by Mary Daheim
Judith nodded. “That was the problem—there didn’t seem to be any motive for you or your parents. It was only when I learned that Rube had a daughter that I began to wonder about Ruth Major’s identity. As a teenager, she had attended Boo and Rosie’s wedding reception. Aunt Toadie said Ruth didn’t spend much time with the grownups. My cousin Renie had glimpsed your mother in the hotel elevator. All she could remember was freckles.”
Zoe’s amber eyes were wistful. “Mom’s freckles faded as she got older. It’s strange, you know,” she mused. “I wonder now if Mr. Major—Dunlop—might have relented about his own will if Mom hadn’t married a hippie.”
The theory struck Judith as possible. “Your mother didn’t seem interested in politics. She wanted justice, though. Eventually, after the homicide investigation had petered out, she’d have trotted out the forged will. Until then, she had to keep her family ties a secret. That’s why she cut the phone wires—so we couldn’t do any checking on what had happened to Ruth Major after her parents were killed. An obituary would have given her married name.”
Joe had found one of Boo’s cigars and was puffing away. “We’ll still need proof that Ruth Wakefield is Ruth Major. We need evidence, too. Otherwise we might be forever accusing the wrong Wakefields.” His tone was ironic.
Judith made a rueful face. “It was an honest mistake on my part. You’re bright, Zoe. It could have been you. But your mother is smart, too, plus she admitted that she could do just about anything around the house. She had to, because Weed was such a washout. When it came to removing bricks, drilling holes, cutting phone wires, and all the rest, Mrs. Wakefield overcame every obstacle.” Judith turned back to Zoe. “You might have as well, if you knew you had a motive. But I realized you had something else—an alibi. It was so hard to keep track of who was where when, and, I have to admit, I got mixed up. Finally I remembered that you were with my cousin and me in the kitchen when the gun was fired. Your mother wasn’t there—she was in the basement, tending to your father’s burns.”
Zoe’s flushed face was puzzled. “But…then how could she have done it?”
“It all began with the pressure cooker,” Judith said, ignoring Joe’s incredulous expression. “Your mother set all of us up—especially your father. She put those beets on the upstairs stove, knowing the catering team would object. Which we did. So she took them downstairs and told your father how to tend them. But, of course, her directions were incorrect. She wanted them to explode, not only to make a misleading loud noise, but to give herself an excuse to go downstairs. Your dad was instructed to lift the lid and check the beets. He did, which is a definite no-no with a pressure cooker. Ka-blooey!” Judith folded her hands in her lap. “That started the series of noises that were intended to confuse us and mask the actual gunshot. To provide an alibi, she had to make it impossible to pin-point the actual time of death.”
Zoe was shocked. “Dad might have been badly burned. How could she?”
Judith avoided Zoe’s pitiful gaze. “Your mother was single-minded. She saw only her goal and ran over any obstacles along the way. Even your dad, though I don’t think she ever intended him serious harm.”
Zoe’s face crumpled again, then regained some of its composure. “Mom was cunning,” she said in a bitter voice, “but Dad has the real brains. Compassion and wisdom, too.”
“That may be. I should have listened more closely to what your father said.” Judith spoke with regret. “He told me that he’d asked your mother about one of the muffled sounds after she’d come back to tuck him in—which should have made me realize that for a brief period, she was out of your father’s sight. She didn’t come back upstairs, so where was she? She’d gone outside through the basement door by the back porch. And then your father said that your mother had ignored him. That didn’t strike me as strange until I smelled a sheep in the basement.”
Joe expelled a big puff of smoke and started for the arched entrance to the living room. “We’re leaving now. I have to get down to headquarters, and my wife has to see her nut doctor. She’s gone over the edge, I’m afraid.”
But Judith waved a peremptory hand. “Now wait just a minute! It wasn’t a real sheep, it was wet wool. It was raining like mad at the time of Boo’s murder, and Mrs. Wakefield had to put a coat on over her uniform or else everyone would have known she was outside. She grabbed the loden coat, which would cover her completely and not show up in the dark. The coat was still damp this afternoon. I could smell it when Renie and I were in the servants’ quarters.” Judith redirected her remarks to Zoe. “There was no way you could have gone from the dining room to the basement without being seen. So the coat had to have been worn by someone who had been downstairs. That, and the fact that when your mother came back up to the kitchen, she didn’t seem to hear too well. Ordinarily, her hearing was very keen. But even with the silencer, the gun must have made a very loud noise inside the open wall of the den. She was temporarily deafened by the shot, which is why she ignored your father’s question about the noise. She simply didn’t hear him.”
Sniffing and nodding, Zoe tried to smile. “I knew Dad wouldn’t kill anyone. He always wanted to turn the world upside down, but he wouldn’t hurt people in the process. Dad’s so gentle. That’s why he does pot. It keeps him from seeing the ugly side of life.”
