by Mary Daheim
Renie’s shoulders had slumped, but she nodded. “Yes. Harry wanted to disappear. What better way than to give himself a new name by taking Beth’s?”
“Anne-Marie would have taken the name of Ritter, too,” Judith said, suddenly thoughtful. “Why haven’t the police turned her up somewhere?”
Renie shrugged. “Maybe she’s dead.”
“There should still be records,” Judith mused. “Could I be wrong about all this?”
“I don’t think so,” Renie replied. “It may be an oversight. Maybe, when the California authorities were digging into Aimee Ritter Carrabas’s background, they missed something.”
“Y-e-s.” Judith said slowly. “That’s probably the case. And records do get lost or misplaced.” She was silent for a moment, and then, with an eye on Bill, she quietly clapped her hands. “I think we’ve come pretty close to the truth. Look at it this way—Aimee came here to find out more about her father and his first wife. The timing, the opportunity were too good to miss. Now we’ll get Woody to see if there’s any record of a Harry Ritter.”
“He must be dead,” Renie noted. “California’s a community property state, like we are. If Aimee Carrabas had to wait for her mother’s will to go through probate, it probably meant that her father was already dead. His estate would have gone to his wife. So what’s the point of checking him out now?”
“Ah…” Judith looked up at the ceiling. “Well…we could find out what happened to him after he left here.”
“He married Elizabeth Ritter,” Renie said. “They had a child, Aimee. What else do you need to know? He didn’t kill Beth, so he’s no Bluebeard.”
Judith lowered her gaze and her eyes grew large. “Maybe he didn’t kill Dorothy, either.” She leaned forward on the sofa. “Maybe Beth killed her. Why do we assume that Harry was the villain of this piece? Beth had him first, before Dorothy. Maybe she got tired of waiting to get him back.”
“She waited a long time,” Renie said. “Almost five years. How many women would be that patient?”
Judith gave her cousin a reproachful smile. “I waited more than four times that long. Some men are worth it.”
Renie laughed and shook her head. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She raised her voice and spoke in Bill’s direction. “You’re worth it, too.”
Bill didn’t look up from his book. “Worth what?”
“Never mind.”
Bill kept reading.
“Another thing about Bill,” Renie said. “He doesn’t eavesdrop.”
Judith’s cell phone went off. She jumped and stared at Renie. “Is that mine? I never get used to it.”
“That’s because you never turn it on,” Renie said. “What’s the occasion?”
The phone kept ringing as Judith dug into her handbag. “I must have hit the power button by mistake. Ah—there it is. Goodness, I hope it’s not Mother.”
The voice at the other end belonged to Jeremy Lamar. “Mrs. Flynn? I hate to bother you, but your cleaning woman gave me this number. I was actually trying to get hold of your husband.”
“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” Judith said. “I’m getting him one for Christmas.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” Jeremy said. “Maybe I should have called Detective Price, but Mr. Flynn is working for George and me, so I…Are you sure you’ll give him this message right away?”
“Of course,” Judith responded. “What’s the message?”
“Well…” Jeremy sounded disconcerted. “It’s about Rufus Holmes. I was over at the Alhambra a little while ago, talking to the construction foreman about whether or not we should keep the site on our mystery tour list, and Mr. Holmes showed up. I guess he wanted to check on the progress of his condo. The foreman said Rufus comes around every so often, usually in the early afternoon. Anyway, George and I were just finishing up, so we asked him to wait a couple of minutes. We were deciding that since the Carrabas murder was so recent, it might be in bad taste to include the Alhambra. Anyway, George said something about ‘poor Aimee’ and with that, Mr. Holmes keeled over with a heart attack. At least that’s what the medics called it. The ambulance took him to Bayview Hospital. I thought Mr. Flynn would want to know.”
Judith’s jaw dropped. “Will he be okay?”
“I don’t know,” Jeremy replied. “It happened less than thirty minutes ago. I just got back to the office. Excuse me, I really must run.”
