by Mary Daheim
Renie was more than willing. To the cousins’ surprise, Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe offered to help. The dishwasher had already finished one cycle. Zoe removed the clean items; her mother reloaded. Renie scraped plates; Judith scoured pans. The diners retreated to the living room, except for Uncle Boo, who headed for his den.
Peeking out into the entry hall, Mrs. Wakefield chuckled. “He’s had enough of that crew. I’ll bet he finagled the key out of Mrs. G. and is going to lock himself in. Old Boo’s no dope.”
“W-e-ll…” Judith hedged, then laughed as she turned out the lamps on the dining room table. “Maybe not. When do the rest of them go home?”
Mrs. Wakefield removed the lamps and began stripping the table. “Not a minute too soon,” she muttered, then glanced out the window. “In fact, if I were them, I’d leave now. The wind’s coming from the north. Look at those trees.”
Judith went to the leaded bay window, from which she could see the tall yew trees swaying next to the brick wall that separated the property from the sidewalk. The hard rain was now coming down on a slant, its freezing drops punishing the expanse of lawn between the house and the herbaceous borders.
“It looks miserable out there,” Judith agreed. “Let me check the thermometer by the kitchen window.”
The mercury had fallen to thirty-four. Judith urged Renie to hurry. They were loading the cartons when a loud noise made them jump.
Zoe, who had been putting clean dishes away, almost dropped a stack of butter plates. “What was that?”
Her mother’s head darted in several directions. “Damned if I know, kid. It sounded like an explosion.”
Still looking startled, Zoe twitched her lips in a smile. “Maybe Mrs. G. blew up.”
“Dream on,” muttered Mrs. Wakefield.
Zoe’s wish was in vain. Toadie appeared in the kitchen door, bug-eyed and apprehensive. She did not, however, cross the threshold. It occurred to Judith that even in a time of anxiety, Toadie Grover wouldn’t deign to put her fine foot down on serf turf.
“Did you drop something and break it?” she asked, her voice a trifle hoarse.
Judith shook her head. “The noise didn’t come from in here.”
Toadie scanned the kitchen, apparently to make sure. “Then what was it?” she inquired. Her charm bracelets jangled as she nervously fingered the half-glasses which hung around her neck.
Mrs. Wakefield’s aplomb had returned. “A car, maybe. Or somebody ran into a pole. Who knows?” She shrugged her stout shoulders. “It’s a nasty night out there. You folks ought to be heading home.”
Toadie’s nerve hardened. So did her expression. “We’re finishing Derek’s brandy. His taste is deplorable, but we’re drinking it to be polite.”
She was about to sweep away when the downstairs door opened. Weed Wakefield entered the kitchen. His body was plastered with beet greens. He stared vacantly at his wife.
“Your pot blew up.” He patted his shirt pocket. “It’s a good thing I’ve got mine.” Weed broke into uncontrollable laughter.
The housekeeper gaped at her mate, then whirled in his direction. “Oh, for God’s sake! You mean the pressure cooker? Hell’s bells, what a mess! Weed, are you scalded? What were you doing?” She pushed him back toward the open door to the basement.
“Watching it, just like you told me…”
“Get below, let me see if you’re all right…”
The Wakefields disappeared down the stairs. Toadie uttered an indecipherable exclamation, threw up her hands, and stomped off. Zoe giggled while the cousins returned to their tasks. Renie scrubbed the durable one-inch tiles on the counters. Judith swept the linoleum, then wiped it down with a damp rag. Cantankerous voices were raised in the living room: Aunt Vivvie emitted a wail; Trixie’s laughter verged on hysteria; Derek’s low voice rumbled with warning; Jill drowned them out with a few chords from Chopin. More faintly, a soft thud emanated from somewhere in the house.
“Poor Pop,” Zoe remarked, eating the last roll. “I’ll bet he fainted. He can be really ineffectual sometimes.”
Judith didn’t comment, but Renie made a face. “Does he ever do anything around here?” she asked.
Zoe had propped herself up on a kitchen stool. “Oh, sure, he does what he has to. Handyman stuff. Errands. Driving to doctor and dentist appointments for the old coot a couple of times a year.” She stuck out one long, slim leg and admired its shapeliness. “Pop’s not stoned all the time. He usually smokes only before and after meals. Oh, and in the evening.”
