Rest You Merry

by Charlotte MacLeod

  They were the only faculty couple who did mad, sophisticated things like hopping down to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras or over to Milwaukee for the Oktoberfest. They were the only people in town who owned a Porsche and among the few who knew how to pronounce it. They also owned a beat-up old Volkswagen.

  Nobody needed two cars in a village where everything was within walking distance, but that was part of the Dysart mystique. Adele made a point of driving the VW to the supermarket about once a month. The elderly vehicle was apt as not to break down in the parking lot and give her an opportunity to demonstrate that she was just a harried housewife like the rest of them. Adele was the one with the money.

  She also had a great many teeth. Professor Shandy was always aware of Adele Dysart’s teeth, but never more so than now, as he handed over his sack of bucolic ribaldry and stammered out his apologies for having cut their Christmas party without notice.

  “I was—er—called out of town unexpectedly.”

  “So we heard, only that wasn’t the way we heard it. Hiya, Pete.”

  Bob Dysart surged forward. Bob always surged. He reminded Shandy of the Singapore Susie, now that the professor was in a position to make the comparison.

  “Have a drink and tell us all about it.”

  “There’s—er—not a great deal to tell. Thanks, I will. A small scotch and water, if you don’t mind. About half of what you’d consider a reasonable allowance for an elderly lady in poor health.”

  Bob dispensed liquor as he did everything else, in a big way. Shandy did not wish to complete his roster of social gaffes by having to battle his way back up the Crescent half sloshed. He picked his way among the Dysarts’ assortment of furniture, avoided the camel bench and the chair made entirely of buffalo horns, and settled on a wicker throne with a back like a peacock’s tail. The seat wasn’t too bad, and he wouldn’t have to look at what was behind him.

  “How’s that?”

  His host thrust a tumbler with a large orange D on it into his hand. Shandy tasted the mixture with apprehension and decided to let the ice melt a little.

  “Fine, Bob. I suppose you’ve heard the—er—terrible news?”

  “We’ve heard Jemima Ames fell and cracked her nut, if that’s what you mean.” Bob made a thing of calling a spade by a more vulgar name. “As to whether it’s terrible, I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “Pay no attention to him, Peter,” said Adele. “He’s in one of his Oscar Wilde moods. I think it’s perfectly awful myself. Poor Jemima was such a vibrant personality.”

  “That depends on how you define vibrant,” her husband quibbled. “Constantly in motion and not getting anywhere but making a lot of noise about it, like a tuning fork? If that’s what you mean, I agree absolutely.”

  “That’s not bad, sweetie. Perhaps you’d better go write it down. Bring me a bourbon on your way back.”

  “You’ve already had a bourbon.”

  “I’ve had two, but who’s counting? Tell me, Peter, was she all bloodied up and horrible?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just—er—lying there.”

  “Oh.”

  Adele struggled not to look disappointed. “Hannah told me she tripped on a ladder or something while she was trying to take down those fantastic Santa Clauses of yours. She said she was going to, you know.”

  “Did she? No, I didn’t know.”

  “You would have, you bad kid, if you hadn’t skipped out on my lovely party. Who’s the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one you went to spend Christmas with. Why else would you walk out on me?”

  Shandy felt himself gripped by another of those hellish impulses.

  “Er—her name is Susie. In strictest confidence, of course.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” said Adele with an earnestness that fooled nobody. “What’s she like?”

  “Well—er—she’s very fond of the water. You say Jemima was trying to take down my Santa Clauses? I think they’re rather colorful myself.”

  “They’re that, and then some,” roared Bob. “Come on, Pete, you can’t kid us. Everybody knows what you were up to.”

  “That’s distressing. I’d hoped I might be able to—er—persuade you otherwise.”

  “Forget it, pal. Feeling was running pretty high at the party. No higher than the guests, I have to admit.”

  “You know what happens when Bob makes the punch,” said Adele. “I’m not sure whether it was the cherry brandy or the tequila this time.”

  “Too bad I missed it,” said Shandy, unable to repress a shudder. “Then Jemima was a trifle above herself, so to speak?”

