Nutty As a Fruitcake

by Mary Daheim

  “Those trees were horrible,” Judith declared. “My father almost always had to put in a new top. I remember one year your father cut up two trees and taped them together. The top half turned yellow in about forty-eight hours.”

  Renie was looking thoughtful. “Maybe my memory’ shot. I’m muddled, like George. What have you heard since Mrs. Swanson confessed to you about her donated hatchet?”

  “Nothing,” Judith admitted, slowly prowling the first row of trees and trying not to step in any major mud puddles. “I finally remembered George mentioning he’d borrowed the hatchet to chop up some firewood. But that doesn’t mean he chopped up Enid, too. As far as I know, there hasn’t been anybody at the house since the police threw Leigh out on Friday. The patrol car comes by about once every hour or so. Oh—Ted put the sign up in the Goodriches’ yard. None of us felt it could hurt anything.”

  Off to one side, a half-dozen larger trees were propped up against a cyclone fence. Judith’s boots squelched under her as she moved closer for a better look.

  “This is more like it,” she called to Renie who had lingered to check out a pile of cedar wreaths. “At least eight feet, unsheared, and the top isn’t bad, either. Help me shake it out.”

  Together, the cousins managed to haul the big Douglas fir away from the fence. “Is it even?” Judith asked.

  “How do I know?” Renie replied in a muffled voice. “I’m not looking at it; I’m in it.”

  Sure enough, the tree’s long branches enveloped Renie. Judith tried to step back as raindrops rolled off her jacket’s hood. “I think it’s a keeper. It smells wonderful, too.” In her enthusiasm, Judith let go of the trunk. The big fir plunged backward, taking Renie with it.

  “Yikes!” Renie shouted, falling into the fence. “I’m killed!”

  “Oh, dear!” Trying not to laugh, Judith rushed to her cousin’s side. “Coz—are you okay?”

  “I’m not if I’m dead,” Renie snapped, shaking herself and sending off a spray of water like a wet pup. “How much?”

  “These aren’t marked,” Judith replied, looking around for assistance. It appeared in the form of O.P. Dooley, wearing a yellow slicker over his Boy Scout uniform. Judith smiled brightly at the boy. “I’ve found the perfect tree,” she said. “How much, O.P.?”

  O.P. bore a striking resemblance to his older brother, particularly the fair hair and mobile mouth. But the younger Dooley was shorter by almost a head, with a handful of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Despite the uniform with its official sash and badges, O.P. looked very young and faintly miserable with the rain pelting his slight form.

  “That one’s ninety dollars,” O.P. said solemnly.

  “Ninety dollars?” Judith reeled in disbelief. “Egad! The big ones are only eighty at Nottingham’s, and they’re in the business! O.P., this is the Boy Scouts!”

  O.P.’s chin betrayed only the slightest quiver. “It’s our big fund-raiser, Mrs. McMonigle. We make enough to keep our troop going.”

  “Going where? The French Riviera? And it’s Mrs. Flynn. It’s been Mrs. Flynn for almost three years.” Judith caught herself and gave O.P. a sheepish look. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s raining cats and dogs, my husband has to work this weekend, it’s hard to find the right tree for our big living room, and I…well, sometimes I get frazzled before Christmas.”

  “We help poor kids, too,” O.P. said with dignity. “You know, troops that can’t raise much money. Scouting keeps kids out of gangs.” He brushed a raindrop from his cheek, or perhaps it was a tear.

  Judith sighed. “I’ll take it. We’ll have to put it on top of the car. It’s too big for the trunk.”

  Renie was stroking the branches of the big fir’s neighbor. It was a bit shorter but almost as full. “To heck with it,” she said. “I’ll buy this one. My husband and I’ll pick it up this afternoon. How much?”

  “Eighty-five,” O.P. replied promptly. “I’ll tag it for you.”

  An older boy Judith didn’t recognize came to cart off the giant fir. “Don’t forget to make a two-inch cut,” Judith called, then turned back to O.P. “I guess it’s worth it. It may be the nicest tree we’ve ever had.” It was, Judith silently added, certainly the most costly.

  Now very serious, O.P. nodded. “It’s a super tree. Say, Mrs. Mc…ah, Mrs. Flynn, do you think my brother and me could talk to Mr. Flynn sometime?”

