Major Vices

by Mary Daheim

  A strange aroma wafted along the corridor. Judith sniffed. She made a face. She knew the smell from some of her more daring guests. And, in his teenaged years, from Mike. If Judith hadn’t figured out much concerning the Major Manor ménage, at least she now knew why Mr. Wakefield was known as Weed.

  THREE

  MRS. WAKEFIELD WAS watching the evening news on TV. Her husband was sprawled in an overstuffed chair, staring blankly, if happily, at the ceiling. Judith’s request to move the pressure cooker was met with hostility.

  “You got four burners up there,” Mrs. Wakefield asserted. “Why should I stink up the place down here with those beets?”

  “It already stinks,” Judith responded bluntly. “I need to make sauces, cook the vegetables, parboil potatoes. Come on. If you’re not going to help, don’t hinder.”

  With a vexed sigh, Mrs. Wakefield lifted her velour-covered body from the leatherette couch. “I’ll use the stove down here,” she grumbled. “There’s a small kitchen off the saloon.”

  Judith let Mrs. Wakefield lead the way. Weed Wakefield didn’t notice their departure. He seemed to be settling into a fetal position, an awkward collection of lanky arms and legs. The marijuana smell faded; the scent of pine tinged the air.

  “That’s the saloon,” Mrs. Wakefield said, pointing to double doors farther down the hall. “Old Dunlop was a Midwestern boy who longed for the sea. I hear he tried to run away a couple of times when he was a kid, but they always hauled him back to the farm.” She began to ascend the narrow back stairs. “When he got out here, where he could see salt water from his new property, he had the architect add a lot of marine touches. You see the rope pattern in some of the rooms?”

  Judith hadn’t, though she had noticed the coved ceilings and the sailing ships in the stained glass above the first landing. “Did Dunlop go to sea when he got older?”

  The housekeeper opened the frosted glass door. “He did. Up to Alaska, mainly, time and time again. His wife wouldn’t go with him. She was a German immigrant who’d come to this country when she was a little girl and had gotten so seasick she wouldn’t set foot on a ship ever again. I guess she didn’t mind Dunlop going off now and then. He always brought her expensive presents like jewels and furs, stuff for the house, too. He hauled back a bunch of that volcanic rock you see in the birdbath and the rest of the garden. From the Aleutians, I think.” She marched over to retrieve her pressure cooker. “Got it,” she said, taking a firm grip on the handle with a pot holder. “Have a nice night.” Mrs. Wakefield started back for the stairs. Suddenly she stopped and gave Judith what could have passed for a kindly look. “You sure you don’t need me? I could always take around some trays. Zoe can help, too.”

  The unexpected change of heart caused Judith to beam. “That’d be great. Thanks, we’re really under the gun. It wouldn’t be so bad if we were doing only the party, but with dinner following so close…”

  Mrs. Wakefield’s expression was conspiratorial. “It’ll annoy Mrs. Grover if we lend a hand. Besides, I like to keep an eye on that old bag. She might pinch the silver.” With a wink, the housekeeper exited the kitchen.

  Judith was elated. “We won’t have to kill ourselves after all,” she exclaimed, sliding the tray of shrimp balls onto the lower rack of the oven. “Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe can handle the actual serving while we work out here.”

  “And avoid the rest of Aunt Toadie’s relatives,” Renie pointed out. “Who else is coming besides Trixie, Vivvie, and Derek?”

  Judith put the Brie on the top oven rack and closed the door. “Derek’s wife, Holly, and their daughter, Jill. Actually, it’s not their daughter, right? Holly was married before, to some guy in the military. Holly ’s had a hard life, as I recall, and married young because she’d been orphaned in her teens. Then she was widowed, either just before or after Jill was born. I think Derek adopted her. Jill’s real father was an Air Force pilot who was shot down in Vietnam right at the end of the war. She must be about twenty by now. That’s the whole lot of the Lotts. Oh, except for Trixie’s fiancé, Mason Meade.”

  “Only seven,” Renie mused. “Not bad. Compared with our family gatherings, it’s a pretty lean number.”

