Major Vices

by Mary Daheim

  “You two still up?” she inquired without much pleasure. “I thought everybody’d be out for the count by now.”

  Judith explained, somewhat truthfully, that Renie had required a snack. Mrs. Wakefield snorted as she put the teakettle on and went to the refrigerator. “So does Weed. He doesn’t eat all day; then he gets starved this time of night. Hey, what happened to the ham?”

  Renie pointed to what was left of her sandwich. “It was real good,” she added with a touch of malice.

  The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed at the cousins. “There better be some breast of turkey roll left in here,” she said in a warning tone.

  “There probably is,” Renie shot back. “I hate turkey roll. It tastes like paper towels. Say,” she went on, resorting to offense as the best defense, “why aren’t you using your stove in the basement?”

  Mrs. Wakefield found the turkey roll and began making her husband a sandwich. “Because it’s full of beets. Weed’ll have to clean it up tomorrow. You got any more bright questions?” The amiable attitude that the housekeeper had displayed during dinner had fled. Given what had happened since, Judith didn’t much blame Mrs. Wakefield for her change of mood.

  “Actually,” Judith replied in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, “I do. How do you figure Uncle Boo got shot in a locked room?”

  The teakettle began to boil. Mrs. Wakefield reached for a jar of instant decaffeinated coffee. “I don’t,” she answered abruptly.

  “But it happened,” Judith said doggedly. The idea wasn’t logical, yet it seemed to be true. Logic was Judith’s byword, but it seemed to be failing her regarding Uncle Boo’s death.

  Putting the sandwich on a plate and the plate on a tray, Mrs. Wakefield plodded over to the counter and ed two dill pickles from the jar next to Renie. She then placed a coffee mug on the tray and got four chocolate chip cookies out of a package from the cupboard.

  “Did it?” she asked in an enigmatic manner. Balancing the tray on her knee, she opened the door to the servants’ quarters. “Don’t forget to put the pickles back in the fridge,” she said, and disappeared down the stairs.

  “Now,” Judith said with a frown, “what did that mean?”

  Renie looked blank. “Beats me.”

  Finishing her milk, Judith dutifully returned the pickle jar to the refrigerator. The cousins put their glasses in the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. They were heading back to bed when Judith stopped suddenly at the foot of the stairs, almost toppling Renie, who was right behind her.

  “What now?” Renie asked wearily.

  “Marty,” Judith replied, signaling for her cousin to keep her voice down. Buck’s loud snores could still be heard from the living room. He was now joined by a wheeze that might have been Officer Foster or Officer Rigby. The orchestration was not pleasant.

  “What about Marty?” Renie demanded in an impatient whisper.

  Judith started up the stairs. “He called.” Over her shoulder, she gave Renie a meaningful look.

  It was lost on her cousin. “So? Marty can dial a phone. For him, that’s progress, but what…Oh!”

  They had reached the landing. “That’s right,” Judith said softly. “Trixie claimed to have left the living room to call her brother. But she didn’t. So what was Trixie doing? And why did she lie?”

  EIGHT

  MORE THAN ANY other call, this was the one that Judith most hated to make. There were so many reasons, including guilt, anxiety, and fear. But it was seven-thirty in the morning, she was still a prisoner of ice and fog on The Bluff, and there was no way out. Literally and figuratively. With enormous trepidation, Judith manned the old-fashioned rotary dial on the phone in the alcove off the main hall.

  The initial response was not reassuring. Gertrude Grover wasn’t sympathetic about Boo Major’s demise. Boo’s passive nature had always annoyed Gertrude. Rosie’s aggressiveness had been downright maddening. It would have served them both right if they’d been shot by a sniper twenty years ago. It would also have saved the Grovers a lot of time and trouble. Gertrude had no time for any of the Majors or the Lotts. “Listen, you lamebrained idiot,” rasped Gertrude, concluding her tirade about the victim and his relations, “how do you expect a crippled old lady to fix breakfast for a bunch of ne’er-do-wells who ought to stay home in the first place? Why can’t they eat out? Haven’t they ever heard of a diner?”

