by Mary Daheim
Derek had gone around behind Boo’s chair. He stooped to retrieve a book which had fallen out of the case between the two windows. “We’ve got to do something,” he said, his voice thick. “What is it?”
Mrs. Wakefield was fending off Aunt Vivvie, who was leaning heavily on her. “Call the police? Isn’t that what people do when somebody gets whacked?”
Trixie, who was now half-sitting, half-lying in one of the two side chairs, brightened. “The police! Of course! Let’s do that!”
Jill reached for the black handset on the desk, but Judith restrained her. “Wait—let’s call from the phone in the entry hall,” she urged. “We shouldn’t touch anything. In fact, we all ought to get out of here right now.”
Whatever resentment the others might have shown earlier toward Judith seemed to fade in the face of death. Obediently, the family members, as well as the Wakefields, trooped out of the den. Judith and Renie lingered briefly.
“Look at the floor,” Judith said in a low voice. “Is that dust or ashes?”
Renie bent down. Small gray particles were scattered all over the boxed parquet floor. “Ash?” Reluctantly, she moved back to the desk. There was more of the same residue in the brass-and-wood ashtray. “Uncle Boo’s cigar, maybe. When he fell forward, the ashes were scattered around the room.”
Judith nodded. “Could be.” She stared at the big carton which had contained the new TV set. Her eyes traveled to the windows flanking the bookcase behind Uncle Boo. The casements were latched from the inside. The floor itself revealed no wet footprints, no stains, no heel marks. A key, presumably to the den, lay innocently near the brandy snifter. The cousins bowed their heads in Uncle Boo’s direction, crossed themselves, and closed the door behind them.
It was Derek Rush who seemed to have taken over as head of the family. He had commandeered the phone in the entry hall alcove. Holly stood next to him, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. The others had returned to the living room. They were arguing about when it would be appropriate to leave, but for once, their manner was low-key, almost reasonable.
“We can’t leave until the police come,” Vivvie asserted. “I watch TV. I know that’s how it works with shootings.”
Aunt Toadie had recovered her nerve. She had no compunction about sitting in Uncle Boo’s favorite wing-back chair. Her posture was very straight, her demeanor that of an empress seated on a throne. “The weather is getting terrible. It must be freezing outside. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never get out of here.”
Mason Meade stood at one of the four mullioned windows that looked out over the front lawn. “Mr. Major seemed so cheerful. Why would he kill himself?”
Still agitated, Aunt Vivvie darted a look at Mason from her place on the sofa. “Kill himself? Who said he did?”
Mason turned, a startled expression on his craggy face. “Why, what else could it be? The den was locked.”
Caressing the brandy glass with its fresh refill, Trixie scoffed at her fiancé’s pronouncement. “Mason, darling! That’s crazy! You don’t know Uncle Boo! It was an accident! He must have been cleaning his guns.”
“What guns?” demanded Mrs. Wakefield, as she warmed her broad backside in front of the fire. “Boo Major was in the infantry in World War Two, but he gave his guns away a long time ago.”
Toadie’s and Vivvie’s heads swung around simultaneously as Derek Rush returned from using the telephone. “What is it? Why are you staring at me?”
Vivvie gestured nervously with her beringed hands. “Boo’s guns. He gave them to you when you turned eighteen.”
Derek tipped his long, narrow head to one side. “He did?” His lean features were pained. “Poor Uncle Boo,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “He was always so good to me…” Getting a grip on his emotions, he gazed at his mother. “I rather remember it now. I suppose I put them away. I don’t recall where. Do you?”
Vivvie put a fluttering hand on her bosom. “Oh! No, I don’t. Your father would have…But he’s gone, too. And now Boo is dead…oh, my!” She burst into a new spate of tears.
“Wait a minute,” said Jill from the piano bench. Her face was still pale and her usual panache was missing. “What’s all this suicide-and-accident crap? If Boo shot himself, where’s the gun?”
Judith and Renie, who were sitting on a striped settee near the piano, kept quiet. By mutual, silent consent, they had decided to withdraw from the fray, at least until the police arrived.
Toadie seemed to agree with her daughter. “It must have been one of those freak mishaps. The gun fell on the floor. It’s probably under the desk.”