  “Sure,” Judith replied, as Renie approached, carrying a pine-and-cedar wreath. “What about?”

  O.P. rubbed at his left eye, then brushed an accumulation of rain from his worried face. “It’s Aloysius. He says I got to talk to Mr. Flynn about the guy I saw the other day.”

  “What guy?” Judith asked, feeling her boots sink into the muddy ground.

  “I don’t know him,” O.P. said, blushing a bit. “But I saw him through my telescope before I went to school Wednesday morning. It was still pretty dark out. He went to Mr. and Mrs. Goodrich’s house. You know, the back way.”

  Judith, Renie, and O.P. had begun strolling in the direction of the trailer that served as office and shelter for the scouts. Three people already were lined up, waiting to pay for their selected greenery. Judith didn’t get in line. She was too intrigued by O.P.’s information.

  “What time Wednesday morning?” she asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  O.P. scratched at his cheek. “Around seven-thirty, I guess. I leave for school at eight, but breakfast wasn’t ready, so I stayed in my room and was playing around with the telescope. I’m too old for TV ’toons.”

  Two children, both boys who were not much younger than O.P., tugged at his slicker. Apparently, they wanted him to help their parents choose a tree. Reluctantly, O.P. excused himself.

  “O.P.!” Judith called after him. “Come over to our house when you get through here, okay? Bring Dooley.”

  A wave of one slicker-covered arm signaled agreement, or so Judith hoped. Mentally, she kicked herself for not talking to O.P. sooner. But during the years that his older brother had shown no interest in detection, Judith had forgotten about the telescope.

  “Who could have come by so early?” Judith muttered as she and Renie finally fell into what was now a six-person queue. “If we take Art at his word, it wasn’t him. O.P. might recognize Art anyway. The grandsons, too. Who’s left?”

  Renie was counting cash out of her wallet. “O.P.’s sure it was a man?”

  “He seemed to be.” Briefly, Judith’s attention was diverted by the sight of the lad who’d hauled her tree away. He was using a chain saw to make the required two-inch cut on the thick trunk. “The red truck,” Judith said, under her breath. “Rochelle and Mrs. Swanson saw it. I asked Rochelle if it was a Cascade Beer truck. She didn’t know. But aren’t they red?”

  “Sure,” Renie said, digging for exact change. “Red with white writing. Bad choice, from a design standpoint. Black on red would be better for beer. Or reverse it, red on black. Very classy.”

  “Shut up,” Judith ordered. “I’m thinking Gary Meyers.”

  “I know you are,” Renie said blithely. “‘Spurned Suitor Whacks Girlfriend’s Mom.’ Isn’t that the headline you’re envisioning?”

  The short, chubby man in front of the cousins turned around and gave them a sharp look. Judith recognized him as one of the butchers from Falstaff’s. Apparently, he didn’t think his store had a very wide selection of trees, either. He also seemed to think Judith and Renie might be a little strange.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded in the gruff voice that usually conveyed an underlying jocular note. Then his face brightened as he apparently recognized two of his regular customers. “That murder on the south side of the Hill?”

  Embarrassed, Judith nodded. She remembered that the butcher’s name was Harold. “It happened two doors down.”

  Harold also nodded. “That’s right, you own the B&B in the cul-de-sac. Terrible thing. Mr. Goodrich shops at our store. Used to, anyway. I haven’t seen him lately
. Maybe I made him mad.”

  “Oh?” Judith forgot her embarrassment. “How so?”

  Harold dropped his chin onto his chest. He had almost no neck, and the earflaps on his hunting cap stuck straight out. “Well…I gave him a bad time about some shortages in our deliveries from Pacific Meat. He said he didn’t actually work there anymore. Maybe I was too hard on the old guy. Shortages seem to be a way of life these days. It’s this younger generation, not paying attention to their work. No pride. Gimme, gimme, gimme.” Harold moved up in line to pay for his tree.

  By unspoken mutual consent, the cousins stopped talking about the homicide. Judith saw her fir now leaning against the trailer. Renie was studying the wire frame on her wreath. Harold paid his money, nodded at the cousins, and went off to claim his purchase.

