by Mary Daheim
“And just now?” Joe prompted.
“I’d crossed the avenue, and when I got to the other side, I had to cross again because your place is on the north side of the street,” Alfred explained. “There were cars parked along both sides. I checked to see if anyone was coming, but I saw nothing. I started out, and all of a sudden a car came as if from nowhere. It must have missed me by inches. I turned around to look at it, but it was already gone around the corner. I don’t even know which direction it might have been headed.”
Judith could hear the voices of guests on the staircase. As she excused herself, she heard Joe ask if the car might not have been waiting near the intersection. Unfortunately, she couldn’t catch Alfred’s response, but was certain that Joe was probably right. The view was clear for the east-west street that led from the north-south avenue. Alfred would have been able to see an oncoming car from at least three blocks away.
By the time Judith had finished serving the guests and made conversation in an uncharacteristically detached manner, Joe was concluding his interview with Alfred.
“Dr. Ashe wants to spend the night here,” Joe said as Judith reentered the parlor. “You’ve got a vacant room, right?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “Room Two. By chance, it’s our only single accommodation.”
Alfred nodded and stood up. “I’ll cancel my flight. I’m very grateful for your hospitality.” He made a formal little bow to Judith.
“It’s no problem,” she assured him, leading the way into the entry hall and up the stairs. “I shouldn’t ask, but wouldn’t you feel safer leaving town?”
Alfred shook his head. “If someone’s trying to kill me, they may know my original plans. This way, I can put them off the scent. They’d never guess that I was coming here.”
Judith supposed that Alfred’s reasoning made sense, though she wondered if he was overreacting. After showing him the small but cozy room in the front of the house, she left him in the upstairs hall, using the phone to have his luggage sent from the hotel where he’d left it with the bell captain.
Joe was in the kitchen, preparing T-bone steaks for dinner. “Well?” he asked. “What do you make of Dr. Ashe?”
“Frightened,” Judith said. “Unnerved.”
Joe looked up from applying meat tenderizer to Gertrude’s steak. “You think so?”
Judith stared at her husband. “Don’t you?”
“I’m not sure,” Joe answered slowly. “After you left to take care of the guests, he asked quite a few questions about that jewelry stash at the Alhambra.”
“Really,” Judith said, recalling how interested Alfred had been in the treasure when she’d run into him by the opera house Friday afternoon. “He mentioned that his hobby was old gold and silver. I suppose that’s why.”
“Maybe,” Joe said. “I think I’ll have Woody run him through the computer.”
“You think he’s a crook?” Judith asked in surprise.
“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “But it never hurts to check.”
Judith felt obligated to defend Alfred Ashe. “He’s a fine chiropractor,” she declared. “I’d still be sitting in that damned trolley seat if it hadn’t been for him.”
The golden flecks in Joe’s green eyes danced. “You mean he’s well-adjusted?”
Judith ignored the remark.
After dinner, Judith used Renie as an excuse to get out of the house. “Renie needs some more help with that art exhibition project. I’m meeting her at Toot Suite’s.”
Joe looked up from loading the dishwasher. “I don’t get it,” he said, his manner bemused. “How can you be so much help to Renie all of a sudden?”
“I’m…a stand-in,” Judith fibbed. “She’s using me to frame photographs before she has the actual model available.”
Joe’s expression was quizzical. “Renie’s doing graphic designs for a Native American art exhibit at Toot Suite’s? How come? To see how many hot fudge sundaes it takes to inspire native artisans?”
“No, no,” Judith said, heading for the back door. “We’re just meeting there. See you.”
The local ice cream parlor was only two blocks away, and ordinarily Judith would have walked the distance. But her hips were too painful, so she took the car. Luckily, most of the shops along the avenue were closed for the day, and she found a parking space across the street.
Renie was waiting for her, studying a menu with all the concentration of a banker staring at what might be a counterfeit hundred-dollar bill.
“As you know,” Renie said as Judith sat down at the marble-topped table, “I’m not crazy about sweets until I actually see them before me.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed. “You prefer large roasts and several pounds of Dungeness crab, among other things.”
