by Mary Daheim
“Your husband’s investigating the murder of Mrs. Carrabas, isn’t he?” There was a note of accusation in Alfred’s voice.
“Um…yes, yes he is.” Judith cleared her throat. “What are you looking for, Dr. Ashe?”
“Please, call me Alfred.” He paused, his eyes traveling along the plate rail with its collection of Blue Willow, Royal Doulton, Belleek, and Friendly Village pieces. “It’s a long story, and perhaps a hopeless one. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it just now. I may be on a wild goose chase.”
“Okay.” Judith decided to surrender. Temporarily. “Speaking of chases, why would anyone try to kill you?”
Alfred actually blushed. “I’m afraid I misled you, Mrs. Flynn.”
“Call me Judith. How come?”
“This is rather painful,” Alfred said.
“Don’t fuss,” Judith soothed. “You wouldn’t believe the people who have unloaded on me over the years, from the Thurlow Street Library to this very living room.” She left out the slobbering drunks at the Meat & Mingle. Even Judith was sometimes careful of her image.
“Yes,” Alfred said slowly. “Yes, you have a sympathetic face. You invite confidences. And you let me stay here last night under false pretenses.”
“So tell me about the cars chasing you or not chasing you, as the case may be.”
“Well.” Alfred set the leather case on his knees and folded his hands on top of it. “I wanted to be closer to the Alhambra. Besides, I’d only reserved my room at the hotel downtown through Sunday night. They’ve got a conference going on there that started yesterday, so they were full for last night. I didn’t feel right about just dropping in on you, so I sort of made up the story about being chased. But,” he added on an ominous note, “there are a lot of very bad drivers in this city.”
“True,” Judith said, and let Alfred’s explanation slide. “Okay, the room is yours until Thursday morning.”
Alfred beamed at Judith. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this. I hope to be out of here by tomorrow.”
Judith watched Alfred hurry from the living room and wondered why he still wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
To Judith’s relief, Joe was much more forthcoming when he got home at five-fifteen. Maybe that was because he smelled like whiskey.
“Where’ve you been?” Judith asked, trying not to sound like a suspicious wife.
“With Woody,” Joe replied, stealing one of the oysters Rockefeller Judith was preparing for her guests’ social hour. “We stopped at our old haunt to have a drink.”
“That’s nice,” Judith said, and meant it. “How’s Woody?”
“Good,” Joe replied, swiping another oyster. “He sends his love.”
“What’s new with the case?” Judith asked.
“Pour me a Scotch and I’ll tell you,” Joe said.
“Take another oyster and I’ll call you Stubby,” Judith warned as Joe again eyed the platter.
“Woody and Sancha Rael have talked to almost all of the witnesses except for a couple of tourists who slipped through their fingers and left town,” Joe said, lighting a cigar.
“Anything new?” Judith said, making them each a drink.
“Nothing suspicious,” Joe replied, checking to make sure the cigar was lighted. “Woody left Alfred Ashe to me. I trust he’s still here?”
“He is,” Judith said, sitting down. “I talked to him this afternoon. If you ask me, he’s hiding something.”
Judith went on to explain how Alfred had dodged some of her questions. “I understand his interest in the Alhambra because his wife’s family lived there before they were shipped off to the internment camp. But why would he need an old city directory to figure that out? I’m guessing he was looking for someone else, maybe even somebody who lived in the apartment house at the same time that the Hasegawas did.”
“Mmm,” Joe responded, puffing on his cigar. “Now what does that have to do with Mrs. Carrabas?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” Judith admitted. “But I’m just puttering around, trying to figure out what happened with the Meachams.”
“A waste of time, Jude-girl,” Joe asserted.
Judith offered Joe a coy smile. “You know how I like a puzzle. And I realize you don’t want me getting in your way on the Carrabas case.”
Joe made an expansive gesture. “Any input is appreciated. I told you that from the start.”
“You’re so sweet,” Judith said, still demure. “What does Woody hear from the police in California?”
“Aimee Carrabas had recently put her house up for sale,” Joe said. “Apparently, she was looking at a place in Newport Beach, which is why she’d asked for that loan.”