  It took almost ten minutes to secure the big fir on top of the Japanese compact. Judith drove home very carefully. Together, the cousins wrestled the tree to the ground. By the time they had dragged it to the side of the house, both Judith and Renie were not only wet but dirty, tired, and out of breath. They were about to seek sanctuary in the kitchen when Gertrude called to them from the toolshed.

  “Hey, dingbats—where’s my tree?”

  Judith’s shoulders slumped. “You said you didn’t have room for a tree. I thought you were going to use that little ceramic one that Aunt Ellen sent. It’s really cute.”

  “It’s really ceramic,” Gertrude snapped. “I had a tree in this packing crate I call a home last year. We put it on the card table.”

  Wearily, Judith approached the toolshed. She didn’t feel like shouting through the rain. “You said you didn’t want it on the card table again. You had no place for your solitaire.”

  “So we’ll set it in the middle of the floor.” Gertrude banged her walker for emphasis. “I don’t like phony stuff. You can put Aunt Ellen’s ceramic tree in your bathroom. If you don’t like that idea, you can put it up your…”

  “Mother, I’ll get you a tree tomorrow. Renie and I are exhausted. That tree weighs a ton.” Feebly, Judith gestured at the Douglas fir.

  “Hunh.” Gertrude narrowed her eyes at the fir. “Now why would you get a redwood? Why do you need anything that big? I’ll bet that cost you fifteen bucks! I don’t want you paying more than two-fifty for mine!” With a swish of her housecoat, Gertrude clumped back inside the toolshed.

  Renie had remained standing on the porch steps. “My mother doesn’t want a tree. But of course she really does. She says it’s too much trouble for me. But if I don’t get one, she’ll be ‘low in her mind,’ as she puts it, until New Year’s. She insists that if I do get one for her, I can’t decorate it because she doesn’t want to be a burden. But if I don’t, she’ll put on her martyr’s crown and all I’ll hear for the next three weeks are deep, heart-wrenching sighs. Is it too early to start drinking?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, leading the way into the house. “Except that it’s the second Sunday of Advent, which means…something or other, like let’s have a drink anyway.”

  Judith poured a small bourbon for Renie, a smaller scotch for herself. The cousins adjourned to the living room where the early-morning fire Judith had built for her guests was now out. Staring at the empty grate, Judith forced herself into action. Moments later, kindling was crackling and paper was burning. An English chorale was singing medieval carols on the CD player. The old house creaked in the wind, and the rain rattled the windowpanes.

  “I don’t think Gary took a hatchet to Enid,” Judith said at last, picking up the thread of their conversation where they’d dropped it at the Boy Scout lot. “Even if she was the cause of the breakup between him and Glenda, that’s too extreme. But I’d certainly like to know why Gary—assuming it was him—called on the Goodriches at seven-thirty Wednesday morning. More to the point, I’d like to know what he found when he got there.”

  Renie was rubbing at the back of her neck. It appeared that she hadn’t quite fully recovered from her various bouts with the Douglas fir. “Such as Enid’s body and George in a deep sleep?”

  Judith nodded. “Exactly.” The bloodstained bedroom danced before her eyes. So did the interior of Dave and Greg’s van. On a whim, Judith described the rust-colored streaks to Renie.

  Renie rolled her eyes. “You’re getting carried away. Greg and Dave may be about as smart as your average termites, but they wouldn’t drive around in a bloodstained van. And even if they did, what has it got to do with Enid’s murder?”

  Judith fingered her lower lip. “That’s the part that makes no sense. Logic is lacking, and it bothers me. We’ve got a spare knife and an extra set of what might be blood streaks. I hate it when things don’t fit.”

  “You don’t know if that’s blood inside the van,” Renie chided, more gently than usual. “You said ‘rust-colored.’ So maybe it’s rust or paint or some kind of chemical. Drop it, coz.”

  Judith did. She forced her mind back on its original track. “Even though I don’t believe Gary killed Enid, I keep thinking he’s the key. I wonder how we can arrange to meet him again?”

  “Lunch,” Renie said promptly. “It sounds as if he usually eats at Buster’s Cafe. I’m always ready for lunch. In fact,” she went on, glancing at the grandfather clock, “I’m overdue. It’s twelve-thirty. I hate to drink and run, but I’ve got a zillion things to do this afternoon, including the collection of our own monster evergreen.”