Judith fumbled with the small buttons and finally managed to turn the phone off. Renie’s frown grew deeper as she listened to her cousin’s explanation.
“Rufus passed out when he saw you weren’t his ex-wife,” Renie said when Judith had finished. “Then he hears about Aimee and has a heart attack. What do you deduce, my kinswoman sleuth?”
“That he thought I was his ex and was shaken to see that I wasn’t,” Judith said slowly. “That he didn’t know anything had happened to said ex. He may have been at the Alhambra at the time of the murder—perhaps he was the person I saw at the window. But Liz Ogilvy said the man she glimpsed was leaving when the TV crews arrived. Rufus, as you may recall, doesn’t watch TV or read newspapers. He probably never knew about the murder at the Alhambra, let alone who was killed. But maybe he knew Aimee Carrabas was coming to town. Maybe…” Her voice trailed off.
“Maybe Rufus killed Aimee?” Renie offered.
Judith hesitated, then shook her head. “No. If he had, he’d know she was dead.”
“True,” Renie remarked dryly.
“He must not have found her,” Judith mused. “If he had, she might not have gotten killed. Oh, dear—this is all very confusing. I may be off on a tangent. But why else would Rufus keel over with a heart attack if he hadn’t been shocked by Aimee’s death?”
“That makes sense,” Renie agreed. She sat up straighter on the sofa and tucked her feet underneath her bottom. “Oh, no—you’re not thinking about another hospital visit, are you? Count me out.”
“No, no,” Judith assured her cousin. “There’s no point. Goodness, Rufus may be in a bad way.”
“At least you can eliminate him as a suspect,” Renie pointed out.
Judith gazed at her cousin. “In the matter of Mrs. Carrabas, yes. But,” she added, standing up, “not necessarily in the attack on Alfred Ashe. Hasn’t it occurred to you that Rufus also may have been looking for something in the Alhambra?”
“Like what?” Renie asked.
Judith stood up and shrugged. “Beats me. If we didn’t know that Charlie Schnell was the burglar, I’d finger Rufus’s dad. That book he was reading, The Guilty Rich, indicates that despite his bravado over inheriting his money, it may have been acquired by some illegal means.”
“Hmm.” Renie had also gotten to her feet and was looking thoughtful. “Maybe crooked investments or fleecing other people?”
“Maybe.”
“Like the Whiffels?”
Judith frowned at Renie. “I thought they were wise investors.”
“They were, maybe still are,” Renie replied, “but they might know about a scam. If they remember.”
“I’m probably on the wrong track this time,” Judith said, starting for the door. “Really, Mrs. Hasegawa was right—the Alhambra was full of crooks and killers and adulterers and God only knows what else.” She paused at the edge of the entrance hall. “Bye, Bill.”
Bill didn’t look up. “Bye, Judith.”
At the door, Judith gave Renie a quirky little smile. “He really doesn’t eavesdrop, does he?”
Renie grinned. “With three noisy kids and a rather loud wife, Bill’s trained himself to tune us out. It’s self-preservation. Do you blame him?”
“Well…” Judith made a face. “I might, but Joe wouldn’t.”
“It’s a guy thing,” Renie said. “Like the CIA, except in reverse. They only want to know what they need to know.”
“They’re missing out on a lot of things, though,” Judith remarked.
Renie blinked at Judith. “Are they?”
Judith thought about it for a moment. “No,” she finally said. “I guess not. Maybe they’re the lucky ones.”
For once, Judith dreaded the long weekend. Usually, she enjoyed the extended stays of her guests, unless, of course, they turned out to be obnoxious. But this particular Labor Day weekend loomed like a large detour sign. It wasn’t going to be easy to pay the proper attention to her visitors and try to solve two murder cases at the same time.
Of course she couldn’t admit as much to Joe. When he returned home that Friday evening just before five-thirty, Judith was in the midst of preparing the appetizers. She told him at once about Rufus Holmes and why she thought he’d had a heart attack.
Joe looked askance. “Isn’t that a bit of a stretch, Jude-girl?” he asked, easing himself into his captain’s chair at the kitchen table.
