

  “Oh, April! Put on the lace tablecloth, and get some fresh flowers!”

  “Yes’m,” April called back. The lace tablecloth was already on the table, and so was the centerpiece of roses.

  Once, while she and Dinah were dressing, she opened the door to Mother’s room just a crack and peeked in. Mother was sitting in front of the dressing table, doing the most careful job of eyebrow brushing April had ever seen, and smiling while she did it. A flower that matched the rose house coat was artfully pinned in her hair. April closed the door silently and went back to her dressing. “I wish,” she said, “I was a kitten.”

  Dinah said, “My gosh! Why?”

  April beamed and said, “So I could purr!”

  The timing worked out perfectly. Everything was ready to put on the table when Mother came downstairs, and Bill Smith rang the doorbell at almost exactly that moment.

  He had on what looked like a new suit, and he certainly had a brand-new haircut. He was carrying a large box under his arm, and he gave it to Mother. From the watching post behind the dining-room door Archie whispered ecstatically, “Chocolates!”

  Then before Mother could mention the business of a sandwich in the kitchen, or he could thank her for the invitation to dinner, Archie let loose Inky, Stinky, Jenkins, and Henderson on the living-room floor. When the resulting excitement was over and there was a danger that the subject might be brought up again, Dinah announced that dinner was ready.

  The three young Carstairs had carefully rehearsed dinner conversation in advance.

  After everyone had been served, and the biscuits had been passed around the table, Dinah sighed happily and said, “Oh, Mother, you make the most wonderful meat loaf!”

  “It’s delicious,” Bill Smith agreed.

  Archie caught his cue and said, “You just oughta taste one of her beef-steak pies sometime.”

  A few minutes later April said, “These biscuits are Div, but Def!”

  Bill Smith started buttering his third one and said, “Best biscuits I ever ate.”

  “And Mother makes the most wonderful corn muffins!” Dinah said.

  The three young Carstairs were tactfully silent while Mother and Bill Smith talked about politics, books, and movies. As soon as conversation lagged a little, Archie, on a signal from April, said, “Hey! C’n I have s’more gravy? It’s the most wonderful gravy ever!”

  “How about more for you, too?” April said, passing the dish to Bill Smith. “Mother does make the most super gravy!”

  “And her steak sauce,” Dinah said, “you just ought to taste it once. Gosh!”

  One thing about the dinner did worry Marian Carstairs a little. The three young Carstairs were entirely too well behaved. Too well behaved, and too quiet, save for their comments on the cooking. Archie’s familiar, “Hey! Y’know what?” was missing, and Dinah remembered to say “Please” when she asked for another biscuit.

  But it wasn’t until April said, “Mother, did you make this simply super salad dressing yourself?” And Dinah cut in quickly with, “Of course she did. Mother always makes her own salad dressing,” that she began to get suspicious. Because not only she, but Dinah and April also, knew that she hadn’t made the salad dressing. And she caught the nudge April gave Archie just before he piped up and said, “Mother makes mayonnaise, too, and it’s wonderful mayonnaise.”

  Then finally the lemon pie was served, with a flourish. By that time Marian Carstairs had begun to wonder if she was the victim of A Plot. If one of the young Carstairs praised the pie—

  But it was Bill Smith who said, “Your mother makes the most super-wonderful lemon pie!”

  Marian’s eyes met his across the table. His were smiling. She repressed a giggle, and said, “You just ought to taste my gingerbread sometime!”

  The three young Carstairs stared, first at him, and then at her.

  They made a quick recovery when the pie was finished. (Bill Smith had had three helpings.) “Coffee in the living room,” April said. She lighted the candles over the fire-place, while Dinah brought in the coffee tray. There! Coffee, soft lights, and Mother in that lush house coat!

  Then she chased Archie into the kitchen while she and Dinah carried off the remaining dishes. Archie protested indignantly. “Hey! I wanna listen!”

  Dinah folded up the cloth and brushed off the table. Then she complained to April, “We didn’t get in that line I was s’posed to say to him—about ‘I should think you’d get awful lonely, having to have dinner by yourself every night.’ ”

  “Never mind,” April said. “Everything’s going all right.” She laid a finger to her lips and led the way to the living-room door. Dinah and Archie followed, on tip-toes and listened.

  There was soft, friendly laughter. Mother’s voice: “Really, Bill—” And his: “Seriously, Marian, I do want to tell you—”

  And then the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” April called. She ran across the living room and opened the door. “Probably the paper boy.”

  It wasn’t the paper boy. It was Sergeant O’Hare. And he looked worried. He looked out of breath. His round face was red. He said, “Hello, little lady. Is—” Then he spotted Bill Smith and said, “Oh, there you are.”

  April got one look at the tableau before Sergeant O’Hare interrupted it. Mother sitting on the blue sofa, looking lovely. Bill Smith in the big comfortable arm chair, looking at Mother, and with that earnest expression in his eyes. She thought of all the things she’d like to do to Sergeant O’Hare, and none of them were pleasant.

  “We found Mr. Sanford,” Sergeant O’Hare puffed. “In the bushes near the end of the driveway of his own house. Not been there long. I left Flanagan to watch him.”

  Bill Smith jumped up, almost overturning his coffee cup. “Murdered?”

  “Almost,” Sergeant O’Hare said. “Shot. Think he’ll live, though. Better get an ambulance, first, and then call headquarters.”

  Marian jumped up and said, “The telephone’s right here.”

  April raced into the kitchen, hissed “Come on!” and led Dinah and Archie into the back yard. On the way to the Sanford driveway she explained what had
happened. Then “Archie. There’s a cop watching him. Can you get the cop away from there, quick?”

  “Sure thing,” Archie said. He dived into the bushes. Dinah and April ran on across the Sanford lawn and headed cautiously down the driveway. At the foot of it a policeman stood beside an ominously quiet form covered with a blanket.

  Suddenly hideous and terrifying screams came from the bushes. The cop jumped, turned, and ran in the direction of the screams. April and Dinah ran in the direction of the blanket-covered form.

  Wallace Sanford’s eyes opened and looked at the two girls. His face was very white.

  “You’re not murdered,” April said. “Sergeant O’Hare said so. You’re just shot. So don’t worry.”

  “You’re all right,” Dinah whispered.

  He tried to speak, failed, closed his eyes, and then opened them again.

  “Take it easy,” Dinah said.

  “Listen,” he moaned, “listen. You two. I know, now. The man who murdered Flora—” His eyes closed again.

  “Yes?” April breathed. “Yes!”

  He opened his eyes just the barest slit. “Was—was the man who paid the ransom. He was her—” His eyes closed and didn’t open again.

  Dinah bent over him. “He’s alive,” she whispered; “he’s just fainted.”

  There was a rustling in the bushes. “That cop’s coming back,” April hissed. “Move!”

  They raced up the driveway. Archie came out from behind a tree just as they reached the gate. Somewhere, down below, the cop blew a whistle. Bill Smith, Sergeant O’Hare, and Mother ran out the front door just as the three young Carstairs reached the back door.

  Dinah caught her breath, automatically resumed work on the dishes, and said, “That was close!”

  “How’dya like my screaming?” Archie said proudly.

  “Fine,” Dinah said.

  “You just oughta hear my hollering sometime,” Archie said. “Hey, April?”

  April didn’t respond. She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and leaned her chin on her hands.

  “April,” Dinah said.

  “Shut up, you kids,” April said. “And don’t bother me.” She looked puzzled, and just a little unhappy. “Because. I’ve got to think.”