by Mary Daheim
“They should have noticed that the desk had been pried open,” Renie pointed out, unable to resist plucking a piece of chicken out of the salad.
“Probably. But what does that tell them? Or us?” Judith was thoughtful as she diced celery. “If George now denies killing Enid, the police might be taking him seriously. They’ll think twice about the desk.”
Renie was going through the photographs. “Baby pictures,” she said. “Art and Glenda, I imagine. A family photo from circa the fifties. Look, Enid let them sit on the couch.”
Judith spread chicken salad on white bread, then went over to the table. Glenda’s plaid skirt, dark sweater, and single strand of pearls evoked familiar memories for Judith. So did Art’s crew cut and the padded shoulders of his sport coat. George seemed vaguely uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Or maybe he was uncomfortable sitting next to Enid, who looked every inch the autocratic matron in her shirtwaist dress and carefully coiffed page boy.
“They look like the all-American family,” Judith remarked.
“They were,” Renie retorted. “Screwed-up, hostile, and full of frustration. Isn’t that typical?”
“I’m afraid so,” Judith said. “I’d prefer to call it being human.”
“Still,” Renie went on as she handed Judith more recent baby pictures of what appeared to be the grandchildren, “Bill says that in the fifties, the family was a much more stable unit. Dad worked, Mom stayed home with the kids, divorce wasn’t all that common. Values were more…”
“Your mother worked,” Judith pointed out. “So did mine, part-time. At least three marriages in this neighborhood ended in divorce.”
Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “I think Bill was talking about the Midwest, where he was raised. The point he makes is that in contemporary society, moral standards have been eroded by a lack of…”
“Speaking of marriages, here’s Glenda,” said Judith, again interrupting her cousin’s parrotlike recital of Bill’s opinions. “Did you ever meet her ex-husband?”
Renie studied the photograph of bride and groom. Glenda wore long white lace with a fingertip veil on her bouffant hairdo. The lean, unprepossessing man who stood next to her was attired in a white dinner jacket. Renie shook her head.
“No, I don’t recognize him. But in those days—the early sixties, right?—I was only here for family gatherings or to pick you up if we were going some place together. Until this week, I don’t think I’ve seen Art or Glenda in over thirty years.”
Judith had retrieved the wedding photo and was frowning in concentration. “What was his name? Ron? Rob? No, it was Ross. His last name was odd, but I don’t remember it.”
Renie was opening the last folder. “Here’s George and Enid’s wedding picture. They almost look happy.”
The traditional pose suggested a young couple in love. Maybe they were—then. Enid was wearing a big picture hat and a very short dress. George was in uniform. Judith’s jaw dropped.
“I was right,” she breathed, then dashed over to the counter. “Come on, let’s deliver Mother’s lunch. I’ve got an important question to ask her.”
Dutifully, Renie followed her cousin out through the back door. When they entered the small apartment, Gertrude was watching the noon news.
“Nothing about George making Enid into cutlets,” she said in disgust. “What’s wrong with these TV stations? Who cares about a bunch of people shooting each other in Acacia? They can’t even speak English. Why don’t they go to school and learn how to talk? No wonder they don’t know what they’re fighting about.”
“It’s Croatia, Mother,” Judith said, resisting the temptation to lecture Gertrude on the former Yugoslavia’s long-simmering ethnic and religious rivalries.
“Dummies,” Gertrude muttered, turning off the TV. She looked up as Renie bestowed a kiss on her aunt’s wrinkled cheek. “Hi, there, Toots. Where are you going in that getup? Queen Elizabeth isn’t in town, unless the local newshounds forgot to mention that, too.”
Renie grinned, picked Sweetums up from the couch, deposited him on the floor, and sat down. Judith served her mother’s lunch on the card table.
Gertrude eyed the sandwich with suspicion. “I don’t see any hearty chunks of chicken hanging out of the bread. What did you do, shoot a pigeon?”
“It’s all there, Mother,” Judith said with a small sigh as she joined Renie on the couch. “Let’s not get sidetracked. You’ve been holding out on me.” Judith looked at Gertrude with reproachful eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me George had been married before?”