Judith refrained from making the obvious rejoinder, that a man who married a murderess faces ugliness personified. Instead, she patted Zoe’s arm. “It wasn’t really a selfish crime. Oh, your mother isn’t as indifferent to money as your father. I suspect she always resented Uncle Boo’s inheriting everything. But I honestly think she did it for you, Zoe. You’d been cheated of your inheritance as well as your future. Ruth Major Wakefield might have killed two people, but her goal was to make you happy.”
The young woman’s reddened eyes stared helplessly at Judith. “Then why am I so miserable? I don’t want money! I never did! Why do other people always think they know what’s best for you? It’s wrong! I don’t give a damn about a billion dollars! I’d rather be a maid!”
Which was a good thing, thought Judith, since Zoe Wakefield probably wouldn’t inherit one thin dime.
Hillside Manor was dark. There was no sign of a guest, a neighbor, or Gertrude. Frantically, Judith searched the front porch for notes left by disappointed B&B visitors. She scanned the street for cars she didn’t recognize, but at the corner, the Steins were giving a party. There was no way of knowing which cars belonged where.
At last she let herself in through the front door. A strange, wavering light beamed from the living room into the dining room. Drawing nearer, she heard Gertrude’s rasping voice:
“Watch, now…she’ll trip, just as she gets her diploma…There she goes! Whump!…Here’s the wedding to Lunkhead Number One. Looks don’t count, folks. A year later, my little girl is living with Mr. Blimp. It gets worse…there he is, all four hundred pounds of him. Now, that’s Mike, my grandson. Cute, huh? Ignore the drooping diapers—my daughter was working two jobs to support Blubber-o. That’s their house on Thurlow Street—see the hookers standing down at the corner? Lousy neighborhood, but they kept getting evicted from—”
Judith flipped on the lights. At the far end of the long living room, the movie screen faded into a jumble of pastels. The eight startled faces that blinked at Judith belonged to strangers. In the middle of the room, Gertrude sat behind the projector with Sweetums curled up at her feet.
“What’s going on?” Judith demanded, sounding almost as raspy as her mother.
Gertrude flinched, then drew herself up straight in the armless rocking chair. “Well, finally! Out gallivanting all day and all night! I’ve been entertaining your guests with home movies.”
Fury and humiliation warred within Judith’s breast. She flew across the living room, scaring Sweetums and alarming Gertrude.
“Delightful,” breathed a woman with steel-gray hair and several strands of pearls.
“Gritty,” declared a roly-poly, middle
-aged man wearing a gold cardigan.
“Fascinating,” commented a younger woman with the dewy air of a new bride. She held her husband’s hand and gazed into his face. “Just think of the memories we’ll have if we always use our camcorder.”
Judith was about to grab Gertrude by the collar of her jungle-print housecoat. She hesitated as her mother smiled innocently. “Homey stuff. Real life. I skipped the appetizer thingamabobs and made dinner. Pig hocks, sauerkraut, and neflë. They loved it.” She pointed to the projector. “Want to see the part at your second wedding where Uncle Corky serenades you on the swinette?”
The reference to Uncle Corky caused Judith to think of Aunt Toadie. Recalling Aunt Toadie made Judith take a long, hard look at Gertrude. She threw her arms around her mother.
“Sure, I’ll get the lights.” Judith scampered to the switch, Sweetums at her heels. “Roll ’em!”
The room went dark again. “Okay,” said Gertrude, “now there’s my sister-in-law Deb, in the wheelchair. You can recognize her because her mouth moves faster than her brain. On the right, in the tan sport coat, is my brother-in-law Al. Watch his right hand—he’s stealing that skinny guy’s wallet. Lightest fingers in town…Now there’s Mike, all grown up and wearing a tie—can you believe it?”
Judith could. After more than twenty-four hours at Major Manor, she could believe anything. She could even believe that her mother had done her a favor. With Sweetums on her lap, Judith settled into Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair and let Gertrude go on with the show.
Joe didn’t get home until almost midnight. By that time, Judith was fast asleep. If he hadn’t dropped his .38 Smith & Wesson, she would never have known he was there.
“What was that?” she asked foggily.
“My gun,” Joe muttered. “It’s okay. The safety’s on.”
Judith rolled over in bed. Joe was undressing without turning on the light. “Everything all right?” she asked.
“Oh, sure,” he grumbled. “Terrific.”
Judith fumbled for the switch on the lamp next to the bed. Joe was wearing an uncharacteristically glum face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, forcing her eyes into focus.
“Nothing. You’re a star. Go back to sleep.”
“Joe…”
“You didn’t have to tell the Mayor his cousin was wearing lily pads on his head,” Joe said in his disgruntled voice. “You didn’t have to watch Buck Doerflinger try to talk his way out of making a wrongful arrest and still take credit for bringing in the real murderer. On Monday, you’ll probably see me directing traffic around the city’s latest street improvement. Which,” he went on, his tone growing more forsaken, “will be the route where Buck’s parade will pass when they make him Public Safety Officer of the Year.”
“Oh, Joe!” Judith held her arms out to her husband. “Buck’s a bungler! He can’t take credit for solving this case!”
Ignoring Judith’s embrace, Joe sat down on the bed. “He’s pretending it was a trick to get the wife to confess to save the husband. Buck says he didn’t have any evidence against her, so he was using psychology.”