“Don’t be snide,” Renie said, putting the menu aside. “You’re just jealous because my busy little metabolism allows me to eat myself into a fit without getting fat.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Judith said, “but I’ve lost weight this summer, so I can splurge. I don’t have much of an appetite in warm weather.”
The waitress, who was a member of a large family at Our Lady, Star of the Sea, took the cousins’ orders. Out of the corner of her eye, Judith spotted Norma Paine, yet another parishioner, sidle into the ice cream parlor with the collar of her cotton jacket pulled up and a cloche hat pulled down to conceal her face.
“Norma,” Judith hissed, “pretending she’s not here indulging her sweet tooth.”
Renie glanced over at the corner table where Norma had seated herself. “Norma, that big fat Paine,” she murmured. “We’re on to her.”
“But she thinks we aren’t,” Judith said as she got out the file folder that Nan Leech had given her that afternoon.
“I had to sneak this into my purse,” Judith said. “I also had to lie to Joe. He thinks that digging into the Meacham murder is silly.”
“Did he believe you?” Renie asked.
“No, but he pretended.” Judith opened the folder. “I haven’t had time to look at this myself. I suspect it’s pretty much what we heard Friday at the Alhambra. The only problem is, I was so mad at Jeremy Lamar then that I didn’t pay close attention.”
“It was pretty cut and dried,” Renie said. “Harry came home from work, Dorothy wasn’t there, the little girl was at the neighbor’s, Harry finally called the cops later that evening. Dorothy was never found until George Guthrie opened up a wall and out she came, somewhat skinnier than she used to be.”
“Hold it,” Judith said. “Why didn’t anyone notice? I mean, wouldn’t there have been a stench?”
“From inside a wall?” Renie frowned. “Eventually, I suppose. But if there was, only the occupants of that apartment would’ve noticed, right? And if Harry killed Dorothy, he might put up with it for a while. As I recall, he moved out a short time later.”
“You’re right,” Judith agreed. “If the police came to see Harry that night or even the next day, they wouldn’t have noticed any odd odors that soon. He’d have removed any trace of his handiwork with the wall, and at that point, I doubt that the cops would have been looking for a body in the apartment. After all, it was Harry who had reported his wife as missing. At that point, he wouldn’t have been a suspect because it was undoubtedly assumed that Dorothy was alive and well, but either wandering in a daze or had run off with another man.”
“Not an uncommon thing to happen with war-time marriages,” Renie noted. “The GIs came home and discovered that their wives had fallen in love with someone else. Maybe Dorothy had, maybe that was the motive. It just took her a while to get up the nerve to tell Harry she was leaving him.”
“It’s possible,” Judith allowed. “But would she leave without her daughter?”
“It happens,” Renie said.
Judith looked at the file, most of which was old newspaper clippings, though there was a police report concerning the missing woman.
“Harry reported at eleven twenty-six t
hat night that his wife should have been home by five o’clock, six at the latest,” Judith recounted to Renie. “The neighbor who had taken care of Anne-Marie stated that Dorothy promised to be back by four-thirty. The neighbor was…Oh, my God!”
Renie leaned closer. “What? Who?”
“The neighbor was Mildred, Mrs. William, O’Dowd.”
“I thought,” Renie said after the shock had settled in, “the O’Dowds didn’t live in the building at that time.”
“They didn’t,” Judith said, noting that Norma Paine was hiding behind the menu. “Their address is given at a residence two blocks away. The children must have been friends. The O’Dowds mentioned having two children, Frankie and Danny. They must have been about Anne-Marie’s age.”
“We didn’t ask if they knew the Meachams,” Renie said suddenly. “They merely told us they didn’t live in the Alhambra at the time of Dorothy’s disappearance. We just assumed they weren’t acquainted.”
“You’re right,” Judith said with a wry expression. “Never assume anything. We know better. Now we’ll have to go back and talk to them again.”
“And have all that fun?” Renie remarked sarcastically. “Why not stab ourselves in the gums and bleed into a fruit bowl?”
