by Mary Daheim
Tucking his spare head under his arm, Dennis trudged away. Nan turned to Judith, as if seeing her for the first time. “Oh. You’re—?”
“Judith Flynn,” Judith replied. “Otherwise known as the Doyenne of Death. Or, after this little episode, I should be known as dead, period.”
“Come in,” Nan said. “I apologize for Dennis behaving so thoughtlessly.”
Gratefully, Judith collapsed into an upholstered chair in front of Nan’s modular desk. Apparently, this was the reception area. A half-dozen other chairs lined one wall, and there were posters everywhere, promoting Toujours La Tour’s various offerings.
“Let’s not waste time,” Nan said in her brisk manner. “Have you decided to sue us?”
“What?” Judith was still collecting what was left of her wits. “No. That is, Jeremy apologized and agreed to cut Hillside Manor from his tour.”
Nan’s cool blue eyes betrayed a touch of amusement. “Hiring your husband didn’t hurt, either, did it?”
Judith stared at Nan. “Was that a bribe?”
“No,” Nan replied. “It was George’s idea. But I’m sure it played some part in persuading you to consider what happened Friday as an embarrassing mistake, rather than a smear tactic.”
“Well…in a way,” Judith admitted.
“So what can I do for you?” Nan inquired, hands folded on the desk, strong features alert and expectant. “A refund, perhaps?”
“No,” Judith said, beginning to gather her composure. “My cousin bought the tour at our church school’s auction. Since Joe—my husband—is investigating the Carrabas murder, I’m collecting a little background on the case. Frankly, I’m confused. Who recommended Mrs. Carrabas to George Guthrie?”
Nan pushed her half-glasses up on her forehead and gazed at the ceiling. “Hmm. Let me think. Someone called the office and gave her name as an accomplished and successful exorcist. Now who was that? I thought it was one of the former tenants at the Alhambra.”
“George said it was the O’Dowds, but they deny it,” Judith said.
“Hunh.” Nan looked puzzled. “I didn’t take the call myself, I just passed it on to George. Now I wonder…” The sentence trailed away.
“Excuse me,” Judith broke in. “I’m getting more confused than ever. The recommendation came through which office? I understood it was at Guthrie Properties.”
“It was.” Nan’s wide mouth twisted in what passed for a smile. “I worked for George Guthrie for several years before I took this job. Jeremy’s first secretary didn’t pan out and he had to fire her before the tours actually started. He was desperate and I was looking for a change. Toujours La Tour sounded intriguing. I’d had enough of work orders and eviction notices and subcontractors and all the other drudgery that goes into a construction and property management business. I’ve been on the job here for two weeks as of today.”
“That sounds like a good move on your part,” Judith said. “You must have had to bone up pretty fast on the tour spiels, though.”
Nan’s expression was wry. “I moved up here from L.A. many years ago. I’ve always been a history buff.
There is no history in L.A.—how can there be when the motto is ‘What have you done for me lately, baby?’ One of the first things I did after I moved here was to join the city’s historical society.”
“With a special emphasis on Heraldsgate Hill?” Judith asked.
“No, not particularly,” Nan replied. “I live in one of the condos George built between the hill and downtown. I have no specialized geographical interest. I’m more intrigued by the period covering the Depression and World War Two. It was a time of enormous change around here. Now,” Nan continued, still brisk, “what would you like to know regarding Mrs. Carrabas’s murder? I can’t tell you much, of course. If I could, George and Jeremy wouldn’t have hired your husband.”
Judith expelled a little sigh. “There has to be a connection between someone here—by that I mean someone with ties to the Alhambra—and Mrs. Carrabas. I expect that Joe will have some background information on her by this afternoon. But can you think of anyone—anyone at all—who might have known her in some other way?”
Nan looked blank. “I can’t. I wish I knew who left that phone message about her a few weeks ago. But it was on one of these”—Nan held up a pink phone memo pad—“with her name, the number to call, and something scribbled about her being a highly recommended exorcist. I thought the recommendation came from the O’Dowds, but I must have read it wrong.”