Jill made a slashing gesture with her hand. “That’s bull, Aunt Toadie. Boo had a lot to look forward to. Believe me, he had no reason to kill himself.” She paused, her brown eyes traveling from face to face. “Well? Don’t you get it?”
Judith watched curiously; Renie shifted impatiently. The only light in the room came from the candle-shaped wall sconces and the dying fire in the big grate. Long shadows played against the cream-colored stucco walls. The small, leaded-glass panes were streaked with rain; the big house had grown quite chilly. All of the faces turned toward Jill were anxious, strained, and wary.
Finally, the truth descended upon the room, from the coved ceiling with its nautical rope decor to the lush pattern of the handsome Oriental carpets. It was Derek who was the first to comprehend. His wolflike features sagged, his hunted eyes bulged, and his long, thin fingers clawed at the back of the sofa on which his mother sat.
“You mean—murder?” His voice was incredulous. “Jill, my dear, how could you think—” Derek bit his lower lip, unable to continue.
Vivvie stopped weeping, but turned on the sofa to grab at her son’s hand. “Derek! No! It’s too awful!”
“It’s silly,” Trixie insisted. “Why are you always so grim, Derek? Lighten up.”
Derek stiffened, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He removed a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from the inside pocket of his suit coat, and defiantly began to smoke. “You’re a fool, Trixie. For once, don’t dodge reality. Somebody killed Uncle Boo.”
In the arched doorway, Zoe reeled. “Wow! This is heavy! This is grimmer than Ibsen! In fact,” she went on with a catch in her voice, “this is horrible!” With her hair streaming behind her, she fled out through the entry hall.
Jill seemed transfixed. “The maid’s right. This is more than I can handle. Poor Boo!” Flinging a hand over her face, she leaped off the piano bench and also raced away.
Holly Rush’s face crumpled. “My poor baby! I must go to her! Jill!” Holly hastened after her grieving daughter.
“I can’t believe this.” Aunt Toadie spoke in an unusually thin voice. “Imagine! Murder! It’s so embarrassing!”
“Now, Mummy,” soothed Trixie, “look at the bright side. We may get our pictures in the paper or even on TV. It’ll be good publicity for my home fashion business. Women can’t resist buying clothes from a celebrity. Look at Arnold Palmer.”
“What?” Renie couldn’t contain her dismay. “Good God, what has Arnold Palmer got to do with women’s fashions? And when did you start peddling clothes?”
Trixie shot Renie an indignant look. “You know—those golf sweaters. They’ve been the rage for years. For men. But women wear them sometimes. I’ve been a Wear-House Dressing rep for almost two years. It’s really great. Want to see my catalogs?”
“Oh, egad,” groaned Renie. “No.”
Trixie looked offended, but before she could challenge Renie, Mason Meade held up his hands. “Listen! I hear sirens. Here come the police.”
Trixie and Derek joined Mason at the window. On the settee, Judith could hear the faint wail of the approaching squad car. The little group waited in silence. It seemed to be taking a long time for the police to arrive. Judith craned her neck to look out the window. To her surprise, the rain had blown out across the bay, and the wind had died down. A bank of fog was rolling in over The Bluff. Anxi
ously, she wondered about the driving conditions.
At last the red-and-blue flashing lights were spotted at the corner. The police car crept up the street. So did the ambulance that followed. A third vehicle skidded at the intersection, then veered into the curb. Judith’s heart sank. She knew the pavement must be covered with black ice. Her chances of getting home plummeted.
Straining to see, Toadie got to her feet. “They’re coming in the front? Oh, good heavens! They should use the tradesmen’s entrance! Don’t they have any sense of decency?” She whirled on Judith, who was still sitting next to Renie on the settee. “Aren’t you living with a policeman? You must speak to him about this breach of conduct.”
“Actually, I’m married to—” Judith broke off as the front doorbell chimed. Derek had already gone into the hall to greet the police. The living room again fell silent. A booming masculine voice bounced off the walls. Some sort of protest issued from Derek Rush, then was drowned out by the much-louder new arrival.