“Newport Beach is very pricey, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Joe replied. “The detectives down there talked to the loan officer, who said that they intended to approve the request. The loan would have been for the down payment. It seems that Mrs. Carrabas was due to come into a large sum of money. Her father had recently died, and he’d made a pile in construction. I gather she was his only heir.”
“Poor woman,” Judith said. “She had everything to look forward to. Not that I suppose she wasn’t sorry to lose her father. Is her mother still living?”
Joe shook his head. “She died several years ago—cancer, I think. Mrs. Carrabas was waiting for the estate to go through probate—it was necessary, because the amount was so large—but she’d found this place at Newport Beach, and wanted to snap it up.”
Judith was silent for a few moments. “Money is such a good motive,” she finally said. “But I don’t suppose there’s a connection between anyone around here and Mrs. Carrabas down there.”
“Not that we’ve found so far,” Joe allowed. “The detectives in Studio City are going through all of Mrs. Carrabas’s things, trying to uncover any leads. So far, not even her client file has shown anything that pertains to this area.”
“But there’s got to be something,” Judith declared. “What’s new on the treasure trove?”
Joe shrugged. “The experts are still studying the stuff. They like to take their time. The only thing they’ve told Woody so far is that the gold and silver is genuine, and it’s at least sixty years old.”
“Prewar,” Judith murmured. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it?” Joe didn’t seem to share Judith’s enthusiasm.
“You know that it came from the Schnell apartment, I assume,” Judith said.
Joe nodded. “Guthrie ’fessed up about that this afternoon.” He narrowed his eyes at Judith. “How did you know?”
“A little bird told me,” Judith said. “Which reminds me, Renie and I saw Emil on her deck today. We left a note at the Baines house.”
Joe gave Judith a dubious look. “You’re sleuthing, right?”
“On the Meacham case,” Judith put in quickly. “Of course, if I find out anything pertinent to the Carrabas murder, I’m more than willing to share.”
“And have you learned something of interest?” Joe inquired.
“Not really,” Judith said. “Has Woody heard anything more about the weapon that killed Mrs. Carrabas?”
“As in found it?” Joe shook his head. “Woody’s pretty frustrated. There are no real leads. Consider the crime scene. Guthrie’s crew, at least the ones who hadn’t yet taken a lunch break, were all busy, not to mention making a lot of noise. They’ve been informed that a tour group is coming through, also that the media are scheduled to show up. If a stranger walks into that courtyard, will they pay any attention even if they notice in the first place? No.”
Judith had sat down at the table with her drink. “But did they see anyone, say before our group or the media arrived?”
“No, they insist they didn’t.” Joe made a face. “Not ideal witnesses, but they weren’t expecting a killer.”
Judith was silent for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot—after the tour bus pulled up, I saw somebody at an upstairs window.
”
Joe’s gaze sharpened. “Which floor?”
“Third floor, in the front,” Judith said. “Plus—and I had forgotten all about this until now—Jeremy Lamar went to the third floor just ahead of me. He took the elevator, so that’s how I know. I saw him get into it because I was following him to chew him out for the previous stop here at the B&B.”
“But you didn’t see him after he got to the third floor?” Joe asked.
“No. I checked the first two apartments on the right after I got off the elevator,” Judith recalled. “One was locked and the other one was a mess. Then I went into the one where I found Mrs. Carrabas. There was no sign of Jeremy, though.”
Joe was wearing his policeman’s bland look. “Would you have heard a shot from the hallway?”
Judith tried to remember. “I didn’t hear one, but I suppose the workmen were running their jackhammers or whatever. If Jeremy was just ahead of me, surely I would have seen him in that third unit.”
“Not if he was hiding in the closet where you and Renie went afterward,” Joe pointed out.
“That’s true,” Judith said slowly. “But why on earth would Jeremy kill Mrs. Carrabas?”
Joe set the cigar down in an earthenware ashtray and sat back in his captain’s chair. “That’s the problem, Jude-girl. Why would anyone kill Aimee Carrabas?”