  Judith agreed. For the next quarter of an hour, the cousins worked quickly to produce the trays of appetizers. The guests from Major Mush began to arrive promptly at six. Judith peeked out from the dining room into the entry hall, where there was much stomping of wet feet and shrugging off of damp coats. As predicted, the guests were a mixed bag, men and women from twenty to eighty-five. They struck Judith as a grim-faced group, complaining about the chilling rain and looking as if they were faced with an onerous but necessary duty.

  “Uncle Boo’s on his feet,” Judith reported when she returned to the kitchen. “Aunt Toadie put him into a suit and tie. He’s welcoming the guests.”

  Renie rushed off to the entry hall. “This I’ve got to see! Boo standing up! Wow!”

  The frosted glass door opened, revealing Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe, now attired in decorous black dresses and white aprons. The mother wore a limp white cap as well. Judith complimented them lavishly.

  “We’re so grateful for your help,” she enthused, ignoring Zoe’s pilfering of the Norwegian sardines. “No drama club, I take it?”

  Zoe gave a languid shrug. “I could still go later. It depends on the weather. If it freezes over, there’s no getting up or down that steep hill to Major Manor.”

  Judith and Renie were used to steep hills, but the sharp incline that led up to the top of The Bluff had indeed struck them as precarious. Judith glanced out the window to see that the rain was coming down thick and hard—and possibly freezing. She also looked at the outdoor thermometer, which registered thirty-six degrees.

  “So far, so good,” she murmured. “There isn’t much wind.” The last thing she needed was to get stuck at Major Manor. Judith couldn’t expect Corinne Dooley to serve breakfast for the B&B guests. “Lord, get us out of here in one piece,” she said under her breath.

  Mrs. Wakefield’s keen hearing picked up the comment. “Lord, get them all out of here. Mrs. G. has been hanging around since noon, driving me nuts. In fact, she’s spent a lot of time at the house lately. The rest of them don’t come around much, which is good, except the Rush girl. She coaxes old Boo into going for rides in her little white Mazda Miata. If you ask me, she’s trying to bump him off.”

  Judith assumed Mrs. Wakefield was referring to Jill, Derek and Holly’s daughter. As for Jill’s intentions, Judith didn’t want to guess. If there was one thing the family members had in common, it was a knack for malicious mischief. If there was any other trait they shared, it was greed.

  Mrs. Wakefield carried off the first trays of wine. Zoe followed, at her own indolent pace, with the hors d’oeuvres. The cousins knuckled down to prepare dinner.

  “Uncle Boo is actually speaking to the guests,” Renie remarked in amazement. “Of course, he’s like a windup toy, saying the same things over and over. His employees look like they’re going to a hanging.”

  “Their own,” Judith replied. “I gather he alternates these parties with a summer picnic. That must be a scream. Can you see Aunt Toadie and Uncle Boo in the three-legged race?”

  The basement door opened once more. Weed Wakefield leaned against the casement, a silly grin on his long, seamed face. “Hi, dolls. What’s cooking?”

  Judith turned, a saucepan in her hand. “Dinner. You want to help?”

  Weed shook his head. He was tall and graceless, over fifty and underweight. His brown eyes were unfocused, and his thinning brown hair was combed straight back over the collar of his denim work shirt. “I want to try out that big new TV gizmo. Nobody’ll notice if I mosey on upstairs to give it a look-see.” He yanked at the other door, almost falling over the threshold. “Beam me up,” he murmured.

  Renie arched her eyebrows at Judith. “I take it the Wakefields have the run of the house?”

  Judith lifted a shoulder. “There’s plenty of
room for them to rattle around. Seven bedrooms, six baths, according to Aunt Toadie. It’s a shame Uncle Boo and Aunt Rosie never had any children.”

  “I wonder why it’s being renovated. Now, I mean.” Renie was serious, wearing what Judith described as her boardroom face. “You can tell it’s been left as is since it was built.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, stirring her béchamel sauce over a low setting. “It’s a beautifully designed house, and the craftsmanship is wonderful, but even quality requires care. Maybe Uncle Boo decided he wanted to make a contribution of his own before he kicks off.”

  Renie, however, looked dubious. “That doesn’t sound like him. I seem to recall Aunt Rosie nagging him about fixing up stuff and renovating. She’d yak and yak, but he wouldn’t budge. Now she’s gone and suddenly he’s putting what must be a lot of money into the house.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” Judith suggested. “I mean, it’s his idea, not Aunt Rosie’s.”