“Hey, do you remember the old Comet?” Judith asked, ignoring her cousin’s remark.
“Sure,” Renie replied. “I was just a kid, but it went out of business not long after the war. They did a lot of human interest stuff, with real sob-sister reporters. You know, what they used to call there’s-a-light-burning-in-the-window journalism.”
“This article is from the Comet and suits that style perfectly,” Judith said. “It was written a few days after Dorothy disappeared, and I quote, ‘A bereaved Harry Meacham, whose wife, Dorothy, has been missing since Tuesday, moved out of the apartment the couple shared on lower Heraldsgate Hill. He has sent his adorable yet bewildered four-year-old daughter, Anne-Marie, to live with kindly relatives while he continues the search for his beloved wife. A pale and haggard Meacham allowed that he might return to the apartment later, but for now, he is too grief-stricken to stay on. Still, Meacham isn’t giving up hope, and expressed his belief that Dorothy may yet return to their once-happy home’.”
“She had, actually, though legally dead,” Renie said, and then frowned. “Relatives? What relatives?”
Judith’s banana split and Renie’s hot strawberry sundae arrived. “I never heard about any relatives,” Judith said, giving her unwanted maraschino cherry to Renie. “Harry’s relatives? Dorothy’s relatives?”
“He came back to the apartment,” Renie pointed out, swallowing the cherry in one gulp. “Isn’t that what you said on the phone?”
Judith nodded. “Eventually, Helen Schnell saw them, along with the woman presumed to be the future second Mrs. Meacham. I gather that Helen’s mother didn’t miss much. It’s too bad the old girl is dead.”
“So Harry left until Old Stinky faded away?” Renie suggested, oblivious to the strawberry syrup she was dribbling down the front of her cream-colored tee.
“Probably,” Judith said. “Maybe they went to live with the foreign blond. Damn. Why do you suppose no one was ever able to trace Harry after he moved away?”
“Did anyone try?” Renie asked, as more syrup dripped from her short chin.
“You have a point,” Judith conceded, trying not to regard Renie with dismay. “There wouldn’t have been that much paperwork for Harry to handle, since Dorothy couldn’t be declared dead. It has to make you wonder, though, about those so-called relatives.”
“Maybe they were Dorothy’s,” Renie offered. Her entire front was now covered with thick, red, strawberry syrup. “Maybe they didn’t exist. Maybe we’re crazy. Why are we doing this deep background?”
“I told you,” Judith persisted, noting that Norma Paine had just been served the Toot Suite Hog Trough Special. “I have a feeling the two murders are connected.”
“I don’t,” Renie said bluntly. “I’m with Joe. But I’ll humor you.”
“Thanks.” Judith shot Renie a dirty look, which wasn’t hard to do, given her cousin’s disgusting appearance. “What about the jewelry? Why couldn’t that be tied to Dorothy Meacham, and why couldn’t Aimee Carrabas be connected with it, too?”
“Because Aimee had never been to the Alhambra before in her life? Because she lived in California? Because she probably didn’t know it existed?”
“Yes, she did,” Judith countered. “George Guthrie told her about it, because they were staging the exorcism in the same unit as the treasure.”
“Well…maybe,” Renie allowed, swerving around in her wire-back chair to look at Norma, who was shoveling in large spoonfuls of ice cream and various toppings. “But that doesn’t mean Mrs. Carrabas had anything to do with the stash. Good grief,” Renie said, lowering her voice, “how can anyone eat like such a pig?” Jumping up from the chair, Renie accidentally knocked her spoon onto the marble-topped table, causing a sharp report. “Hey, Norma!” she shouted. “Hi, there!”
The sound of the spoon had already caught Norma’s attention. Her head had jerked up and her mouth flew open. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “She’s been shot!” Jamming the hat further down on her head, and gathering her jacket around her, Norma fled Toot Suite’s in a cloud of chopped pecans.
The other customers stared at the departing figure, then stared at Renie. Their horrified reaction finally caused her to look down at her chest. “Oh, shoot,” she muttered, “I’ve soiled myself. Again.” With a sigh, she sat down.