The voice belonged to the man who now filled the doorway. Tall, broad, and bellicose, the homicide detective wore white. His woolen overcoat, his Stetson hat, his stiffly starched shirt, his crisply pressed pants, his calf-high boots, were white. Only his red tie and black driving gloves broke up the monotone color scheme. When he whipped off the hat, his hair was white, too. Or at least a very pale blond.
“Buck Doerflinger here,” he bellowed. “Where’s the stiff?”
Everyone but Judith cringed. She groaned and grabbed Renie’s arm. Renie looked puzzled.
Derek was fighting hard to keep his dignity. “My uncle’s body is in the den,” he said, pointing to the small passage that led off the entry hall. “Come, I’ll show you—”
Buck Doerflinger brushed Derek off as if he were a gnat. “You stay put,” Buck admonished. He glared around the living room. “The rest of you, too. We need fingerprints from all of you. I’ll be back.” Buck thundered away. The footsteps of the other police officers and the ambulance attendants could be heard traipsing to the murder scene.
Renie unfastened Judith’s deathlike grip from her arm. “That hurts, coz. What’s wrong?”
Judith lowered her voice. “Buck Doerflinger is what’s wrong. He’s Joe’s archrival at headquarters.”
Enlightenment dawned on Renie. “Oh! I remember! Joe’s always bitching about what a grandstander Doerflinger is. Lots of noise, not much action. The Master of the Obvious.”
“That’s the one.” Judith fell back against the settee. “Damn! Why couldn’t Joe have been assigned to this case? Instead, he’s off on a wild-goose chase, looking for the Mayor’s cousin, who’s probably holed up in a motel with cheap champagne and an expensive hooker.”
“It might be a conflict of interest if Joe had gotten this case,” Renie said in what she hopped was a calming tone. “Hey, it’s after ten. I’d better call Bill before he goes to bed. We may be stuck here for a while.”
That, Judith feared, was putting it mildly. She accompanied Renie to the hall phone, noting en route that two uniformed officers stood outside the den. The door was closed, but she could still hear Buck Doerflinger.
Renie’s conversation with her husband was not as brief as usual. Bill Jones did not like the telephone. He used it as seldom as possible. But Renie’s news was such that Bill was forced not only to hear her out, but to ask some questions as well.
“Maybe I should call Mother,” Judith said after Renie had finally hung up.
Renie dissuaded Judith. “She’ll worry. She won’t admit it, but she will. Wait until Joe gets home and phone him. Then he can go out to the toolshed and tell her in person. That’ll make her feel better.”
Judith looked askance at Renie. “Talking to Joe will make Mother feel better? Are you nuts? That’s like asking a man sitting on a keg of dynamite if he’s got a match!”
Renie shrugged. “Go ahead. Call her. Tell her Uncle Boo’s been shot to death in a locked room, a big-mouthed imbecile is handling the investigation, and we’re iced in on The Bluff with Aunt Toadie and the rest of the loathsome Lotts.” Renie smiled thinly. “Well? Dial away, coz.”
Judith stomped off toward the main entrance. “Later. Let’s go check on the weather. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.”
Without their coats, the cousins felt the damp cold straight through to the bone. Unfamiliar with the front of Major Manor, they carefully picked their way down the walk that led to the street. Another uniformed policeman standing next to one of the squad cars told them to go no farther. They must stay within the grounds.
Annoyed, Judith marched along the grass, which was frosty but not as dangerous as the icy pavement. Through the drifting fog she could make out the half-timbered overhang above the dining area, the crenellated staircase tower which matched the design of the extended entrance, and the fine old oak door lighted by a ship’s lantern. The beacon also illuminated a coat of arms depicting a lion rampant clutching a spoon. Wheat, oats, barley, corn, flax, and rice symbols flanked the lion. The name MAJOR was etched at the top; the date 1933 was at the bottom.
Despite the chilling cold, Judith turned to head for what she presumed was the lily pond. “Let’s see if it’s iced over. If it is, we’re sunk.”
Judith and Renie clung to each other as they proceeded slowly down a short flight of flagstone steps. The pond was large, circular, and surrounded by brickwork. Some of the bricks had been removed, presumably to replace damaged masonry in the house. Three curved wrought-iron benches would provide restful relaxation in better weather. But now the lily pads were submerged under a sheet of ice. Judith made a choking sound.