  Judith didn’t try to persuade Renie to linger. There was much to be done at Hillside Manor, too. She began by addressing another dozen cards, then wrapped four more presents, and finished decorating the second and third floors. Each task was interrupted at least three times by telephone requests for reservations. The B&B would be partially closed from December twenty-second to the twenty-ninth. Judith needed two of the guest rooms for Caitlin and Kristin. It was none of Judith’s business if Mike and Kristin wanted to sleep together, but under Hillside Manor’s roof, they would occupy separate quarters. Besides, Mike had only a twin bed in his old room. Judith had been tempted to convert the space into an office with a computer and a fax machine. But sentiment held her back. Mike came home at least four times a year, and until he was more permanently settled, Judith was loath to cut the cord.

  By four o’clock, she was worn out. Reviving herself with a cup of hot tea, she went outdoors in the fading light to take a second cut off the fir. It was no mean feat, since she had to grapple with the tree by herself. Unfortunately, she couldn’t manage to right the tree again, let alone hoist it into a bucket of water. She was standing in the rain, wondering when Joe would get home, when Dooley and O.P. bounded over the back fence. To Judith’s elation, they volunteered to set the tree in the bucket.

  “I feel bad,” Dooley confessed after Judith had ushered the two boys into the kitchen and offered them pop. “I should have asked O.P. right away if he’d seen anything at the Goodriches’. But I didn’t get home until that afternoon, after the murder had happened. O.P. should have told me sooner about what he saw.” Dooley gave his brother a chiding look.

  “It didn’t seem like a big deal,” O.P. mumbled. “I mean, what’s so great about people going in and out of Mrs. Badbitch’s back door? They do it all the time, especially that one guy and the lady.”

  Judith assumed O.P. referred to Art and Glenda. “So how was Tuesday night different?” she inquired.

  O.P. took a deep breath and furrowed his forehead in concentration. Judith assumed he had already been coached by Dooley to render a full and accurate account. “There was all this yelling,” O.P. began, “just before dinner. I looked through the telescope. Nothing. I waited, and the yelling stopped. Then that guy…” Hesitating, he turned to Dooley. “Is that Art?” Dooley nodded. “Art comes running out the front door and up to his car. It looked like he dropped something, but I couldn’t be sure because it was dark. He got in and drove off. Then the lady left through the back door, kind of running, too. She jumped in her car and took off. Mom called that dinner was r
eady, so I went downstairs.” O.P. gave a little shrug.

  Judith thought back to Tuesday evening. Art had arrived while she and Renie were still in the front yard, probably around four. Glenda had stopped by Hillside Manor at six. Sweetums had gotten into the crab dip shortly thereafter, causing the first scream. The second had occurred at least ten minutes later, probably around six-fifteen.

  “What time did you go down to eat?” Judith asked.

  It was Dooley who answered. “Six-thirty on the dot. I was starved. They only had peanuts on the plane.”

  Judith mulled over the information that the Dooley boys had given her thus far. “Art left through the front door. How very odd. But Glenda went out the usual way a few minutes later. Okay, what next?”

  O.P. looked sheepish. “I don’t know. With Dooley home, we sort of horsed around and talked and stuff. But finally Dad told me I had to finish my homework, so I went upstairs. I did my math and some of my Native American paper, but I got tired. So I took a look through the telescope before I got ready for bed. It was around nine. I have to be in bed by nine on school nights.” O.P. made a face. “Anyway, there was a van in front of Mrs. Badbitch’s house and a guy going around to the back. I’ve seen him a couple of times before. Usually, he’s with another dude about his age.”

  “The grandsons,” Dooley put in helpfully.

  “Yeah, right, whatever,” said O.P. “So he went in and that was that. I got ready for bed and did a little more on my Native American paper. Did you know the white man gave the Native Americans blankets full of smallpox germs?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Judith said with a rueful expression.

  “Maybe they didn’t know much about germs in the olden days,” O.P. said hopefully. “Anyway, I took one last look before I went to sleep—I do that almost every night, just to check on everything—and the van was gone, but an old beater was parked out front. I didn’t see anybody, so I went to bed. That’s it.”