NINE
GERTRUDE WAS UNMOVED by the question. She adjusted her dentures, then sank her teeth into the sandwich. Much chewing and swallowing ensued. “Why should I?” she asked, fixing Judith with an indifferent expression. “You never asked.”
Renie leaned forward on the couch. “What’s this? George had another wife?”
Gertrude nailed a pear. “Myra, that was her name.” She gave herself a little shake, as if surprised that her memory had served so well. “Nice woman, Myra—but dim. Plain as a pikestaff, too. Like I said this morning, she had good manners, if nothing else.”
Renie poked Judith. “When did you figure this out? Is that what you were babbling about at the Goodriches’?”
Judith nodded. “That’s right. I quoted Mother as saying that Enid must be turning in her grave after the grandkids swiped the furnishings. I realized that Enid wasn’t in her grave—yet. Besides,” she added, again looking at Gertrude, “you said the grandmother had nice manners. Enid definitely did not.”
Gertrude remained unperturbed. “So what? It was a long time ago, when you were a baby. Myra got the pip or something, and died young. I suppose she had cancer, but people didn’t blab about their troubles so much in those days. Then the war came along, and George enlisted in the army. He was a widower with two little kids, so they assigned him to a local post. Somewhere along the way, he met Enid. They got married right after V-J Day. You were four at the time and not real interested in any neighbors unless they could play in your sandbox. To tell the truth, Myra was always such a mousy thing that I kind of forgot about her. After all, George and Enid were married for almost fifty years.”
Judith was nodding again. “That was the other thing—the picture of Enid in the living room was taken when she was about sixteen or seventeen. But the outfit she wore was right out of the late thirties. That would make her too young to be Art and Glenda’s mother. They’re a few years older than I am, which means they were born before World War Two.”
Sweetums was batting a paw at Renie’s suede pumps. Renie hissed at the cat; the cat hissed back. With her mouth full of pudding, Gertrude motioned at Judith, then at Sweetums.
“Feeum,” said Gertrude in an impatient mumble.
“I know it’s Sweetums,” Judith responded, wondering if her mother’s mind was wandering more than she realized.
Gertrude swallowed. “I said, ‘Feed him,’ you dope. The poor little critter wants his lunch, too.”
Obediently, Judith went into the tiny kitchen, which contained a hot plate, a toaster oven, a sink, and a small refrigerator. Gertrude didn’t know it, but she was getting a microwave for Christmas. Taking out a can of Kitty Gourmet Extra Salmon, Judith felt Sweetums weave between her ankles. Then she felt him rake her leg. Judith swore. Sweetums sat down, curled his tail around his furry body, and blinked at Judith.
“The wretch is stowing it away,” Judith said as she reentered the sitting room. “Who put the sparrow in his food dish?”
Gertrude scowled. “He did. Brought it in this morning and played catch with it for almost half an hour. What’s the matter—does he want gravy on it?”
Judith tried not to gag. Renie was at the door, obviously eager to leave for her appointment. “See you, Aunt Gertrude,” she said. Then, after waiting for Judith to join her outside, Renie added, “You crazy old coot.”
“She’s not crazy—yet,” Judith countered, walking Renie to her car. “But she does
forget things. I’m wondering if she didn’t forget about the first Mrs. Goodrich until I asked her just now.”
“Could be.” The clouds had not only lifted but had cleared off to the south. Renie dug into her purse and got out her sunglasses. Like most native Pacific Northwesterners, the merest hint of sun sent her hiding behind smoked lenses. “Does it matter? Enid and George were married forever, and as far as Glenda and Art are concerned, she was the only mother they really knew.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Judith said, shielding her own eyes with her hand. “Art would have been about six when Myra died, and Glenda would have been four. They might remember her. But that’s not the point.”
“Oh?” Renie was sliding behind the wheel of the big blue Chev. “What, then?”