  As usual, her mother’s Depression-era lexicon tried Judith’s patience. “Hillside Manor is a bed-and-breakfast. Get it? My guests pay for both. Corinne Dooley left before it iced up last night to take her kids skiing. Joe had to go to work. He called a few minutes ago to let me know what had happened. Please, Mother—it’s only six people, and you can make coffee and some toast and bacon and maybe scrambled eggs. Oh, and juice—just pour it.”

  “Toast! Bacon! Scrambled eggs! Juice!” Gertrude made it sound as if Judith had asked her to commit four of the Seven Deadly Sins. She was fairly screaming into her daughter’s ear. “What next, fruit compote?”

  “Mother, what’s the walk like between the toolshed and the house?” Judith must let her mother know that her first concern was for Gertrude’s safety.

  “How would I know? I can’t see it. We’ve got fog here, you knothead.”

  Judith knew that Joe had put down rock salt before he went to work. She also knew that her mother could use the grass, which would be merely wet and perhaps a bit frosty. The distance was very short. Even on her walker, Gertrude ought to manage perfectly well.

  “Look,” Judith said in what she hoped was a calming voice, “I can call the house and ask one of the guests to come over and get you. They might not pick up the phone right away, but I’ll keep ringing. If you don’t want to make the eggs, that’s okay, too.”

  “What’s wrong with bran?” Gertrude growled. “I eat bran every morning. And you know why—it keeps me…”

  Judith didn’t want to hear about bran or her mother’s bowels. She didn’t want to hear anything except that her mother would provide the barest subsistence for the B&B’s six guests.

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Judith said, still fighting for patience. “Believe me, I don’t want to stick around with this bunch.”

  Gertrude’s tone shifted slightly. “Boo Major. If there was ever a more worthless man, other than your first and second husbands, I’ll put in with you. Who’d bother to shoot him? Why didn’t they just wait until he died of boredom?”

  Uncle Boo, it seemed, wasn’t receiving much sympathy from any quarter. Except from the Rush family. Judith, however, didn’t think it wise to argue with her mother. She’d already suffered through Gertrude’s earlier indictment. “He didn’t get a lot out of life, I’ll admit. Hey,” she added more brightly, “I wish you were here to needle Aunt Toadie.”

  There was a snarl at the other end of the line which was probably Gertrude but might have been Sweetums. “Toadie! I used to call her SOS—for Selfish Or Stupid, and boy, is she both! Cheats at bridge, too. Does she still wear enough rouge to paint a barn? If she entered a beauty contest, she’d finish fourth to a horse’s behind. And her sister Vivvie! I remember the time she sat down in one of those little kiddie chairs and got her fat butt wedged in between the armrests. She wore that thing around the house for ten minutes until your uncle Cliff greased her backside with Crisco.”

  Judith relaxed a bit. It was reassuring to listen to her mother rant and rave about someone other than her own daughter. Somewhere before Gertrude referred to Trixie as a brainless, bowlegged tramp, but after she had called Holly a dim-bulb, spineless doormat, a grudging agreement was reached about breakfast at the B&B. Judith proceeded to call her business number, but no one answered, not even after six tries.

  “Mother will either make it or not make it,” Judith fretted. “The guests aren’t picking up the phone.”

  Renie looked up from the telephone directory she’d been perusing. “I’ll wait a while to call my mother, but I think most of Ewart Gladstone Whiffel’s
practice was taken over by Douglas de Butts. At least that’s who Bill and I use.”

  “Aunt Toadie would know,” Judith remarked, seeing Zoe Wakefield approach. The Major maid was attired in jeans and a sweatshirt, but she was carrying a coffee carafe.

  “We’re on the job,” she announced. “Breakfast is being served buffet-style in the dining room. Dig in. There’s quite a line already. Of course, it’s mostly the police.”

  Renie immediately headed for the food, but Judith detained Zoe. “Your mother said something odd last night,” she began, attempting a confidential smile. “She suggested that…well, I’m not sure what she suggested, but it sounded as if she didn’t think Boo was killed in a locked room. Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”

  Zoe’s response was exasperated. “My mother can be a trip sometimes. She’ll say anything, just to confound people. No, I can’t even guess.” The maid started for the living room.