“You don’t know who wrote the note?” Judith asked.
Nan shook her head. “I think I’d gone to lunch at the time. All sorts of people went in and out of that office. Other employees, construction crew, real estate salespersons, you name it. If they were waiting around for George, sometimes they’d answer the phone if it kept ringing. We had trouble with our system, and the messaging service was all fouled up.”
“I see.” Judith grew thoughtful. “I’m interested in the past, too. Does it strike you as strange that Mrs. Carrabas should be murdered at the Alhambra just a short time after Mrs. Meacham’s body was found?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Nan said.
“Who did the research on the Meacham murder for the tour presentation?”
“Jeremy, originally,” Nan said, “but after I came to work for him, he turned it over to me.” She pulled her chair away from the desk and opened a file drawer. “All the information is here. Would a copy of it be helpful?”
“Definitely,” Judith said, feeling excitement well up inside. “Do you mind?”
“It won’t take long.” Nan took the file over to a copy machine in the corner of the reception area. “There’s nothing private about this. We got it all from old newspaper accounts and public records.”
“And no one knows what happened to Harry Meacham?”
Nan turned on the copy machine and began feeding it pages from the file. “Not as far as we could discover. He’d told the neighbors he was moving to California for a fresh start. Maybe he went someplace else instead. Everybody flocked to California in those days.”
“Including your parents?” Judith inquired.
Nan was putting the copies in order. “No. They’d come out from Texas during the Depression. I suppose that’s one reason the period intrigues me.” She slipped the fresh pages into an envelope, then turned to Judith. “They never found their pot of gold. I used to wonder why they didn’t go back.”
Judith rose as Nan handed her the envelope. “Thanks so much. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I doubt it,” Nan said. “Frankly, I can’t imagine how the two murders could be connected, except by location. Lightning can strike twice, you know.”
Judith started to smile, then saw that Nan’s cool blue gaze had turned downright frigid. As she left the offices of Toujours La Tour, Judith wondered if Nan’s last comments were just an opinion—or a warning.
Joe arrived home shortly before five. As Judith had predicted, he’d gotten Aimee Carrabas’s background from Woody.
“She was born Aimee Elise Ritter in Santa Monica,” he said as he sat down at the computer in the kitchen. “She was married at least twice, to an Augustus Aure, whom she divorced, and to James Carrabas, who died six years ago. No children. She got into the exorcism business not long after Mr. Carrabas passed on. Woody tracked down a feature story on her in the Orange County paper. She got her start by visiting a medium who tried to put her in touch with her late husband. Apparently, the venture was a success, at least by Mrs. Carrabas’s standards, and she became interested in all forms of spiritualism. According to the article, she’s performed several successful exorcisms, including a fundamentalist church in Anaheim, a city park in Oceanside, and the bullpen at Dodger Stadium.”
“You’re joking,” Judith said. “At least about that last one.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve got a copy of the article right here.” He tapped the file folder on the counter. “A couple of years b
ack, a middle-relief pitcher swore that his ERA was so high because his grandmother was haunting him. She’d wanted him to be a lawyer instead of a baseball player. So the guy hired Mrs. Carrabas to exorcise Granny’s spirit.”
“And it worked?” Judith asked in amazement.
“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “Two days later he got traded to the Mets.”
Judith, who’d decided it was cool enough to turn on the oven, finished placing tiny pastry cups on a cookie sheet. “Is there any connection between Mrs. Carrabas and the Alhambra?”
“None that Woody or I could see,” Joe admitted. “Homicide detectives down there are interviewing the neighbors and some of her clients. That’ll take some time, but it should turn up something.”
“Have you found out when she actually arrived in town?” Judith asked, putting the cookie sheet into the oven.
“She flew up Friday morning,” Joe said, making more entries into the computer. “No help there. She had a round-trip ticket with a return to John Wayne Airport that evening. Obviously, she didn’t plan to stick around and visit potential killers.”
“Frankly,” Judith said, “her résumé doesn’t impress me.”
