by Mary Daheim
Two plainclothes police officers got out of the car. Detectives, Judith guessed, sinking deeper into the gloom. The woman was young, striking, and raven-haired. The man was older, tall and broad, with a luxuriant mustache and a black patch over his left eye. Judith thought she recognized him from one of the department functions she’d attended with Joe.
The pair paid no attention to the onlookers but marched swiftly up to the Goodrich front door. The ambulance attendants remained in their vehicle.
“I can’t stand this!” Arlene declared, verging on an explosion. “I have to know! I need to know! I always know!”
It was true. Arlene Rankers had an incredible nose for news. On Heraldsgate Hill, she was famous for hearing everything first. Accuracy was another matter. But when called by Judith on some of her erroneous reporting, Arlene defended herself by insisting that she had a right to interpret what she heard, just like any network analyst.
But on this damp December morning, Judith agreed whole-heartedly with Arlene. Her own curiosity was about to burst. She was contemplating an assault on the front door when Art Goodrich staggered across the threshold. He clung to the brick porch pillar like a man holding onto the mast of a sinking ship. Judith and Arlene charged up the walk.
Art stared at them as if they were strangers. Ted approached cautiously, and out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw Mrs. Swanson virtually tiptoeing out of her yard. At that moment, Naomi Stein turned the corner in her Dodge station wagon.
“Mama’s dead.” Art’s voice was high and thin. He was gazing above his audience’s head, with empty eyes lost in the curtain of rain. “Mama’s dead,” he repeated. “She was hacked to death and Pappy did it.”
The awful silence that followed was broken when Art began to laugh. “Isn’t that something? I can’t believe it!” His head swiveled in all directions; then he tapped his feet on the front porch, like a song-and-dance-man. “Wild! It’s just wild! Mama’s dead and I used the front door! Is that crazy or what?”
Strangely, it was Mrs. Swanson who reached Art first. She went up to the porch with a careful, steady tread, her small figure exuding courage. Judith couldn’t hear what she said to the distraught man, but a moment later, Mrs. Swanson and Art went into the house.
Arlene was uncharacteristically speechless. Ted Ericson was walking in circles, holding his head. Naomi Stein had crossed the street and was standing next to Judith.
“Is it true?” she asked in a shocked voice. “Is Enid really dead?”
Judith ran a trembling hand through her wet hair. “I guess so. But the medics hauled somebody off in a hurry. I assumed it was Enid, and that she must still be alive.”
Mrs. Swanson was coming back out of the house. Now her step faltered as she made her way to the sidewalk. “The police, they want no outsiders,” she said quietly. “So I must leave. Oh, oh, this is a terrible day!”
Arlene almost controlled her rampant curiosity, putting only the gentlest of hammerlocks on Mrs. Swanson. “Is Enid really dead?”
Sadly, Mrs. Swanson nodded.
“Then why,” Judith asked, “did the medics race out of here?”
Free of Arlene’s grasp, Mrs. Swanson fingered the silk scarf that was tucked inside her herringbone coat. “Mrs. Goodrich is still inside. The medical men took Mr. Goodrich away.” The black eyes filled with tears. “Poor man, he must have been overcome with remorse. He took pills to kill himself.” The tears overflowed, but Mrs. Swanson’s voice didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t you think he’d want to live without her? I would.”
As a rule, Renie tried to keep her distance from Hillside Manor when Phyliss Rackley was around. The cleaning woman’s chronic hypochondria and persistent evangelizing drove Judith’s cousin absolutely nuts. Renie wasn’t a morning person anyway, so she used the time until noon to run errands and do household tasks. Afternoons were usually devoted to her graphic design business, which, except for occasional and much detested meetings, she did at home.
But Enid Goodrich’s death brought Renie to Hillside Manor shortly before eleven. Fortunately, Phyliss was finishing the laundry and the ironing in the basement. A reluctant Arlene had gone to pick up Carl, who had left one of their cars at the repair shop. Thus, Judith was alone in the kitchen when Renie arrived.
“Have you told your mother?” Renie asked, accepting a mug of fresh coffee from Judith.