  Judith called after her. “You don’t know who Boo’s attorney is, do you?”

  Zoe laughed. “What did he need an attorney for? Mr. Major never got involved in legal hassles. How could he? He didn’t do anything.”

  “But…all of this.” Judith waved a hand to take in the entry hall, the whole house, the family fortune. “Somebody must manage the money. What about his…will?”

  Zoe became thoughtful. “The money—that is, both his and the Major Mush Company’s—is handled through the corporation. He turned his bills over to the head office and they paid them. As for a will,” Zoe added with a shake of her head, “he didn’t really have one.” Again she started for the living room.

  This time Judith ran after her. “Then who inherits his money? He was childless. There are no heirs.”

  Zoe stared at Judith, her green eyes like a cat’s. “Says who?”

  Judith gave an erratic shrug. “Says everybody. I mean, he was Dunlop Major’s sole heir. That means there wasn’t anyone else in the family.”

  The maid’s mouth turned down. “That means there wasn’t any other heir.” She waited for Judith’s show of surprise. “Boo Major had a brother. His name was Reuben—Rube, he was called. I take it you didn’t know. Excuse me, Detective Doerflinger is dying for a cup of coffee. If you can figure a way to send out for doughnuts, let me know.”

  Zoe marched with purpose through the arched doorway. Her sweatshirt seemed to flounce behind her. Open-mouthed, Judith stared.

  Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe had prepared a more-than-adequate breakfast. Indeed, as Judith approached the buffet, she wished the housekeeper and her daughter had been serving the guests at Hillside Manor. There was white and whole wheat toast, French toast, bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, coffee, tea, and two kinds of juice, orange and tomato. Mush wasn’t on the menu. With a full plate, Judith sat next to Renie, who was across from Holly and Derek. The other four diners were uniformed police officers, including Foster and Rigby. Judith wondered if they’d all slept at Major Manor.

  “How are the streets?” she inquired of the two policemen she didn’t recognize.

  The Hispanic officer shook his head glumly; the Asian-American made a disparaging gesture.

  “Terrible,” said the Hispanic.

  “Scary,” said the Asian-American.

  “Worst black ice I’ve ever seen,” Officer Rigby put in. “The fog’s so thick you can’t see past the front porch. The forecast is callin’ for a high of thirty-one with no burn-off until late afternoon.”

  Judith’s spirits fell. It appeared that she and Renie were imprisoned in Major Manor for at least another seven or eight hours. Perhaps they should try to walk home and retrieve the car later. The four miles would be treacherous, but they could take their time. She turned to Renie to make the suggestion, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Wakefield entered the dining room to announce that there was a phone call for Mrs. Jones.

  “Bill,” Renie said, getting up. “Or my mother.” She exited the room.

  Holly was toying with a rasher of bacon. “We’re marooned,” she lamented. “We might as well be on a desert island.”

  Judith gave her a half smile. “We’d be warmer at any rate.”

  The policemen finished their breakfast and left in a group. Judith seized the opportunity of having the Rushes to herself. She wanted a clarification of Zoe’s remark about Reuben Major.

  “I didn’t realize,” she began in a casual tone, “that Boo had a brother. Is he still alive?”

  Judith had expected to drop a bombshell. Her question turned out to be a dud. Derek and Holly exchanged mildly puzzled glances.

  “Rube died a long time ago, didn’t he?” Holly said to her husband.

  Derek nodded. “An automobile accident killed Reuben and his wife. It happened in Arizona, I believe. I was away at college and didn’t pay much attention.” He gave Judith a self-deprecating look. “You know how it is when you’re young and utterly self-absorbed—you hear about the death of someone you don’t really know and it goes right over your head.”

  “But you knew Rube Major?” Judith asked, trying not to sound eager.

  Derek resumed eating his French toast. “No, I don’t recall meeting him. Uncle Boo spoke of him now and then. Rube was very bright, he spoke three languages, and he thought about becoming an actor. But he was a maverick. As the elder brother, he should have taken over Dunlop’s position in the business. But that strange streak in Dunlop that lured him to the sea surfaced much stronger in Rube. When he was twenty-one, he—as they say—‘hit the road.’ It was right after the family moved West. Rube kept on going. That’s why Dunlop disinherited him and left everything to Boo.”