“It’s got to be thirty degrees or less,” she fretted. “We’re doomed, coz. If the police can’t take us home, we’re stuck here for the duration.”
“The police barely made it here themselves,” Renie reminded her as they struggled back up the flagstone steps. “Black ice screws up everybody in this town. Too many hills.”
Irritably, Judith nodded. She began to worry about how Joe would get back to Heraldsgate Hill. Or how the guests would fare at the B&B. And if Gertrude was keeping warm and snug in the toolshed.
“Stop fussing,” Renie urged. “If Joe has to, he can walk home from the bottom of the hill. Your mother’s already spent one winter in her new place, and she was just fine. The guests can fend for themselves. It serves them right for taking a vacation in February. Nobody can predict the weather around here, especially at this time of year. We can have a false spring, with lots of shrubs in bloom, or a blizzard with two feet of snow. Remember what Grandma Grover used to say about buying primroses before St. Valentine’s Day? ‘Fools’ flowers,’ she called them, because we’d have a frost and they’d die.”
“Yeah, right.” Judith only half-heard Renie’s monologue. Shaking with cold, she tried to open the front door. It was locked. Renie rang the bell. One of the uniformed policemen who had been standing by the den let them in. He didn’t seem too happy about it.
“I’d advise you two to remain inside,” he said with a trace of a Texas accent as he led them through the double inner doors with their stained-glass panels. “There may be a killer lurkin’ around out there.”
“Yeah, right,” Judith repeated. Her indifference to danger made the policeman frown. The cousins headed back into the living room.
Buck Doerflinger had not yet reappeared. Aunt Toadie was again ensconced in the wing chair, now drinking a stiff gin martini. Mason Meade was trying to get the fire going. Aunt Vivvie twittered on the sofa while Derek tried to pacify her. Trixie played “Chopsticks” on the piano, possibly for the tenth time, since Derek finally asked her to desist.
“Music lightens the mood,” Trixie pouted. “You’re such a sobersides, Derek. It’s all right if Jill pounds away at this old keyboard, but you always want to spoil everybody else’s fun.”
“Fun?” echoed Judith, going to the hearth to warm herself. “Trixie, you are unbelievable.”
Trixie slid off the piano bench.
“Look,” she admonished, waving a manicured finger. “It’s sad that Uncle Boo is dead, I’ll give you that. But he didn’t have to suffer. If he’d lived longer, he might have gotten some awful disease and lingered and been in pain and writhed around in bed forever. Try to see the bright side—he’s out of all that misery.”
“But he was never in it,” protested Renie, joining Judith by the rekindled fire. “Furthermore, the man was murdered. Doesn’t that bother you, Trixie?”
If it did, Trixie didn’t let on. She straightened the ruffle on the low neckline of her red crepe jacket. “Gloom and doom,” she murmured, “doom and gloom. What good does it do?”
The rhetorical question went unanswered. Buck Doerflinger blew into the room like a winter storm. “First we get fingerprints. Then we’ll be interrogating suspects in the dining room,” he announced. “The den’s off limits for a while.”
Behind Buck, Judith could see Uncle Boo being wheeled away in a body bag. She closed her eyes briefly, saying a mental prayer. The intention was there, but her concentration was demolished. Aunt Toadie had leaped to her feet and was shrieking like a harpy.
“Fingerprints! Suspects! What are you talking about!”
Buck’s steely gaze would have mowed down almost any hardened criminal. But Aunt Toadie was made of sterner—and meaner—stuff. She headed straight for the detective, matching shriek for bellow. Judith and Renie returned to the settee.
“We’ll take you first, lady, since you’re so anxious to make trouble,” Buck shouted. He signaled to the Texan. “Rigby! Get a move on! Where’s your fingerprinting kit?”
Officer Rigby responded with alacrity. Despite Toadie’s outraged protests, she was subjected to the inkpad. “I’ll have your badge!” she rasped at Doerflinger. “The chief of police is my hairdresser’s next-door neighbor’s sister-in-law!”
Buck ignored the threat. He waved a majestic arm in the direction of the dining room. “Okay, lady, get in there and start answering some tough questions. This isn’t no birthday party.”
“But it is,” Trixie called after the detective and her mother. “You know, we should have had balloons. Why didn’t I think of that?”