  “No worse than anyone else,” Adele started to say, but her husband cut in.

  “No use trying to paint the lily, Dell, or whatever it is you do to the damn things. Pete would know, I expect. Jemima was drunk as a skunk, to coin a simile. Don’t you remember how we all stood at the window watching her weave herself down the path with that purple cape flapping out behind her? Christ, we laughed ourselves sick.”

  “Well, don’t do it again,” said his wife. “Peter, you wouldn’t believe the mess I had to cope with next morning. Next time you drop one of your time bombs into the punch bowl, sweetiekins, you clean the bathrooms.”

  “Isn’t she cute, Pete? How’s your drink? Ready for the dividend?”

  “No, thanks. I’m still working on the—er—principal. I wonder if you have any idea who let her in?”

  “Who can remember?” Adele replied. “Either Bob or myself, I suppose, or else she just barged in without ringing the bell. She’d do that.”

  “I meant into my house,” Shandy explained. “She couldn’t have barged in there because I’d locked up carefully before I left.”

  Dysart shrugged. “She must have found a key somewhere. I know Adele and I are always leaving them with the neighbors when we go away and so does everybody else. You probably gave her one yourself at one time or another.”

  “I’m quite sure I didn’t. Jemima wasn’t particularly reliable. Anyway, Mrs. Lomax generally takes care of the place while I’m gone.”

  “She didn’t this time.”

  “No, but—”

  “Damn it, Pete, there’s no use making a mystery over a little thing like this. You’ve passed one out to somebody or other so long ago you’ve forgotten about it, that’s all. What about the Feldsters? They’re the most logical, being your next-door neighbors.”

  Shandy didn’t think so. Mirelle Feldster had been trying for fifteen years to take poor, lonely Peter Shandy under her motherly wing. He couldn’t believe he’d ever have been fool enough to give her a key to his house and not get it back. Still, there was always the possibility she’d managed to get hold of one somehow.

  “Were they at the party?”

  “Sure. Everybody was but you and the Cadwalls, naturally. I’ll bet a nickel it was either Mirelle or Jim who gave Jemima the key. You can imagine how they’re feeling about this cute trick of yours, with eight plastic reindeer leering straight into their bedroom window. Must be putting old Jim right off his stroke.”

  “If you ask me, he quit stroking a long time ago,” Adele put in, but Shandy paid no attention.

  “But you don’t actually remember anyone’s mentioning a key?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember anything at all with any great degree of clarity from about half past eight on,” said Dysart.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said his wife.

  “That and whatever else comes handy. You were feeling no pain yourself, tootsie.”

  Shandy was not about to let them get sidetracked. “But you do recall Jemima’s leaving, Bob? Who let her out?”

  “You mean held the door and waved ’by-’by? I didn’t. I believe I went upstairs with her to get her blanket and war bonnet mainly because I had to go to the bathroom and the one downstairs was in use. I presume she got down on her own while I was making my tinkle.”

  “And I know I didn’t,” said Adele. “Co
ntrary to what my loving husband is trying to make you believe, I was cold sober. I wouldn’t dare be anything else in front of that crowd. I couldn’t go to the door with Jemima because I had something in the oven. She’d come to me a few minutes before and said she must be going and I said she couldn’t go yet because she hadn’t had any of my squid puffs.”

  “Your what?”

  “Squid puffs. It’s a Greek recipe. They have to be timed to the minute. I rushed out to put a batch under the broiler and the next thing I knew, Bob was yowling, ‘Hey, everybody, get a load of the mountain going to Mohammed.’ So I glanced out the window and there was Jemima lumbering down the path to the short cut. I must say I was a bit miffed, when I’d gone to that much bother especially for her.”

  “Do you happen to remember the exact time?”

  “Yes, I do, because I was timing the puffs. I had to take them out at precisely nine twenty-nine. Funny how things like that stick in your mind.”

  “That’s right,” said Bob. “The carillon started ringing while we were still gathered around the window, laughing our fool heads off. God, that was funny!”