“Yes. She was horrified—for about twenty seconds.” Judith sank into one of the four captain’s chairs. “Then she said it served the old bat right, she’d driven poor George to it, who could blame him, blah-blah-blah. But she insisted she hadn’t had a premonition. Maybe she did forget, and won’t admit it.”
“Maybe,” Renie said, looking unusually grim, “she doesn’t want to admit she sensed death. At her age, that could be scary.”
“It’s scary at any age,” Judith noted, taking comfort from the warmth of her coffee mug. “But she’s definitely being herself otherwise. Mother decided to torment your mother by calling her and not telling her what happened.”
Renie gave a shake of her chestnut curls. “Oh, jeez. I don’t know what’s more appalling—your mother using the telephone or being so perverse.”
“Using the telephone,” Judith replied calmly. Gertrude despised the phone, and since Judith had bought her a cordless style, the older woman persisted in losing it. As recently as the previous Saturday, Judith had found it in the birdbath on the patio.
“So that’s all you know?” Renie asked, removing the lid of the sheep-shaped cookie jar.
“I’m afraid so. There isn’t much else to find out, except if George pulls through. I’ll try to call the house after the police leave.”
The ambulance had departed while Judith was coming back from visiting her mother in the toolshed. She had seen it slowly pull out of the cul-de-sac, moving at a hearselike speed.
“Art and Glenda are still there with the police,” Judith went on, ignoring the face Renie made after discovering that the cookie jar was empty. “Gosh, coz, I feel awful. I can’t spare a tear for Enid, but I could weep buckets over George. Mother’s right—she drove him to it. A man can only take so much. The really terrible thing is that I’m afraid this Christmas decorating project may have driven him over the edge.”
Renie tried to look sympathetic. The expression somehow seemed foreign to her, even though the emotion was real. “After almost sixty years of marriage, it’s a miracle George didn’t kill her sooner. Don’t blame yourself. Whatever set him off must have been an accumulation of abuse and misery. He finally snapped. It happens.”
While Judith appreciated her cousin’s commiseration, she remained glum. “This certainly puts a damper on the holidays.”
“Why?” Renie asked in her typically pragmatic style. “Enid hated Christmas. Look at it this way—with her gone from the neighborhood, there’s nobody around to snipe at the season. If they let George out of the funny farm, he’ll probably give you permission to put up your sign.”
Judith was aghast. “Coz—you’re callous.”
“No, I’m not. I’m realistic. Lots of people will croak before New Year’s. As long as I’m not one of them, I’ll try not to let that fact spoil my holidays.”
Phyliss Rackley dropped a wicker clothes basket onto the floor with a loud thud. “Blasphemy, Mrs. Jones! How can you say such things? Besides, the Good Lord wanted Mrs. Goodrich to come home for Christmas. He’ll see that she has a good time in spite of herself.”
“The good Lord had nothing to do with it,” Renie said flatly. “That was all up to George and his…” She paused, gazing inquisitively at Judith. “His what? An ax?”
But Judith could only shrug. “I don’t know. The term Art used was…‘hacked.’” Judith gulped on the word.
Phyliss shrieked. “‘Hacked’? You mean he didn’t just up and shoot her like husbands usually do? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I guess I forgot.” Judith was sounding even more dismal.
Renie was on her feet,
heading for the front door. Judith assumed she was trying to escape from Phyliss. But even as the cleaning woman began a homily on the afterlife featuring joy-filled codgers in flowing white robes welcoming Enid to her mansion in the sky, Renie returned.
“The cops are gone,” she announced just as Phyliss got to the part about Enid’s brow being adorned with a pearly crown, “but Art and Glenda’s cars are still there.” She arched her eyebrows questioningly at Judith.
Judith stood up, her energy renewed by the call to action. “I should go over and see if we can do anything for the family,” she said, avoiding Renie’s fixed gaze. “Maybe I could make them some lunch.”
“Hold on,” Phyliss said crossly. “I didn’t get to the angels playing tunes of glory on their harps.”
“Praise the Lord,” murmured Renie.