“No,” Judith said defensively. “It makes perfect sense to me.”
Joe shrugged, then popped the top on a can of beer. The day had grown warm, even sultry. He had no hankering for his usual Scotch. “Your logic usually works, I have to admit, but this time…” He shook his head and took a swig of beer. “What else have you been up to?” he asked with a touch of suspicion.
“Nothing,” Judith answered too swiftly. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the bogus inquiry into the Alhambra condos. There had been three calls from Geoff Blitz and two from Arlene that afternoon. Judith had strained herself to think up excuses for Geoff, and had tried to make Arlene see reason. The former had worked; the latter had failed. It usually did.
Along with the heat, Joe seemed to be suffering from frustration. The investigation was stalled. Woody and Sancha felt as if they were up against one of the Alhambra’s reinforced concrete walls. Judith took pity on her husband.
“I’ll level with you,” she said. The guests had been served and she’d spent a few minutes chatting, even though this particular group didn’t seem very friendly. Indeed, a woman from Wyoming had asked that Sweetums be forcibly removed. She was allergic to cats. Sweetums promptly threw up on her shoes.
“Aimee Carrabas is Harry Meacham’s daughter,” Judith announced, and felt rather pleased with herself.
Joe glanced up from the front section of the evening newspaper. “Who?”
Judith scowled. “Harry Meacham, the man who was believed to have killed his wife, Dorothy, at the Alhambra after the war. Except maybe he didn’t. I mean, I have another suspect.”
Joe put the paper down. “This is the old case that’s been keeping you amused?”
And out of my hair, Judith could hear her husband saying to himself. “Yes. The body in the wall. Dorothy Meacham.”
Joe looked skeptical. “Are you sure?”
“Fairly sure,” Judith said, and explained what she had figured out from the information Mrs. Hasegawa had given her.
Joe sipped at his second beer while Judith tossed the chicken salad she’d made for dinner. “Woody can run Harry Ritter through the California computer,” Joe said, more to himself than to his wife. “Of course, he might have changed the ‘Harry,’ too. Harry can stand alone or be a nickname for Henry or Harold or even some more exotic names.”
“Is that information helpful?” Judith asked innocently.
Joe let out an exasperated sigh. “Sure. Were you really going to keep it a secret?”
“No,” Judith said, dishing up a plate for her mother and adding a slice of warm French bread. “I hesitated because you thought I was silly for digging into the old Meacham murder.”
As Judith headed for the toolshed, Joe still wasn’t looking very happy. Neither was Gertrude.
“What’s that? Rabbit food? We don’t have a rabbit. If we did, I’d eat him.”
“Renie and Bill have a rabbit,” Judith pointed out, placing a glass of lemonade next to Gertrude’s salad. “They wouldn’t dream of eating Clarence. They treat him as if he were another child. Clarence has a satin leash. Or did, until he ate it.”
“Stupid,” Gertrude grumbled. “Those Joneses are stupid. When was the last time any of their kids came to visit their poor old auntie?”
“They’re probably worn out from visiting their poor old granny,” Judith said. “You know that Aunt Deb can be sort of…demanding.”
“Spoiled,” Gertrude huffed. “Deb’s spoiled rotten.”
Judith had heard Aunt Deb say the same thing about Gertrude. Often. “Yes, Mother,” Judith said dutifully. “Look, there’s plenty of lovely chicken breast in the salad.”
“There is?” Gertrude peered among the lettuce and celery and crisp chow mein noodles. “This must have been one flat-chested chicken. I don’t see much meat in my portion.”
“It’s there,” Judith insisted. “You just have to find it with your fork.”
“What is this?” Gertrude demanded, her small eyes fixed on Judith. “Hunt and peck? Why’re you hiding the chicken? Why can’t it be right on top? Why can’t I find it?”
Judith let out a big sigh. “Because you haven’t looked.” Because if I didn’t mix it all up, you wouldn’t eat the greens.