  “Maybe,” Renie responded, but as she unwrapped a big head of cauliflower, she didn’t sound convinced.

  Mrs. Wakefield returned. “Still a few stragglers coming in,” she announced, wrestling with the big, lumpy birthday cake. “Old Boo is putting on his party hat.”

  Judith glanced at Renie. “Literally?”

  “I’ll check.” Renie went toward the entry hall, almost colliding with Zoe, who was drifting back into the kitchen.

  “Boo’s juiced,” Zoe said calmly. “He wants to do the jig.”

  Judith decided she could leave her sauce unattended for a few moments. Joining Renie at the foot of the main staircase, she watched Uncle Boo shake hands with an elderly, bearded man.

  “Carson Crowley, you old fraud! Didn’t we put you away for embezzling the pension fund back in ’68?” Boo cackled and took a big swig from the coffee mug in his free hand. His expression was puckish rather than malicious.

  “Not coffee,” murmured Judith.

  “Definitely not coffee,” whispered Renie.

  A voluptuous woman of an uncertain age ankled up to Boo. He clutched her against his chest. They swayed together on the parquet floor. The woman appeared startled.

  “Myra!” Boo sighed in rapture. “You’re still in the front office?” He was crooning over the top of her bright platinum head. “Wonderful! No one can put on a front like you do!” He stepped back and stared down Myra’s cleavage.

  Myra’s escort, a tall, muscular man of middle age, did not look pleased. “Mr. Major…” he began, but before he could finish, Aunt Toadie, in flowing black chiffon, flew out of the living room. Although she was smiling, her eyes were angry.

  “Boo! Dear heart!” Toadie snatched him by the wrist, then wrenched the coffee mug from his hand. “Let me get you a refill. And do say hello to Myra’s husband, Biff Kowoski, the former professional-football offensive lineman.”

  Boo, who was almost six feet when he actually stood on his own two feet, had to look up a good six inches to meet his guest’s stormy gaze. “Offensive lineman, huh? Well, well!” He chuckled richly. “You look offensive, all right! Want to wrestle?”

  “Boo!” Toadie virtually screamed. She pulled him to one side and whispered frantically in his ear. The half-dozen guests who were waiting to be greeted looked at one another in dismay. Boo’s face drained of color as Toadie continued to berate him. Then, like a scolded child, he moved back to his official spot and put out his hand:

  “Nice to see you…welcome to Major Manor…good to have you…kind of you to come…” The mechanical responses droned on. With narrowed eyes, Aunt Toadie marched back to the living room, the coffee mug clasped to her chiffon-draped bosom.

  A moment later, her voice floated across the uninspired ripple of conversation. “Cake! We’re cutting it now! Let’s all sing to our dear Bruno Major!”

  Judith and Renie straggled into the living room behind the other guests. Uncle Boo appeared to be lost in the shuffle. Aunt Toadie raised a hand, then began singing “Happy Birthday to You” in a shrill voice that had the effect of fingernails raking glass. The others joined in without enthusiasm; the musical salute sounded like a dirge.

  Standing under the doorway arch, Judith tried to find Uncle Boo among the crowd that had gathered in the big living room. Renie noticed her cousin’s quizzical expression.

  “Out there,” Renie whispered, nodding toward the entry hall. As the last stanza faded into merciful oblivion, Judith saw Uncle Boo standing alone and not looking sorry for it. When a beaming Toadie began to cut the cake, several guests dashed back into the hallway. Judith figured they had seen the faux mush frosting and were gagging in revulsion.

  The cousins were about to return to the kitchen when two more people entered through the main door. The barrel-chested man with the iron-gray temples was a stranger, but the ash-blond woman with the long legs was not: Trixie Bellew Vaughn McBride Longrod spotted her cousins by marriage and pretended she was pleased.

  “Judith! Renie! What a treat!” With raindrops dripping from her stylish beige trench coat, she raced across the entry hall to embrace her shirttail relations. “Mummy said you’d be here! It’s been ages!”

  Judith and Renie felt themselves being half-hugged and semi-kissed. Trixie was almost as tall as Judith, and some three years younger. She was attractive, Judith had to concede as much, but the careful makeup couldn’t hide all the wear and tear of three husbands and countless lovers. On the highway of life, Trixie was definitely a used car.