That covered most of Weed’s waking hours, as far as Judith could tell. If Weed’s self-induced euphoria could indeed be considered a state of consciousness. Master and servant were well suited. Neither was in sharp focus.
“Who,” Renie asked, stuffing the last of Judith’s plastic containers into the cardboard box, “hired your parents?”
Zoe tugged at her earlobe. “Mrs. Major, I guess. Rosie, Boo’s wife. I was a baby at the time. Dunlop had servants, but they were as old as he was. They died, too, all about the same time. Boo didn’t want to bother getting new staff, but Mrs. Major must have convinced him. She usually did.”
Judith nodded. “Rosie Major was a forceful woman. She could be a nag, but I always thought she was the most agreeable of the three Lott sisters.”
With a languid toss of her head, Zoe sniffed. “Isn’t that like choosing your favorite disease? Those women are all awful, if you ask me.”
The cousins didn’t argue. Haste was imperative if they were to beat the falling temperature. There were few leftovers, except for the wine. Judith had the feeling that if she hadn’t kept the cases in the kitchen, they, too, would have disappeared along with all of the food. Aunt Toadie probably had a secret cache. Judith wouldn’t put it past her to return the unopened bottles to the liquor store.
Flushed and fanning herself with her hand, Mrs. Wakefield returned. Zoe expressed mild interest in her father’s welfare.
“Did he get burned or does he know the difference?” Zoe seemed inured to Weed’s mishaps.
Mrs. Wakefield cupped a hand around her ear. “What? Oh, he’s okay, except for a couple of places on his face. I fixed him up with some ointment. Maybe that’ll teach him not to peek into a pressure cooker.”
“They’re dangerous,” Renie declared, closing up one of the boxes. “My mother’s blew a hole in the ceiling once.”
Judith gave Renie a sidelong look. “That’s because your dad put a cherry bomb in it. He didn’t like pressure cookers, either.”
“He didn’t like chokecherry jam, which was what Mom was making,” Renie replied. “I didn’t blame him, but nowadays it’s sold as a delicacy up at Falstaff’s—”
Another loud noise jolted the four women. “Now what?” Mrs. Wakefield sighed. “I put what was left of the beets in a kettle.”
Zoe swiveled on the stool. “What about Pop?”
“I put what was left of him to bed.” The housekeeper peered out through the dining room and into the entry hall. “Jill and that low-life fiancé of Trixie’s are out there, nosing around. I can hear Vivvie Rush sniveling all the way from the living room.”
Judith was closing the last of the cartons. “That almost sounded like a firecracker. Was it outside or in the house?”
Mrs. Wakefield was removing her white apron, which was now stained with meat juices, beets, and a good many patches of dirt. “Hard to tell. With that wind blowing, sound gets distorted. You need some help with those boxes?”
The offer was accepted. With Zoe joining in, the car could be loaded in just one trip. But as soon as they reached the cement steps on the back porch, they realized that it was beginning to ice up outside.
“Be careful,” Mrs. Wakefield urged. “It’s getting ugly outside.”
“It’s ugly inside,” Renie retorted. “At least in the living room. Those lamebrains better button it up and head home.”
The street was still mainly wet, but the sleet was blinding. The quartet trod cautiously, fee
ling the wind bite into their faces. For the return trip, everything could be loaded into the trunk. Judith slammed the lid shut and spoke through half-closed eyes:
“Thanks so much for helping us. We honestly couldn’t have done it without you two.”
Mrs. Wakefield had allowed her daughter to take her arm. “No problem,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “Be careful.”
“Right,” Judith responded, unlocking the car door. “’Bye, now.” Heads lowered, the Wakefield women started back toward the big house.
Renie swore. “I forgot my purse.”
Judith swore, too. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Renie, stepping off the curb.
Judith shut the car door. “I’ll go with you. You’ll fall down. And we really should say good night to Uncle Boo. Three minutes won’t make any difference.”
The cousins clung to each other as they picked their way back across the street. There were definitely icy patches, but Judith had studded tires on her blue Japanese compact. Once they got to the bottom of the steep hill that led up to Major Manor, there should be no further problems.