  “Don’t kid yourself, darling,” cooed his wife. “The others just went along with your lousy joke because you were buying the booze, which needless to say you weren’t. I hope you don’t honestly believe you’re fooling anybody about who pays the bills around here.”

  The conversation had worked around to where the Dysarts’ badinage usually did wind up sooner or later. Shandy set down his still nearly full tumbler and got up.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to be going. I promised Tim I’d make some phone calls for him. The funeral is tomorrow morning, you know, at ten o’clock in the chapel. You’ll come, I hope?”

  “So soon?” shrilled Adele. “I haven’t done a thing about flowers. God, I wonder if Harry the Ghoul is answering his business phone? Maybe he can wake up the florist or something. It would have to be a Sunday! Why didn’t you let me know earlier?”

  “Cool it, Dell,” said her husband. “They’ll be around. Those guys would never miss out on a chance to make a buck. You can count on us, Pete. Adele’s got a new black mink coat Santa Claus brought her, and she’s itching to show it off. Think you can find the door?”

  “I expect likely. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Thanks for the cowpats. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  SHANDY WALKED THOUGHTFULLY DOWN the path to the short cut. This was the way Jemima had come. It would be. Jemima was a great taker of short cuts. He tried to picture her in front of him as Dysart had described her, a great mass of purple wool weaving and flapping.

  It wouldn’t work. The path was neatly shoveled since Adele was a great one for getting male students to do odd jobs around the place, although she had to be circumspect in her requests because Mrs. Svenson set a high standard in student-faculty relationships. Still, the shoveler hadn’t exerted himself to dig any wider than he had to. There simply was not room for a big woman to weave and flap without toppling into the piled-up snow at either side, and Shandy could find no spot where the smooth bank was disturbed.

  She couldn’t have been so far gone as Bob made out. That didn’t mean anything in particular. It was typical of the assistant professor in electrical engineering to make believe his parties always turned into orgies. In fact, they tended to be rather circumspect affairs, all things considered, including Mrs. Svenson’s principles and the president’s temper.

  At any rate, Jemima had indeed left the Dysarts’ under her own power just before half past nine with the avowed intention of vandalizing Shandy’s house. He ought to have asked whether anybody else left with her, but thought that was unlikely. Grimble would have mentioned the fact, and Bob wouldn’t have missed a chance to drag a second reveler into his story.

  Besides, if the killer was also a guest at the party, he or she must surely have had sense enough to hang back long enough to allay any possible suspicion. Jemima would need a fair amount of time to unlock the door and make her way through the different rooms, and it wouldn’t take more than three minutes or so to get over to the brick house after her, using the crowd for cover. One would only have to say, “I came to help,” wait till her back was turned and strike her down, then set the stage and go away. Somebody primed on tequila and cherry brandy might easily think it a clever touch to spill the marbles but forget to leave the telltale key with the corpse.

  Still, he couldn’t figure out how anybody could have got away with juggling that outsize body around his living room with the blinds up and tourists glued to the window-panes, or why anybody would want to try. It would be so much easier to kill her right here in the shrubbery.

  His path led straight into an enormous hedge between the Dysarts’ and the house that actually was first on the Crescent. Old Dr. Enderble never liked to cut down the bushes because many birds and little animals nested and fed in what had, over many years, become a dense tangle. Once in a while, Mrs. Enderble sneaked out with her sewing scissors in her apron pocket and snipped off a few really bothersome twigs. When the Dysarts bought the adjoining property a few years ago, Bob had made savage attacks on the overgrown shrubs, heedless of his neighbors’ protests. Then he found out the Enderbles were adored by everybody in town and decided he’d only been pruning out dead wood to encourage new growth. Sure enough, he had. One would have no trouble hiding a corpse in that copse, Shandy thought, and was immediately appalled at himself for the frivolity.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t have been all that easy, not if you didn’t want the body found right away. Quite a few of the guests at the party must have used this short cut both coming and going. So, most likely, had some of the visitors and even perhaps one or two of those obnoxious sled-pulling elves, although they were enjoined to keep off private grounds. It was never completely dark, even in here, with the white snow reflecting hundreds and hundreds of multicolored lights all around the Crescent. In any event, John Enderble couldn’t have helped spotting that garish purple cloak when he came out at dawn to check his bird feeders.