ELEVEN
“I WISH,” JUDITH said to Renie over rare beef dip sandwiches at the Boxhedge Broiler, “I’d insisted on seeing Jeremy again at his office the other day. I haven’t really talked to him about the murder oneon-one.”
“You’ve given up on Rufus Holmes?” asked Renie, stuffing three French fries into her mouth at once.
“Even I’m not up to chasing him around that fleabag hotel he’s holed up in,” Judith said. “Besides, if he’s such a recluse, he probably wouldn’t know all that much about the other tenants in the Alhambra.”
“Now—or then?” Renie queried.
“Well…” Judith paused, fork poised over her green salad. “He’d have still been a kid when Dorothy Meacham was killed. Maybe he was more normal then.”
“Oo hab tu awwit dad hif faind wath obd,” Renie said through a mouthful of beef.
“True,” Judith said, having finally learned to interpret her cousin’s words through a mouthful of food. “I definitely admit that his faint was odd.”
Renie rocked a bit in the booth until she swallowed. “Did he really expect to see a wife at the café?”
“I wondered about that, too,” Judith said. “Billy O’Dowd told us that Rufus had been married once, if briefly. So maybe he did expect to see the former Mrs. Holmes. I should ask Helen Schnell about that.”
“Did you call the Whiffels?” Renie inquired. “Mom was all wrought up over that one. She was hoping you’d actually go there and see what kind of mess they’re living in.”
Judith sighed. “I put that off, though I shouldn’t have. As soon as we get back from getting our plants at the nursery, I’ll call. Maybe you should be there, on the other line. They know you much better than they know me.”
“Did you call Dr. Alfonso?” Renie asked, looking stern despite a small slice of beef that dangled from her lower lip.
“Yes,” Judith said, “but he wasn’t in and his nurse was with another patient, so they’ll have to call me back.”
“Keep after them,” Renie urged. “Things tend to fall between the cracks these days when it comes to medicine. Or anything else, really.”
Judith didn’t argue. Following lunch, the cousins proceeded to Molmo’s, a large nursery near the university. Their goal was the annual end-of-summer plant clearance sale. To their surprise, they found a TV crew on hand to catch the floral frenzy.
“Goodness,” Judith exclaimed as Renie drove up and down the rows of parked cars trying to find an empty space, “I didn’t expect such a crowd in the middle of a workday.”
“Molmo’s advertised this sale as bigger and better than ever,” Renie said, cutting off two nuns in a white sedan and wheeling the Camry into a space vacated by an SUV. “I guess that’s why the TV folks showed up.”
Sure enough, cameras were catching all the action as frantic gardeners seized pots, flats, baskets, and boxes. Two white-haired women swung their purses at each other as they fought over a fuchsia tree. A middle-aged man and his teenage son faced off with two girls wearing cutoffs and tank tops as they vied for what looked like almost-dead petunias. What appeared to be an entire garden club charged the front entrance, using a shovel as a battering ram. It was chaos, and the cousins cowered next to a trio of ugly stone gnomes.
“Good grief.” Renie gasped. “This is awful. There’s nothing here I want to risk my life for. Why did we come?”
“To fill in the dark spots of our late summer gardens?” Judith said in a feeble voice. “You’re right, this was a bad idea.”
“Oops!” gasped Renie, ducking behind Judith. “It’s worse than I thought. Here come the nuns.”
Surprisingly, the nuns were young and in full habit, an uncommon sight in the modern era of dwindling vocations and the adoption of ordinary clothing. Their veils flapped in the summer breeze as they bore down on the cousins.
“Hey, jerk-offs!” the shorter of the two yelled. “Try that stunt again, and we’ll separate your ugly heads from your lumpy bodies!”
“I beg your pardon?” Judith said, taken aback. “Really, we’re sorry. It’s just that I have a hip problem and—”
“You sure do, Chunky,” the other nun shouted. “But it’s that rotten little buck-toothed beaver hiding behind your broad butt who ticked us off. How’d you like us to tap out a couple of decades of the rosary on your head with a Molmo’s weed whacker?”
“Hold it!” Renie cried, darting out from behind Judith and raising her fists. “That does it! Let’s take this out to the parking lot right now!”