“Read the article,” Joe said, handing Judith the file folder.
The photo of Mrs. Carrabas struck Judith first. Seated in front of a bookcase and wearing a flowered blouse along with a friendly smile, she looked like a pleasant, ordinary woman who’d make a good neighbor. Judith recalled the contorted face of the bloodstained woman on the bed in the Alhambra and felt a sharp pang.
The article, bylined “Alexis Mayo, Staff Reporter,” bordered on the tongue-in-cheek. It was clear, however, that Aimee Carrabas took her calling seriously:
“Evil exists in the world,” Mrs. Carrabas was quoted as saying, “though many people scoff at the idea. But while the spirits who spread misfortune and tragedy are very real, they can be dispelled through belief in a Higher Power, which translates as Good in capital letters. Certain people possess the gift to rid the world of these negative forces. I believe I’m one of those who have been given that ability. Perhaps it’s because I’ve encountered evil in my own life and have overcome it.”
Judith scanned the rest of the background material that Woody had passed on to Joe. Mrs. Carrabas had lived in various places in and around Los Angeles. Apparently, she had moved away twice, once in the mid-sixties, and again in the early seventies. Her occupations had included hairdressing, retail sales, grocery store demonstrator, and running an art gallery in Pasadena. Financial assets uncovered so far included a house assessed at a hundred and eighty thousand dollars, a savings account of almost thirty thousand dollars, and an IRA worth twenty-five thousand dollars. She had no criminal record, not so much as a traffic ticket. Her life didn’t seem to point toward a violent death.
“She sounds harmless,” Judith remarked.
“So she does,” Joe agreed, frowning at the computer screen. “How do I merge documents? Which goes into which? Does it matter? I hate these damned things. They drove me nuts at work.”
Judith leaned over Joe’s shoulder. “Here,” she said, moving the mouse. “Do this…then this…then that. Voilà!”
“Sure,” Joe grumbled, “it’s easy when you know how.”
An item in the newly merged documents caught Judith’s eye. “What’s that about a four-hundred-thousand dollar loan application? I didn’t see that in the file.”
“Oh—Woody hadn’t had time to enter it,” Joe said. “A couple of weeks ago, Mrs. Carrabas applied for a real estate loan through one of the local banks. Approval hadn’t come through yet.”
“She was buying another house?” Judith inquired, straightening up and emitting a little groan.
“I guess.” Joe turned around in the swivel chair. “What’s wrong? The hips acting up? Did you call Dr. Alfonso?”
Judith’s hands flew to her cheeks. “I forgot! I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” Joe said with concern. “How could you forget when you’re in such pain?”
“We women play through pain,” Judith replied, half-serious. She removed the pastry cups from the oven and put them on the counter. “I have a file of my own to show you. I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little sleuthing, too. By accident,” she added hastily. It was best to omit the previous night’s visit to the O’Dowds or the afternoon conversation with Helen Schnell. Joe would be angry with her not only for getting in too deep, but for neglecting her health.
Turning off the computer, Joe regarded his wife with justifiable suspicion. “You were sleuthing by accident?”
“Yes,” Judith said, avoiding Joe’s gaze as she poured out two measures of Scotch. “On the way back from Gut Busters, I stopped by Jeremy Lamar’s office to make sure that Hillside Manor wouldn’t be on the mystery tour anymore.”
“Jeremy agreed to that yesterday,” Joe said, still suspicious.
“I know,” Judith replied, adding ice before handing Joe his glass. “But with so much going on with Jeremy right now, I thought maybe he hadn’t remembered to get the message through to his staff, especially Nan Leech, the other tour guide.” In retrospect, the fib sounded quite plausible.
Joe must have thought so, too. “So you got it squared away?”
Judith nodded. “While I was there, I asked about the historical background that had gone into the Alhambra visit, especially regarding the Meacham murder.” Judith picked up the envelope that Nan had given her. “Here. This is all the research. I haven’t had time to go through it myself, so I thought we could study it together.”