“Enid wasn’t their mother. She wasn’t the grandchildren’s grandmother, either. If it’s unnatural for a child—or grandchild—to kill a parent, then we have to adjust our thinking. We’re talking about a stepmother. If you believe half of what you read in the fairy tales, everybody wants to kill them.”
Renie turned the ignition key. “This isn’t a fairy tale.”
Judith’s half-smile was ironic. She waved Renie off down the drive, then wandered out to take a look at her New England village in the winter sunshine. The sight pleased her anew. Indeed, the entire cul-de-sac looked festive even in the harsh light of day. It was, she thought, like something out of a fairy tale.
And two doors down was the Goodrich house, where the wicked witch had resided.
Or, as it turned out, the cruel stepmother. Sometimes fairy tales weren’t fit for children.
But the murder site was hardly deserted. It appeared to Judith that the police were still inside. It also appeared that they were about to be disturbed by the arrival of the Ford Econoline van. Judith was joined on the curb by Rochelle Porter.
“Now what?” Rochelle asked in her strong, smooth contralto. “I kept out of it last night, though I could hardly wait for Gabe to come home and tell me what was going on.”
To the surprise of both Judith and Rochelle, the driver turned out to be Leigh. She got out and started for the house, a willowy figure in black leggings, thigh-high black boots, and a green leather jacket.
“That’s the fashion model?” Rochelle asked in a whisper. “My goodness, hasn’t she grown?” There was a sardonic note in her deep voice.
“Let’s wait,” Judith suggested. “The police are inside. See that unmarked city car?”
“I’ve seen everything around here lately,” Rochelle responded with a frown. “The other morning when I went to work there was a beer truck parked around the corner. What next, drug dealers?”
Judith regarded Rochelle with interest. “Was it red? What time?”
Rochelle’s pleasant face was contorted with the effort to remember. “Oh—let me think—I was substitute teaching that day way out south, so I had to leave early. It must have been around seven-fifteen.”
The time meshed with Mrs. Swanson’s account. “Was it a Cascade Beer truck?” Judith asked.
But Rochelle didn’t recall. “Aren’t most beer trucks red?” she asked.
Judith didn’t answer. She was watching Leigh argue with Patches Morgan on the steps of the Goodrich house. Judith felt a small glow of satisfaction. Apparently, so did Rochelle Porter.
“Brats,” she said. “Tuesday night, I had to run up to Falstaff’s because we were out of milk. One of those Goodrich boys—the one who works with Gabe—was bothering his mother while she was trying to check out customers. I couldn’t believe how disrespectful he was. And she just stood there and let him get away with it.”
It was clear that the Porter children hadn’t gotten away with much. Nor, Judith thought, would any classroom of students over which Rochelle reigned, even temporarily.
And Leigh wasn’t getting away with the rest of the household goods, as far as Judith could tell. Patches Morgan had now marched her back to the paneled van. She went unwillingly, and not without a verbal struggle.
“Come on,” Judith said to Rochelle. “Let’s see what she’s up to this time.”
Rochelle, however, demurred. She had a rare day off and was heading downtown to Christmas shop. With a friendly wave, she returned to her driveway and got into one of the various cars that Gabe had fixed in his spare time.
Judith reached the van just as Leigh was fussing with the gears. “Yoo-hoo,” she called in what she hoped was an engaging manner. “Have you come to pick up things for your grandfather?”
Leigh glared out the window. “For my grandfather? Why does he need anything? He’s crazy.”
Anger wiped away Judith’s beguiling smile. “You don’t know that,” she said, not bothering to hide her temper. “I’m glad the police won’t let you ransack the house. You and your cousins ought to be ashamed.”
Leigh’s classic features twisted in fury; then she suddenly became almost obsequious. Judith had the impression that this was how the young woman acted in front of a camera, switching moods to suit changing poses.
“Isn’t there a cop who lives around here someplace? Do you know who it is?” Leigh inquired, one hand poised on her cheek in apparent perplexity.
“I know him,” Judith answered curtly. “Why?”
Leigh now assumed a wistful air. “If he knew how these other cops were treating family members, he’d do something. Do you have any idea how much those pieces of furniture mean to me?”