“Are you kidding?” the first nun sneered. “That’s where this all started. You’ll get in your car and run over us. Right, Sister Cherie?”
“Absolutely, Sister Didi,” the other nun replied. “We’ll let you off with a warning this time.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Renie retorted and charged at the retreating nuns. Mercifully, a small train of preschoolers in plastic wagons led by two cheerful teachers cut the cousins off. By the time the little caravan had passed, the nuns had disappeared into the crowd.
“What kind of nuns are those?” Renie demanded, shaking her fists.
“Not the kind who taught at Our Lady, Star of the Sea for so many years,” Judith replied. “Goodness.”
Judith and Renie waited to make their next move until a sixtyish couple pushed a wheelbarrow full of beauty bark past them. Then they headed for the exit. Unfortunately, their path was barred by Liz Ogilvy, microphone in hand.
“Liz!” Judith gasped, and immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Liz’s green eyes narrowed at the cousins. “You!” she cried, and switched off the microphone. “Listen up,” she said, grabbing Judith by the sleeve of her navy blue tee, “it’s all your fault I got stuck with this zoo. I don’t do features, dammit, I do hard news. But because you gave Mavis a better interview, I’m stuck with this kind of”—she gestured at a man carrying a bag of fertilizer—“stuff.”
“Huh?” Judith stared at Liz. “Hey, it’s not my fault. I didn’t want to give either of you an interview. I was an innocent bystander.”
“I guess you were,” Liz huffed. “You certainly haven’t solved the murder.” She took an intimidating step toward Judith. “Or have you?”
“No.” Judith gulped. “I haven’t.”
Next to Liz, and in front of the cameraman who had been trailing her, two twelve-year-old boys tried to give another boy a wedgie. Much squealing, wriggling, and yelling ensued before a hulking Molmo’s sales clerk separated the boys just as the victim’s pants reached his chin.
“So,” Liz said, lowering her voice, “what have you found out?”
&nbs
p; “Not very much,” Judith admitted. “I’ve been looking into the Meacham case instead. Just out of curiosity,” she added hastily.
“I see.” Liz moved even closer, one strong hand on Judith’s arm. “Look,” she said, dropping her voice to a ragged whisper, “I don’t much like covering the Wygelia Wars at Molmo’s Nursery. And I don’t much like Mavis Lean-Brodie, either. If I tell you something I haven’t told anybody else, would you promise to let me know what your husband finds out in advance so I get an exclusive?”
Judith frowned. “An exclusive on what?”
“On any breaks in the story,” Liz retorted, looking annoyed. “A lead, a suspect, evidence. I thought you were a mystery maven.”
“I never claimed to be any such thing,” Judith countered. “That was the media’s idea, including yours.”
“Then I guess you’re not interested in the person I saw leaving the Alhambra right after the murder,” Liz said, her voice taunting.
“Who?” Judith asked, eyes wide.
“Never mind.” Liz started to move away. “You won’t cooperate.”
“Hey,” Judith said, hands raised in a helpless gesture. “I can’t make promises for Joe. I’m not even sure he’ll tell me everything. Often, he doesn’t reveal a word about his cases until they’re solved or closed.”
“Fine,” Liz said over her shoulder. “See you in Winter Cabbages.”
“Wait!” Judith called, grabbing Renie for support and going after Liz. “What if I promise to tell you anything I find out, but can’t promise to keep my promise?”
Liz regarded Judith quizzically. “What?” She shook herself. “Okay, okay, I think I get it. First of all, I want the inside dope on that treasure. I had to agree—along with everybody else—to downplay that angle for the moment. But if you hear anything at all, let me know.”
“Swastikas,” Renie said, looking smug. “Some of the jewelry had swastikas. It’s possible that it came off the Hungarian gold train.”
Judith tried not to stare at Renie. Liz, however, was all ears.
“What was that?” she asked.
“It was a train that carried paintings and gold confiscated by the Nazis from Hungarian Jews,” Renie responded. “Much of the treasure was never found, but believed to have turned up in the homes of certain art-loving American generals.”