Gertrude began picking through the lettuce. “You’re late again.”
“I know, Mother,” Judith said, edging for the door. “This is the Labor Day weekend. We’re full up, and I’ve been really busy.”
“When am I going to be on TV again?” Gertrude asked.
“TV? Oh.” So much had happened in the past week, that Judith had almost forgotten about the sorry episode on the news. She hoped everybody else had, too. “Not right away.”
“I’ve been reading about that murder you got mixed up in at the Alhambra,” Gertrude said, finally finding a piece of chicken large enough for her liking. “The woman who got killed was no better than she should be.”
Judith frowned at her mother. “What do you mean? How do you know about Mrs. Carrabas?”
Gertrude was chomping on her chicken. “I don’t know about any Mrs. Casabas. Now you take a good melon, a real juicy, tasty one, and I don’t mind that. When was the last time we had cantaloupe?”
“At lunch,” Judith retorted. “What are you talking about?”
“Cantaloupe. Did you know Uncle Cliff put salt on his?”
“Renie still does,” Judith said impatiently. “We were talking about Mrs. Carrabas. The woman who was killed at the Alhambra.”
Gertrude had found more chicken. “Not her,” she said crossly. “The other one. Dorothy Blair.”
Judith moved back toward the card table. “Dorothy Blair? Or Dorothy Meacham?”
“Blair was her maiden name,” Gertrude said. “She married somebody named Meacham because she had to. No wonder she got herself done in. She was probably running around with sailors during the war.”
Judith sank down on the arm of her mother’s chair. “You knew Dorothy Meacham?” she asked incredulously.
“Yep.” Gertrude paused to take a bit of bread. “She worked as a checker at the grocery store at the bottom of the hill. Your father liked their meat, so we used to shop there sometimes. Dorothy was always flirting with the fellows who came in. Oh, she had an eye for the men. And vice versa. No wonder she got in trouble. She was lucky that Harry or whatever-his-name-was married her.”
Because Gertrude could forget she’d had cantaloupe for lunch, or that she’d had lunch at all, Judith sometimes forgot that her mother remembered a great many other things, usually from the distant past. There were occasions when Judith realized her mother still was the sharpest tool in the toolshed.
Gertrude had spent most of her life on Heraldsgate Hill, except for the early years of her marriage when Donald Grover had accepted his first teaching assignment out of town. Gertrude’s family, the Hoffmans, had lived in one of the older homes at the bottom of the hill that had been torn down to make way for more commercial enterprises.
“Is that the only way you knew Dorothy?” Judith asked eagerly. “Through the grocery store?”
Gertrude nodded and ate more bread. “She wasn’t a local girl. Your fat
her and I wondered if she hadn’t followed some man out here, and he ran off. So Dorothy was stuck. But not for long. She didn’t work at the store for more than a year before she got in the family way. The next thing we knew, she got married. He was a soldier. I remember seeing them once in the store, shopping together. Dorothy was as big as a house by then.”
“You never saw her after that?” Judith inquired.
“No,” Gertrude replied. “Your father and I weren’t around here much during the war, remember? We were living up on the Peninsula until forty-six. It was hard to travel back and forth on the ferries because of all the gas rationing and such. We were lucky to get into town more than once every two or three months.”
Judith had a vague memory of those trips. Her parents had owned a black Model A Ford, which they weren’t able to replace until 1949. She did, however, vividly recall Donald Grover’s pride when he finally bought a brand new Chevrolet sedan.
“Grandma Grover knew them,” Gertrude remarked, breaking Judith out of her brief reverie.
“She did?” Judith stared at her mother.
Gertrude nodded matter-of-factly. “Grandma did a lot of sewing for folks around here during the war. She always sewed for the family, but clothes were rationed, too, and she and Grandpa could use the extra money. Besides, it helped take her mind off worrying about Uncle Al and Uncle Corky in the service. I’m pretty sure she mentioned making a couple of pinafores for the little Meacham girl. She made them for you and Serena and your cousin Sue, remember?”