Zoe let them in. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her auburn hair now loosened and falling over her shoulders. Mrs. Wakefield was emptying the most recent load of dishes.
Renie explained, then espied her handbag sitting on the floor next to the refrigerator. “We wanted to say good night to Uncle Boo,” she added.
“Get in line,” said Mrs. Wakefield, gesturing toward the entry hall. “The goon squad is about to leave. They’re making nice in the den.”
But they weren’t. The guests had gathered in the little corridor between the entry hall and Boo’s sanctuary. Derek was pounding on the door; Toadie was shouting. Uncle Boo obviously didn’t want to be disturbed. The cousins couldn’t blame him.
Toadie was looking vexed. “He took my key and now he won’t open the door.”
Vivvie shot her sister a reproachful look. “You wore him out with all this partying. I’ll bet he’s taking a nap.”
“Some bet,” remarked Jill, her brown leather jacket hanging over one arm. “I like the odds.”
Trixie eyed Jill. “Don’t be snide, you little snip. Uncle Boo is so thoughtful—he wouldn’t smoke his cigars in front of us because they make your grandmother sneeze.”
Jill returned stare for stare. “You make Grandmother sneeze. A lot of people are allergic to you, Trixie, including three out of three of your ex—”
“Ohhh!” Trixie clutched at her throat and staggered. “I feel strange! All weak and shivery!” She allowed Mason Meade to take her in his arms.
“Menopause,” muttered Jill. “It’s probably a hot flash. You are almost fifty, aren’t you, Aunt Trixie?”
Trixie started to bolt out of Mason’s embrace, then remembered her allegedly fragile state. “Hardly! I turned forty just a short time ago.”
Renie rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother!”
“Trixie’s three years younger than I am,” Judith said out of the corner of her mouth.
It was Holly, however, who set the record straight: “Let me think—I was born in ’51, and you’re seven years older than I am, Trixie, so that makes you—”
“Unconscious!” cried Mason Meade as Trixie collapsed in his arms. “Quick! Do something!”
Mrs. Wakefield did. She marched up to the recumbent Trixie Bellew and slapped her across the face. Trixie’s eyes flew open, her body recoiled, and she glared fiercely at the housekeeper.
“You fool! How dare you! That hurt!”
Mrs. Wakefield shrugged. “Brought you around, didn’t it? Ever try a dose of smelling salts? They’re nasty.”
Angrily, Toadie wedged herself between her daughter and the housekeeper. “That’s grounds for dismissal, Mrs. Wakefield! I’m going to report this incident to Mr. Major!”
Mrs. Wakefield yawned extravagantly. “Go ahead. I’ll bet he gets real excited, especially if you tell him he got a birthday card from Saturn.”
At the door to the den, Derek was still trying to turn the knob. He pushed, he shoved, he wiggled and jiggled. He also shouted. There was no response, either from the door or from Uncle Boo.
“I wouldn’t come out, either,” Renie whispered to Judith. “If Boo stalls long enough, they’ll all go home.”
“Us, too,” Judith whispered back, then frowned. “You don’t suppose he’s sick?”
Renie made a face. “Hardly. He’s asleep, as usual. If everybody shut up, we could probably hear him snore.”
Derek turned to Aunt Toadie. “Is there another key?”
Toadie shook her head. “No. The one I gave him was the only key to the den. The lock for every room is tooled differently.”
Mrs. Wakefield guffawed. “A lot you know! There’s a master key for all the rooms.”
Everyone stared at the housekeeper. Trixie, now recovered from whatever had been ailing her, glowered at Mrs. Wakefield. “Well? Where is it? Go get it so we can open the blasted door.”
But Mrs. Wakefield suddenly looked blank. “I’m not sure. Weed had all the keys on a big ring he kept downstairs by the furnace room. But I haven’t seen it in weeks. Shall I ask him?”
Derek’s dark eyes narrowed. “You shall indeed. And if he can’t find those keys, tell him to bring a crowbar.”
With a sigh of resignation, Judith stepped forward. “Hold it,” she said, feeling all eyes now upon her. “That’s a beautiful Philippine mahogany door, and I’d hate to see it ruined. Has anybody got a crochet hook?”