“But there’s tons of evidence,” Judith protested. “The loden coat, the timing of the real shot, our own knowledge of what Mrs. Wakefield said she did, especially to the Mayor’s cousin!”
“Hearsay,” Joe declared. “In a court of law, it won’t mean a thing.”
“And Trixie,” Judith went on, undaunted by Joe’s attitude. “She saw Mrs. Wakefield trying to kill us!”
“Trixie!” Joe snorted. “What kind of a witness will she make?”
Judith had to concede that point to Joe. “But the guns—what was the one she tried to use on us?”
“A Luger.” Joe finally swung into bed.
“Exactly,” Judith said, her excitement mounting. “A Luger and a Walther. German guns, from World War Two. I’ll bet they belonged to Rube Major, souvenirs he brought back from his OSS assignment behind the lines. Who would he have given them to but his daughter, Ruth? Then there are those bricks and the hole in the den wall—what about trace evidence? Fibers from Mrs. Wakefield’s long-sleeved uniform; hairs, maybe. There was dust on her uniform, too, probably from the masonry work outside. I’m certain the casing and the silencer are inside the wall. Her fingerprints may be on the silencer.”
Almost against his will, Joe began to brighten. “There’s a lot about this case I don’t know. Buck sure doesn’t, either. Care to enlighten me?” He reached out to touch Judith lightly on the cheek.
“I haven’t had time to tell you everything.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her face. “All Buck had was one dumb box.”
Joe chuckled. “You’re going to have to give me all the details. Buck may end up with a mere burglary bust.”
Now Judith laughed, too. “Oh, no, he won’t. The jewels are right where they belong—in Uncle Boo’s safe.”
Joe wrapped his free arm around Judith. “What are you talking about?”
“Trixie. Why do you think she came back to Major Manor? She found out what Mason was up to—I’d bet on it. And decided to return the jewels before her latest fiancé got arrested.”
“Hunh.” Joe stared up at the darkened ceiling. “So Trixie has a conscience after all.”
“No, not in the least,” Judith replied with certainty. “She just doesn’t want to team up with a thief. As ever, Trixie is self-serving. She probably still thinks she can break the wills.”
“But she can’t.” Joe, however, sounded dubious.
“That’s right, she can’t. Jill should get everything because she’s Boo’s widow. When she left to use the phone this afternoon, I figure she also called an attorney. Jill’s young, but she’s not foolish. She loves the house, though I doubt she’ll keep it.”
“Jill can make another bundle if she sells Major Manor,” Joe commented, trying to warm his feet on Judith’s. “And the jewels. Or will she give them to her grandmother?”
“I don’t know.” Judith tried to picture Vivvie Rush with a tiara perched atop her wig. “Jill never cared about the jewelry—it’s too stodgy and dated for her tastes. I realize now that the theft upset her at the time, but the loss must have seemed like a drop in the bucket.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting Jill,” Joe said on a yawn. “Maybe she’d like to invest in the Police Pension Fund.”
Enduring Joe’s cold feet, Judith chuckled. “Maybe. I think she might give a chunk to Zoe. For all her protests, Zoe would like a second chance at life. Jill’s got tons of money and she’s not greedy. In the same position, Trixie would never have been so generous.”
“Well.” Joe sounded bemused. “According to the statements Buck took initially, he never pressed Jill for her I.D. Knowing him, he probably blustered around and told her who she was, instead of asking.”
Judith nodded. “Legally, she was Boo’s niece—great-niece. We all knew that. She’d been adopted so long ago by Derek that nobody ever thought about her not having blood ties to the Lotts and the Majors. She was definitely one of the family. When the will leaving everything to Derek showed up, Jill crowed, which infuriated Toadie and Trixie. Afterward, I wondered about Jill’s reaction. All along, she knew she was inheriting the estate. But having put up with lots of Lotts for almost all her life, she was elated to put one over on them. I think she was also afraid that if she let them—or anyone else—know she was Mrs. Bruno Major, the killer might claim another victim.”
“Which gave her another reason to take off on a one-way taxi trip out of Major Manor.” Joe leaned over, withdrew his feet, and kissed Judith’s ear. “Still mad at me?”
Judith considered. “Yes. And you?”
“Definitely.”
“How mad?”
“Indescribably.”
“Funny, you don’t act mad.”
“Neither do you.”
Judith and Joe could have fooled anybody. Except each other.
About the Author
Seattle native MARY DAHEIM began
telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Mary Daheim
from Avon Books
FOWL PREY
JUST DESSERTS
HOLY TERRORS
DUNE TO DEATH
BANTAM OF THE OPERA
A FIT OF TEMPERA
MAJOR VICES
MURDER, MY SUITE
AUNTIE MAYHEM
NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE
SEPTEMBER MOURN
WED AND BURIED
LEGS BENEDICT
CREEPS SUZETTE
A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE
SUTURE SELF
And in Hardcover
SILVER SCREAM
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MAJOR VICES. Copyright © 2007 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.