“What did that heathen say?” Phyliss demanded.
Judith gave her cleaning woman a weak smile. “Ah—raise the Ford. Glenda Goodrich drives a Ford, and my cousin wants to…er…um…” Judith was still searching for words as she followed Renie through the entry hall.
“I’m not a heathen,” Renie declared. “I’m a Catholic.”
“Same thing to Phyliss,” Judith retorted, then came to a dead halt in front of the Ericson house. “Shoot—they’ve put up crime scene tape. Do we dare jump over it?”
“At our age, can we?” But the cousins were still sufficiently nimble to try. They chose to invade the Goodrich property through the shared driveway. Judith noticed that Ted Ericson had finally left for work. The handsome noble fir was now behind the split-rail fence, reposing in a shiny new galvanized bucket.
“We’ll defer to the deceased’s wishes and use the back door,” Judith said, leading the way to the rear of the house.
Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “What’s so big about that? We usually use the back door at your place.”
“That’s different. It’s easier, for one thing. Our garage is in back. If you pull into the drive to leave on-street parking for guests, the back door is closer. Plus, I try to reserve the front for the paying customers. It adds tone.”
The latter remark evoked a dubious expression from Renie. “But Mrs. Goodrich didn’t run a B&B. What was her excuse?”
“She didn’t want to get her living room dirty,” Judith answered as she started up the four steps that led to the back porch. Her foot struck something hard that crunched beneath her weight. Judith looked down at the cement walkway. “Glass,” she said. “Be careful.” Gingerly, she picked up the offending shard and put it in the garbage can that stood next to the walk. “Somebody broke a glass. The rest of it’s in the can, but be careful. They must have dropped some of the pieces.”
On the porch, the cousins listened for footsteps inside the house. After almost a full minute, they heard them, ponderous and dragging.
Warily, Glenda opened the door. She was still looking stunned. “Oh!” The presence of the cousins seemed to dismay her. “Art and I were just leaving. We want to be with Pappy when he comes to—if he comes to.”
Judith quickly introduced Renie, though the women had met years ago, in their youth. Renie and Glenda were the same age, and had gone to high school together. However, neither seemed to recognize the other. Judith knew that Renie had a poor memory for faces. As for Glenda, shock and grief probably had hampered her powers of recollection.
Judith shifted awkwardly on the small back porch. “We won’t keep you, then. Is there anything we can do while you’re gone?”
Glenda started to shake her head, but her brother appeared behind her. Art seemed to have gotten himself under control, though he was pale and drawn.
“There is,” he said, his voice startling Glenda who hadn’t heard him approach. “JoAnne and maybe the boys are coming by in a little while. It might be easier if someone were here to let them in.”
Judith brightened. “Sure, we’d be glad to. Unless,” she added, growing uncertain, “the police would object. I mean, they’ve put up that tape….”
But Art dismissed the crime scene tape with a throwaway gesture. “I take it that’s routine. Besides, you’re married to a detective. I’m sure Morgan and Rael won’t mind. They probably know Mr. Flynn.”
Judith quickly sorted through her memory for Morgan and Rael. Rael meant nothing, but Morgan rang a bell. He was the male detective, and, she recalled, was known as Patches. Recalling the eyepatch, Judith realized the reason for the nickname.
Once the cousins were inside the house, Art and Glenda seemed anxious to leave. Not three minutes passed before the pair drove off in their separate cars. Judith and Renie were left in the kitchen, staring at each other.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Renie declared. “I’ve never been inside before.”
Judith’s gaze traveled to the table, which was bare except for a pair of salt and pepper shakers cast in the images of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and a plastic holder containing paper napkins. The only evidence of a breakfast meal was two coffee mugs, sitting empty in the sink.
“I wonder if Joe knows about this,” Judith said, leading Renie into the living room. The drapes were closed and the furnishings were protected by heavy plastic. Only the lamps, a couple of end tables and a Queen Anne breakfront with a built-in desk were exposed to the elements. Judith felt a sense of oppression; even the air smelled slightly stale. “I suppose it depends on what Joe’s working on,” she commented with a sudden longing for the constant chaos and motion of Hillside Manor. “As of yesterday, he and Woody were still investigating the Shazri murders.”