No one replied. Finally, Mrs. Wakefield recalled that there was an old sewing cabinet in the third-floor attic. Mason Meade volunteered to go look for it. Trixie insisted on accompanying him.
“I know the way,” she said, clutching his arm and heading for the main staircase. “Now, Mason, don’t pay any attention to what Jill and Holly say about ages and…” The pair disappeared above the first landing.
Toadie confronted Judith. “What do you intend to do?”
Judith attempted a smile. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve always had a knack for picking locks. I used to do it when I was a kid. You know, just for fun.” She didn’t add that she had also done it, more recently, out of necessity. There had been occasions in the past few years when Judith had needed to gain access to locked rooms, not for fun or even idle curiosity. Judith and Renie had usually been on the trail of a killer. Of course, this was not the case now.
“Snooping,” breathed Toadie. “Really, Judith, now I know it was you who took my topaz brooch back in 1951. I always suspected as much. Then there was the twenty-dollar bill that went missing from Corky’s wallet a couple of years later. I shall have to deduct those amounts from your catering bill.”
Judith couldn’t believe her ears. She knew Trixie had taken the brooch for a game of dress-up and Cousin Marty had swiped the money to buy a model airplane. What had become of the brooch was not known to Judith, though she supposed that Trixie had lost it in her usual brainless manner. As for the airplane, Uncle Corky’s Siberian husky had sat on it. Judith turned away and counted to ten.
Derek was still fiddling with the door. “We could take it off its hinges,” he said.
Holly put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Stop, darling. You’ll wrinkle your nice suit.” She brushed at some dust on his pin-striped jacket. “Wait and see if Judith can’t pick the lock. I think it’s very clever of her.”
With her wig sliding backward, Aunt Vivvie’s forehead had grown higher and was seamed with deep lines. “I don’t know—if Boo wanted to see us, he’d let us in. Why don’t we leave the poor dear alone? He’s not used to so much company. Rosie could be very antisocial.”
But before anyone could debate Vivvie’s advice, Trixie and Mason reappeared, armed with not one but two crochet hooks. “That sewing stuff must have belonged to Boo’s mother,” said Trixie. “There’s a picture of Mussolini in her darning kit.”
“Darning kit?” muttered Re
nie. “Why would anybody that rich need to darn?”
“Darned if I know,” retorted Mrs. Wakefield. “Maybe she was bored. Hey, let’s see your cousin strut her stuff.”
Everyone backed off as Judith knelt next to the lock. The audience made her nervous. On the first four tries, nothing happened. Then, as she concentrated on her work rather than on those dubious eyes, Judith felt something give. A click followed, and the doorknob turned. Jill, Zoe, Holly, and Mrs. Wakefield cheered.
Judith stepped aside to let Derek into the den. Indeed, the entire crew stampeded at his heels. Judith exchanged a look of dismay with Renie. They were straggling in together when Aunt Vivvie screamed. So did Aunt Toadie. And Holly and Jill and Zoe and Mrs. Wakefield. Derek and Mason groaned.
The cousins tried to peer around and through the crowd which had gathered at Uncle Boo’s desk. “What…?” Judith began, then saw Jill turn away, her hands pressing against her pale face.
“He’s dead,” she gasped out. “It looks like he’s been shot! I can’t believe it!”
Judith could.
FIVE
THE COMMOTION IN the den set Judith’s teeth on edge and frayed Renie’s temper. Toadie shrieked; Vivvie howled; Holly moaned; Derek groaned; Trixie again fell in Mason Meade’s arms. This time her collapse seemed genuine. At last the cousins were able to get a closer look. Neither wanted to, but they felt the call of duty. After all, Judith was a policeman’s wife. She was also well acquainted with murder. Violent death had crossed her path too often. Some people were lucky at winning lotteries and contests and door prizes. Others were accident-prone, breaking bones and limbs like so many dishes. Then there was Judith, whose life-style constantly brought her into contact with strangers. And with murder.
But Boo Major was no stranger. He was distant kin, and the cousins felt an obligation. Side by side, they gazed at his body, slumped forward on the desk. His gray hair hung lankly, with a smear of blood and a large, ugly hole in his right temple. His profile was turned to the wall, eyes wide, mouth agape. Judith winced; Renie swallowed hard.