Joe gave Judith a perplexed look. “What for? That’s from fifty-odd years ago. Are you trying to connect the two murders?”
“Well,” Judith replied, “maybe.”
Joe shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t bother yourself. How in the world could you possibly go from the Meacham woman to Aimee Carrabas?”
“The jewelry, for one thing,” Judith responded. “What if the jewelry stash tied in with Dorothy Meacham’s death? Suddenly it’s found, right after her body is discovered. Then Mrs. Carrabas shows up and gets killed. Can you honestly rule out a connection?”
Joe took a deep drink from his glass and sighed. “Maybe not. But it’s an awfully big stretch, Jude-girl. I prefer to concentrate on the here and now.”
“Okay,” Judith said. “Let me work on the ‘then.’”
“Go ahead,” Joe replied, almost too agreeably. “That sounds like your kind of thing.”
Judith shot a sharp glance at Joe. He was patronizing her, she was sure of it. Just as a biting remark formed in her brain, the front doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” she said, vexed at the interruption. While the B&B still had a vacancy on this Monday night, all the guests with reservations had already arrived. Judith trudged out to the entry hall and opened the door.
Dr. Alfred Ashe stood on the porch, his long-lashed black eyes darting in every direction.
“May I come in?” the chiropractor asked in a voice that trembled.
“Of course,” Judith said, stepping aside. “What’s wrong?”
Alfred practically dove into the house. “Can you lock that?” he asked as Judith closed the door.
“Yes, but…”
“Please.” His skin had turned a sallow shade and the hands that held an attaché case shook as if palsied.
Dutifully, Judith shot the dead bolt and regarded the newcomer with concern. “Can you tell me what’s upset you, Dr. Ashe?”
“May I stay here tonight?” he asked on a gulp. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
EIGHT
SCOTCH IN HAND, Joe had come into the entry hall. “What’s going on?” he asked, sounding more like a cop than a husband.
Quickly, Judith explained how she’d met Dr. Ashe on the tour and how he had helped her with his chiropractic skills. “He’s got a problem,” Judith said. “He thinks he’s in danger.”
&nbs
p; With a practiced eye, Joe studied the short, sturdy middle-aged man. “Let’s go into the front parlor. You can tell us all about it. I’m a retired cop, by the way.”
Surprise spread over Alfred’s broad features, but he attempted a small smile. “Twice today someone tried to run me down,” he said after being seated in one of the parlor’s armchairs and given a glass of brandy. “The first time, around ten o’clock this morning, I thought it was just an accident. I was downtown, coming from my hotel. A car jumped the curb and almost hit me. Now, while I was walking from the bus stop on that steep avenue a block from here, it happened again, only this time I was crossing the street to get here.”
“Did you see the driver?” Joe asked.
Alfred shook his head. “All I can tell you is that it was a medium-sized sedan, a dark color, and probably a fairly late model. Cars all look alike to me these days.”
“You were coming here?” Judith said. “Why?”
“I was leaving town this evening,” Alfred replied, his hands finally steady. “I’d checked out of the hotel. But I wanted to talk to you one more time about that jewelry. My hobby is old gold and silver. I’m something of a collector.”
“Why,” Joe asked, “would anyone want to kill you?”
Alfred looked bewildered. “I’ve no idea. I really don’t know anyone in town.”
“Where do you live, Doctor?” Judith inquired, listening for the guests’ arrival in the living room.
Alfred hesitated before answering. “San Francisco,” he finally replied. “I came here last week for a chiropractic meeting, and decided to stay on for a few days to see the sights. This is my first visit.”
Joe was still in his policeman’s mode. “You’re absolutely certain that the two incidents involved the same car?”
Alfred grimaced. “I think so. I have to admit, I don’t drive. San Francisco has terrible traffic. So I’m afraid I just don’t pay much attention to makes and models and such. This morning, everything happened so fast. I sensed, rather than saw, the car come over the curb. Naturally, I jumped out of the way. By the time I collected myself, the car was lost in traffic.”