Renie was frowning at the beige rug which was partially covered by a plastic runner. “Execution style, right? I read about it in the paper. How’s Woody?”
Judith smiled at the mention of her husband’s long time partner, Woodrow Wilson Price. “Great. He and Sondra have the two kids now, and they’re all thriving. Ever since Woody got promoted, Joe swears he’ll make chief someday. We’re having them to dinner Saturday after next. Do you and Bill want to come?”
“I’ll have to check the calendar,” Renie replied, obviously wondering if she dared sit down on the cloistered furniture. “It’s such a busy time of year, but I’d love to. Bill’s never met Woody and Sondra.”
Judith was also wondering, but not about sitting down. Her eyes had strayed to the carpet, where she noticed a track of evergreen needles. They zigzagged across the living room, going almost to the front door. Judith got down on her knees for a closer examination.
“Coz—do these look like a Noble to you?”
Renie bent over, peering at the floor. “Sure. They’re blue and stiff. What else could they be?”
Judith stood up and walked back out to the kitchen. Sure enough, there were more needles, all the way to the door. Cautiously, she started for the short hallway that led to the bath and bedrooms.
“Look, coz. These needles go this way, too. In fact,” she said, focusing on the sporadic trail, “they lead right into…the master bedroom.”
Judith stood up and gazed into the room where she had been an unwelcome guest the previous Sunday. The bed, the floor, and the wall were splattered with blood. Judith groaned; Renie shrieked. At that moment, they both realized the enormity of what had happened in the Goodrich house.
Enid had indeed been hacked to death. In life, she had possessed an ugly streak; her death had not been pretty, either.
FIVE
JOANNE GOODRICH GAVE the impression of never having been young. Yet Judith knew better, because she had been a year behind Art’s future wife at Heraldsgate High School. A redhead who relied on artificial means to stay that way, JoAnne was too thin, too nervous, and too lacking in self-esteem.
Or so Judith appraised her former schoolmate as JoAnne hovered on the back porch with two hulking young men below her on the steps. Anxiously, she introduced her sons, Greg and Dave.
“I’m sick to my stomach,” JoAnne asserted, apprehensively entering the kitchen. “Can you believe this?”
“Yeah,” said the taller of the two young men.
“No kidding,” said the other, who was already beginning to bald.
The trio fell silent, their eyes furtively scanning the kitchen as if they expected the appliances to attack them. It was obvious that neither JoAnne nor her sons felt at home in the Goodrich house.
“What should we do?” JoAnne asked in a hushed voice.
Judith wasn’t certain what JoAnne meant. “About your father-in-law? Or the…house?”
Trembling, JoAnne sat on the edge of a kitchen chair. “That’s it—I don’t know. Maybe we should call a lawyer.”
“Do you have one?” Renie inquired, brazenly sitting on the kitchen table.
“No.” JoAnne eyed Renie with minor horror. “My in-laws did, though. It’s a woman in the BABU Tower. Glenda used her for the divorce.”
Judith knew the Bank of Burma’s location downtown in the financial district. It was a handsome structure, some fifty stories high. Judith guessed that office space must command exorbitant rents. She was surprised that any of the Goodriches could afford such a high-priced attorney. Judith started to say something to that effect, thought better of it, and merely nodded.
“You’ll need someone for probate, no matter what happens,” put in Renie, whose mother had been a legal secretary. “If criminal charges are filed, you’ll need a lawyer who specializes in that type of defense.”
JoAnne shuddered. “That’s awful! You don’t mean that Gramps would be treated like a…murderer?”
Renie grimaced. “The law doesn’t always make sense. But he probably wouldn’t go to jail. They’ll send him to a…hospital of some sort.”
“Weird,” breathed the taller Goodrich grandson.
“No kidding,” murmured his balding brother.
“But he may die, too,” JoAnne said, almost brightening at the thought. “Then it would be okay. I mean,” she went on, flushing slightly, “he wouldn’t have to go through a trial and all that.”