  Holly dimpled, creating a charming effect that made her look much younger and less frazzled. “It’s fascinating, really. Dunlop Major and his father before him were such ambitious, hardworking men. Then along comes Rube, who wanted nothing more than to see where the next road took him. And Boo, who was content to just sit and doze. Aren’t people interesting?”

  Judith couldn’t argue the point. She, too, found people intriguing, mystifying, stimulating, and amazing. But, amusement factor aside, Judith wasn’t quite satisfied with the Rushes’ answers.

  “Was Dunlop an only child?” she inquired, still keeping her tone conversational.

  Derek’s forehead puckered. “Yes, I think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. I remember Uncle Boo saying once that his grandfather’s neighbors were astounded by his success as a farmer when he had only a son to help him. So many farm families in those days had several children, you know.”

  Judith inclined her head. “Yes, certainly it saved on hired hands.” She took a sip of tomato juice and phrased her next remark carefully: “Rube and his wife had no children, I gather.” Noting the curious expression on Derek’s face, she hastened to amend her comment. “I mean, I never heard Uncle Boo talk about nieces or nephews other than you, Derek.” As far as Judith knew, Trixie and her half-siblings had little connection with Boo until Toadie jumped into the void left by Rosie.

  Derek’s voice turned cool. “I couldn’t say, actually. I only know what I heard of Reuben Major—and that he died too soon.” Somewhat savagely, Derek stabbed his sausage.

  Judith decided to back off. Before the silence could become awkward, Renie returned, glowering at her cousin.

  “What’s wrong?” Judith asked, beginning to feel as if the morning were off to an even worse start than she’d imagined.

  Renie was tight-lipped. “Later,” she snapped, and resumed eating.

  Aunt Vivvie twittered into the dining room next, her wig a trifle wilted and her makeup applied with what must have been an unsteady hand. A streak of lipstick ran awry from the corner of her mouth; one false eyelash hung at half-mast. Judith wondered how she could see.

  “Oh! I couldn’t sleep a wink last night! I was so frightened—at any minute I expected someone to strangle me in my bed!” Vivvie Rush dithered to the buffet, where she shoveled bacon, French toast, and eggs onto her plate. Her nerves apparently
hadn’t affected her appetite.

  “The worst of it,” she said, plopping into a chair next to her son, “is that I heard all sorts of strange noises. Boo’s ghost, I’m sure.” Vivvie began to eat, then suddenly looked up. “Oh! Holly, dear, be a pet and fetch me some of that nice orange juice. And coffee. Sugar and cream, no substitutes. You know how I like it.” She smiled coyly at her daughter-in-law.

  Renie and Judith finished at the same time, choosing not to linger in the dining room. Instead, they took their coffee refills into the breakfast room off the kitchen and closed both doors.

  “Well?” Judith sighed, expecting disaster.

  Renie ran a hand through her uncombed chestnut curls. Her round face was a mask of annoyance. “Phone calls. My breakfast got cold while I took your phone calls.”

  “My…? What’re you talking about?”

  Renie scooted her chair up closer to the round breakfast table and relaxed a bit. “The first call was from Joe. He didn’t want to ask for you for fear of alerting Buck Doerflinger. Joe got to work and found out about Uncle Boo’s murder. He’s absolutely wild.”

  Judith became indignant. “Whatever for? I didn’t shoot Uncle Boo.”

  “You might as well have. Joe can’t believe you got yourself involved in another homicide and didn’t tell him about it last night. To make matters even uglier, Buck’s assigned to the case, which is making Joe tear his hair. I told him Buck didn’t realize you were Mrs. Joe Flynn. Joe said that figured. The only reason Buck’s gotten where he has on the force is because he’s lucky. ‘Lucky Buck,’ they call him.” Renie paused to drink her coffee.

  Judith hung her head. “I didn’t tell Joe last night because he was tired and I knew he’d worry. So how,” she demanded, regaining her spunk, “was I to know we’d get iced in over here on The Bluff?”