by Mary Daheim
Judith reflected briefly on Phyliss’s outpouring. “Did they replace you?”
Phyliss smirked. “They tried. The last I heard—three, maybe four years ago—they gave up. Nobody could put up with Enid. Hazel Pinckney was the last one, just about the time I had my gallstones out. No, that was two years ago. You remember? I brought the gallstones over to show you in a mason jar.”
Unfortunately, Judith did recall the viewing. She turned away from Phyliss, hiding a grimace. The cleaning woman, however, wasn’t finished: “Hazel got the sack, and it wasn’t from Enid, either. It was George. Goodrich, not Washington.” Phyliss chuckled at what she apparently perceived as her own rich wit. “Anyhoo, Hazel just happened to overhear George and that Japanese Jezebel billing and cooing over the backyard fence. Now, I don’t hold with adulterous ways, even when the wife’s a holy terror, and I don’t blame Hazel for being scandalized. But what can you expect from a family that gambles?”
Judith put both hands to her head. She felt confused. “Wait a minute—who gambles? George? Enid?”
“Those grandsons,” Phyliss replied primly. “Always running off to them Indian casinos. Talk about dens of iniquity! They serve liquor, too. For all I know, they let you dance.”
“Sweet revenge,” Judith murmured. “What about George and Mrs. Swanson? Surely you don’t mean they were”—Judith chose her words carefully—“romantically involved?”
From under the wide brim of her hat, Phyliss cocked an eye at Judith. “Now, now, I wouldn’t repeat common gossip. You know better. But just because people aren’t as young as they used to be doesn’t mean they don’t have what you might call carnal desires. My cousin Orville back in Indiana was eighty-six when he got some poor innocent Miss Teenaged Tippecanoe County in trouble. Satan works in mysterious ways, and Orville was one of ’em. The real problem with Orville was that he never did like wearing pants, not even when he was a tot.”
Judith didn’t think she could stand hearing any more about Cousin Orville. Or, at nine in the morning, about Mr. Goodrich and Mrs. Swanson. She had several phone calls to make, parcels to ready for mailing to Joe’s spread-out kinfolk, and a hurried toilette before she attended Enid’s funeral.
Somehow, Judith was ready when Renie honked at nine-forty. Renie, however, wasn’t ready for Phyliss. She gaped as the cleaning woman climbed into the back of the Chevrolet. Judith motioned for her cousin to keep her mouth shut.
Renie almost did. “Talked to Joe?” she inquired innocently as they drove across the top of Heraldsgate Hill.
“No,” Judith replied, staring straight ahead into the incessant rain. “He was still tired when he got home last night. He plans to take off early today, though.”
“Hmmm.” Renie could barely refrain from simpering. “How’s George?” she finally asked, apparently deciding that the set of Judith’s jaw indicated a change of subject.
“I haven’t heard a thing,” Judith answered truthfully. “If he’s at the funeral, we’ll know he’s been remanded to Art or Glenda’s custody. Nobody’s been around the house since Friday.”
The Congregational Church was located a block from the public library. The building was old and nondescript, though Judith recalled that in the spring, the landscaping was lush and lovely. She had been in the church only once before, when a classmate had married for the second time some fifteen years earlier. Dan McMonigle had become irate when he discovered that there was no liquor in the punch. He had stormed out upon learning that he’d eaten the last of the curried chicken. Judith tried to forget that he’d also eaten the smoked turkey. All of it. Her memories of Dan tended to become remote with time, which was just as well.
“Tonight,” she whispered.
“What?” said Renie.
“Tonight. I’ll tell Joe tonight.” It wasn’t fair not to tell him about Herself. He’d be upset, but he’d get over it. Joe wasn’t Dan. There would be no chair pitched through the living room window, no marathon drinking bout, no endless barrage of verbal abuse. Sometimes Judith forgot that all men weren’t alike.
Enid Goodrich hadn’t drawn a large crowd of mourners. Glenda, Art, and JoAnne sat in the front pew. At first Judith didn’t see George. Then she realized that he was between Glenda and Art, hunched over, with his head down. The curve of his back was barely visible.
The only other mourners were Mrs. Swanson, Naomi Stein, Corinne Dooley, the Rankers, and a half-dozen middle-aged people Judith didn’t recognize. She presumed they were friends of Art and Glenda. The Porters, the Ericsons, and Hamish Stein apparently didn’t want to take time from work to attend the service. Judith didn’t blame them.
“No Leigh,” Renie whispered after they had seated themselves in the fourth row. “Did she go back to New York?”