Judith started to respond, but Leigh kept talking. “It’s not easy being a model and having to travel all the time. You don’t have a real home. You’re never with anyone who cares about you, just a bunch of people who suck up to you because they need your face to sell something. I wanted that furniture to make me feel as if I had a place of my own, with roots and connections.” The sadness in her green eyes was almost convincing.
Frustrated, Judith sighed. She didn’t know whether or not to believe Leigh. “Look, it’s none of my business, but couldn’t you wait until your grandfather gets settled? I heard you didn’t plan on returning to New York until after New Year’s. There’s plenty of time to get whatever it is you want shipped back east.”
Leigh’s face set in its more familiar hard line. “No, there isn’t. My plans have changed. I’m going back to New York right away.”
Now it was Judith’s turn to attempt subterfuge. “Oh? What about Christmas? Won’t your mother and the rest of the family be disappointed?”
Leigh gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “My mother would like to ship me back right now. The others won’t care if I’m not around. When did anybody in this family give a damn about anybody else—except Grandma?”
The ambiguous statement gave Judith a chance to feign ignorance. “You mean your grandmother cared about you but the rest don’t?”
Leigh flung her head back in exasperation. “Good Lord, no! Grandma didn’t care about anybody but Grandma! I meant that everybody else had to wait on her hand and foot.”
“Then why do you care about her furniture?” Judith moved a bit closer into the shadow of the van. Only a few wispy clouds remained, and the afternoon sun was reflecting off the windshield.
“I care about me,” Leigh said bluntly. “Somebody has to.” A defensive note crept into her voice. “Oh, my mother pretended to care, but when it counted, she showed her true colors. I look back now and see that she always put herself first. That’s why she couldn’t stay married to my father. Sure, he had faults, but so did she, like being possessive and jealous. That’s why she got so…” Abruptly, Leigh clamped her mouth shut, then looked at Judith with a rueful expression. “Sorry. I feel like a runaway train.”
Naturally, Judith wished that Leigh hadn’t applied the brakes. “Your father,” Judith said quickly, as Leigh started to roll up the window. “What happened to him?”
“Happened?” Leigh frowned. “Nothing. He married somebody else and moved away. It was a long time ago, when I was a kid.”
“You
haven’t seen him over the years?” Judith was now right next to the van. Leigh couldn’t drive off without knocking her down.
“Not since I was ten.” The green eyes grew suspicious. “Why are you asking?”
Judith had glanced beyond Leigh to the rear of the van. It was empty. But the sunlight was shining straight into the paneled interior. Rust-colored streaks covered the walls. They looked startlingly like the darkening crimson stains in the Goodrich bedroom. Judith suppressed a shudder. Her imagination was overheating. No doubt the streaks were a paint job gone wrong.
With an effort, Judith shrugged and resumed her engaging smile. “I never really knew your father. In fact, I can’t remember his name. Do you go by it?”
“Sure,” Leigh replied. “His name is Ross Cisrak. Just because my mother wanted to go back to her maiden name doesn’t mean I had to change mine. Besides, Leigh Cisrak is more memorable than Leigh Goodrich. It has a foreign sound. That’s good, especially when I work in Europe.”
Judith tried to recall Ross Cisrak. She couldn’t, except in the vaguest sort of way. “I only saw him come to your grandparents’ house a couple of times. I think it was when you were a baby.”
“He writes to me,” Leigh said in a manner that suggested she hadn’t heard Judith. “At least he has lately. I think he gets a kick out of the fact that I show up on TV and in magazines. It makes him feel as if he succeeded at something. My mother always told him he was a failure.”
“What does he do?” Judith asked as Leigh started the van.
“Whatever he feels like,” Leigh said. She rolled the window up halfway, then lifted her chin and spoke through the opening. “If you see that cop, tell him to put some pressure on his hard-assed coworkers. They’re trying to screw me over. Greg and Dave are already pissed because I borrowed their precious van. You’d think it was a freaking Rolls-Royce.” Not bothering to close the window completely, Leigh put the van into reverse and backed out of the cul-de-sac.