“It was pointless to warn you,” Judith said. “This is about as messy as I’ve ever seen you. Can’t you talk and eat at the same time?”
“I just did,” Renie said, looking rather bleak. “The problem is, I talk, eat, and slop at the same time.”
“Okay.” Judith sighed, putting down her spoon and folding her hands on the small table. “Let’s get back to business. Try looking at my situation from another point of view. Joe’s been hired to help find out who killed Mrs. Carrabas. No matter what he says, he really doesn’t want me interfering with his investigation. On the other hand, he isn’t interested in the Meacham murder. I am. So I figure it’s okay for me to work on the earlier case without rankling Joe. Who knows? I may actually turn up something helpful.”
Renie tipped her head to one side. “Okay. I see your point. He’s Mr. Present, you’re Mrs. Past.”
“Right.” Judith nodded before taking another spoonful of ice cream. “Our next step is seeing the O’Dowds again.”
“Not an easy step,” Renie pointed out. “Will they let us in?”
“They didn’t throw us out,” Judith noted.
“True,” Renie allowed. “Are we going there now?”
“We could,” Judith said, but there was uncertainty in her voice. “I wonder if it might prove more beneficial to visit the Alhambra.”
“What excuse do you use to get in this time?” Renie asked, finishing her sundae without spilling another drop. “You know the uniforms will still be there, and maybe a night watchman as well.”
“I thought I’d tell the truth,” Judith said. “I’m helping Joe.”
“But you’re not,” Renie pointed out. “So it isn’t the truth.”
“Well,” Judith hedged, “it is, indirectly.”
The cousins paid their bill and made ready for departure, which included several extra minutes to mop up Renie, the chair, the table, and the floor. “It would have been nice if you’d brought along some drawing paper,” Judith said as they took the Subaru down to the bottom of the hill. “I’d like to make a floor plan of the Alhambra.”
“I can draw it on the file folder,” Renie said, pulling on her tee to help dry it out. “Then I’ll put it on the computer. No problem.”
On the last day of August, the sun was already going down by eight o’clock. In the western sky over the bay and behind the mountains, soft shades of gold merged with lavender. A homeward-bound ferryboat caught the
fading sun, and the portholes glittered like diamonds.
The sight reminded Judith of the treasure. “Say,” she said, turning off the steep avenue and heading for the Alhambra, “I just thought of something. Why was the rug pulled up in the unit where Mrs. Carrabas was killed?”
“Because of the stash,” Renie replied. “Guthrie had to—” She stopped, her jaw dropping. “Shoot. That unit hadn’t been cleared out yet. They wouldn’t pull up the carpets until the furniture was gone. I don’t get it.”
“They’d pull up the carpet to put the treasure there, not to find it,” Judith said excitedly. “George never said where it was found, I just assumed…So is it a real treasure or a plant?”
“As in, publicity stunt?” Renie said. “Could be. We’ve suspected both Guthrie and Jeremy Lamar of doing that sort of thing.”
“Dorothy Meacham’s body was not a plant,” Judith said, pulling up outside the Alhambra. “It doesn’t make sense that it would be, it’s too gruesome. But it gave George Guthrie the idea of hiring an exorcist to negate the evil vibes or whatever. Maybe he added the treasure as another plus.”
“That makes sense,” Renie said as the cousins got out of the car.
“Which means,” Judith said, sounding disappointed, “that the jewelry is just a red herring. If it was put there by George, I don’t see how it could tie in with Mrs. Carrabas’s murder.”
“So there is no connection between her death and Dorothy’s?” Renie asked as they approached the apartment house entrance.
“Not that I could see,” Judith admitted. “The link was the stash, tying it to Dorothy Meacham then and Aimee Carrabas now.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Renie said, patting Judith on the back. “Maybe you’ll get another idea.”
Petrovich and his partner were again on duty as they had been the previous night. The taller officer, whose name tag identified him as “L. Swanson,” eyed the cousins with suspicion.