  Releasing the cousins and nabbing her companion, Trixie introduced Mason Meade. Mason’s smile was thin. He had an unnatural tan for February, and his hazel eyes were wary. His voice, however, was smooth.

  “I’m trying to see a resemblance,” he said, removing a pair of kidskin gloves from big-knuckled hands. “For cousins, you all look quite different.”

  “From what?” Renie replied, then decided she sounded too flip. “I mean, Judith and I look like our dads, who didn’t look a lot like each other to begin with. For brothers, that is.”

  Trixie laughed gaily. “They didn’t, did they? Not in terms of their features anyway. And I look like my dad. My real dad,” she added. Seeing the puzzled expression on Mason’s craggy face, she petted his damp sleeve. “Didn’t I tell you? Mother was married before, to a man named Gilroy Bellew.”

  Mason didn’t seem completely enlightened. “But I thought Bellew was your married name by your former husband—”

  Trixie squeezed Mason’s arm. “No, no, no,” she interrupted, leading him to the coat closet that stood between the living room and the entrance to the den. The receiving line was now gone, and with it Uncle Boo. “Bellew is my maiden name,” Trixie rattled on. “I had it changed back legally after my divorce. Now let’s go mingle and be nice to Uncle Boo’s guests…”

  Judith and Renie were forgotten. They trudged back to the kitchen, where the béchamel sauce was simmering into oblivion. Swearing mildly, Judith rescued the saucepan. “I’d better add half again as much and start over,” she muttered. “Do you remember when Trixie was a redheaded vixen?”

  “I remember when she was a brunette bombshell, a raven-haired wench, and a striped skunk,” Renie replied. “A frost job gone wrong. But I’ll bet she’s forgotten to tell Mason Meade all about her seedy past. He didn’t even know that Uncle Corky isn’t her real father.”

  Judith stirred in more cream. “He’s been real enough. Gilroy Bellew took off like a shot when Aunt Toadie got pregnant. Aunt Rosie told me years ago that nobody ever heard from him again. It was a wartime marriage.”

  “Poor Uncle Corky,” Renie mused. “Cousin Cheryl has turned out okay, but Marty is a dork. I suppose you can’t expect much with Toadie as their mother.”

  Judith’s opportunity to comment was cut off by the return of Mrs. Wakefield. “Last call for the wine,” she said. “The Grover bat’s counting the trays I’ve brought out.”

  “How’s Uncle Boo?” inquired Judith.

  Mrs. Wakefield snorted. “Now that Mrs. G. took away
his gin, he’s in the dumps. It’s his birthday, for heaven’s sake! Let the old fart get a buzz on! The rest of the year he just sits around doing nothing.”

  Judith watched the housekeeper sashay out of the kitchen. She felt sorry for Uncle Boo. Maybe he wasn’t lazy so much as bored. But, of course, that was his own fault. No inner resources. Judith felt sorry for him anyway.

  “All that money and he hasn’t had much of a life.” She sighed, checking on the rack of lamb.

  But Renie disagreed. “He and Aunt Rosie used to take some trips. She made him do it, because he didn’t like to leave home, but at least he got a change of scenery once in a while.”

  “It’s a waste,” Judith declared. “He could have been a volunteer. He could have given his money away and done some good. He could have turned this big place into a—”

  “B&B?” Renie’s grin was mischievous. “Knock it off, coz. He didn’t do any of the above. He didn’t want to. He and his favorite Martians are like Old Man River—they just roll around heaven all day. Give me a kettle for the broccoli.”

  Judith was complying when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. She looked out through the window to see Aunt Vivvie and her family huddled in the narrow passageway.

  “Egad, more relatives,” she muttered to Renie. “I’ll bet Toadie told Vivvie she couldn’t use the front entrance.”

  Viveca Lott Rush was an older, somewhat plumper version of her sister. Her blond curls could have been a wig or a bad dye job. False lashes fluttered; so did her gloved hands. She had big blue eyes and an ingenuous expression that made her look like an aging baby doll. By contrast, her son, Derek, evoked images of a ravening wolf. Tall, dark, lean, and vaguely saturnine, he had a crooked smile that showed off a gold molar. Yet the limpid dark eyes were not unsympathetic. Judith had always suspected he might be kinder than he looked.