  Furthermore, how could a plausible accident be staged out here? There was no large boulder or stump or fence post along the path on which she might seem to have struck her head in falling. She couldn’t be dragged into the bushes without leaving a trail and giving the show away.

  Shandy still couldn’t tell whether somebody had slain Jemima on impulse and then arranged the cover-up, but he was more and more inclined to think the crime had been planned in advance. But why kill Jemima Ames? True, everybody in Balaclava Junction except perhaps Mary Enderble must have entertained the notion at one time or other, but would it actually be possible to stay furious with the woman long enough to do her in? Her methods could drive anybody to exasperation, but her motives were always benevolent enough. Even the Illumination was a worthy cause, as the professor had to keep reminding himself. The agony would be over soon, but the money it earned would continue doing good work for months to come.

  Now, there was an angle to consider. Had Jemima found out that somebody was helping himself to more than a fair share of the Illumination funds? The setup was supposed to be reasonably foolproof, but with so many people involved in such a freewheeling operation, there had to be loopholes. Ben Cadwall would know, being the comptroller. So would Hannah Cadwall, no doubt, and Hannah was Jemima’s bosom buddy. Could one of them have spotted a fiddle and not told the other?

  That might depend on who was doing the fiddling. If it should happen to be the comptroller’s wife, friendship wouldn’t keep Jemima from ripping her to shreds as a matter of principle. It was Jemima, as everybody but Tim himself knew, who’d ratted to Ottermole that her husband’s failing eyesight made him incompetent to drive any longer, regardless of the fact that the car was one of Ames’s few pleasures outside his work. If she’d do that to Tim, she’d do anything to anybody.

  It would be interesting to know where Hannah Gadwall was at half past nine on the night of December 22. Bob had said she
and Ben weren’t at the party, and Shandy wouldn’t have expected them to be. The comptroller did not approve of the way Professor Dysart flung his wife’s money around.

  Of course the Dysarts’ personal finances were none of the comptroller’s business. A great many of the things Ben poked his nose into were none of his business, but that fact never stopped him from wanting to know, nor from preaching from whatever text he considered relevant to the circumstance. People listened to Cadwall because he was in a position that made him dangerous to ignore, but his holier-than-anybody manner had not endeared him to his neighbors and colleagues.

  Was it in fact possible to be as righteous as Ben Cadwall acted? If he was, could any woman endure that much respectability without at last feeling something snap? Shandy wasn’t prepared to believe that Hannah had embarked on a life of crime just to spite her husband, but he wondered if she mightn’t be building up a private nest egg as a step toward striking out on her own.

  As to killing Jemima, Hannah would certainly have had the best chance. It wasn’t possible that Jemima Ames hadn’t sounded off to her best friend, as she had to the Dysarts’ guests, about going over and ripping down Shandy’s decorations. They might even have planned to do it together. Mrs. Cadwall being appointed to get hold of a key while Mrs. Ames put in her appearance at the Dysarts’.

  It would be quite within Cadwall’s character to own a personal set of keys to all the houses on the Crescent. Although these were owned by the people who lived in them, the land they sat on belonged to the college and they couldn’t be resold except to other faculty or staff. That, and the fact that they all got their power from the college plant, was sufficient reason for the Svensonian fiat that each householder must leave a door key with the security office. It would be no problem for Grimble to make duplicates, and he’d do it if Cadwall asked him to. Grimble would not disoblige the man who signed his pay checks.

  Grimble was, in fact, altogether too cooperative for Shandy’s taste. He was pretty sure the key that let Jemima in must have come from the security chief, either directly or indirectly. The only alternative was Mrs. Lomax, and she was not only pea-green incorruptible but out of town. Besides, she’d talk. The professor had a hunch that Grimble, if suitably compensated, would not.