Judith shook her head, then turned as she heard someone else enter the church. It was Patches Morgan and Sancha Rael. Joe often attended the funerals of homicide victims. He had told Judith that observing the survivors often gave valuable insights into their behavior and thus helped form attitudes about possible suspects.
Morgan saw Judith with his good right eye and nodded. He and Rael sat down across the aisle. Just as Judith realized that neither Greg nor Dave was on hand, the organ began to play “Now Thank We All Our God.” The hymn struck Judith as inappropriate. On second thought, she decided that maybe it wasn’t. On her left, Phyliss sighed and closed her eyes in appreciation. The casket rolled down the aisle. Greg and Dave Goodrich were two of the six pallbearers. The other four were somewhat older men Judith didn’t know. She had the feeling they had been recruited from the ranks of the funeral parlor or perhaps the church.
The minister, however, was a familiar face. Judith couldn’t remember his name, but she had seen him around the Hill for the past several years. He was a tall, lean man of sixty with a kindly face. If he’d known Enid Goodrich, he didn’t let it show.
Or maybe he had, Judith mused as the minister expanded on St. Matthew’s text of the five foolish and five sensible virgins. By the time he had finished, it was difficult to tell into which classification Enid Goodrich had fallen. Indeed, it was hard for Judith to picture Enid as a dewy-eyed virgin. On the other hand, it was impossible to envision her in the throes of passion. Perhaps it was best not to think of Enid at all.
There was no viewing, since the casket was mercifully closed. Briefly, Judith imagined what damage must have been inflicted on the dead woman. The thought disturbed her. Nobody, not even Enid, deserved to die such a miserable death.
A final melancholy hymn resounded from the organ. Phyliss wept. No one else did, not even George, who kept his head down but managed to turn and watch the casket’s progress out of the church. Cremation would follow, so there would be no procession to the cemetery. Instead, the minister had announced a reception in the church hall. The small group trudged down a flight of carpeted stairs.
“I made finger sandwiches and punch,” Arlene said to Judith. “Someone had to volunteer.”
“You should have told me,” Judith said. “I could have pitched in.”
“This wasn’t part of our catering job,” Arlene replied. “I called Glenda last night, and no one had made any arrangements for food. What could I do but offer to help?” Arlene shrugged off her typical selflessness.
The twenty people who gathered in the large assembly room seemed lost, like survivors of a sunken ship huddling in a single lifeboat. George Goodrich was still flanked by his son and daughter. Judith was vaguely shocked by his appearance. His best suit seemed to hang on him, as if he’d lost a good deal of weight in the past few days. His sparse hair was lifeless, his eyes were vague behind the glasses, and his cheeks were sunken. As Glenda handed him a cup of punch, his hands shook.
Judith approached him warily. But before she could extend her hand, Phyliss intervened. The cleaning woman enfolded George in her arms and knocked off his glasses with her hat.
“Mr. Goodrich! Think of fluffy clouds and golden harps! Think of feathery wings flapping
over your head at night! Think of Enid sitting down with our Lord for a cheerful chin-wag! Think of…”
Glenda had reached down to retrieve her father’s glasses. “Think of poor Pappy,” she said in an uncharacteristically testy voice. “He’s been through a really bad time.”
With a spiteful look for Glenda, Phyliss let go of George. “He needs loving arms, soothing words. No wonder he looks like he’s been dragged through a knothole!”
“I need a chair,” George said weakly. His gaze came into focus and landed on Judith. “If you would be so kind…”
Surprised, Judith readily took George by the arm. She led him away from the table to a folding chair near the rear exit. Renie, meanwhile, had neatly sidestepped in front of Phyliss and Glenda. Armed with finger sandwiches, Renie was distracting both women with what appeared to be a dramatic monologue.
“What are you going to do now, George?” Judith inquired softly as she sat down next to George on another folding chair.
Adjusting his glasses, George sighed. “I don’t know, really. I’m staying with Art and JoAnne now, in what used to be the boys’ room. But I’d rather go home.”
“Of course you would,” Judith said, then wondered if she’d feel the same way. But she wasn’t George; she didn’t yet know the truth about what had happened the previous Wednesday morning. Vaguely, she was aware of Patches Morgan watching her and George with his good right eye.
“You see,” George was saying as his voice gained strength, “nobody lets me know what’s happening. There was supposed to be something yesterday—a hearing of some kind, maybe—but it didn’t happen. I don’t know why Art and Glenda are so secretive.”
“They’re protecting you,” Judith said quietly. “They love you, George. You’ve been very ill. And,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “you’ve lost your wife.”
The lines in George’s forehead grew deeper. “Yes. I still can’t believe it. Nothing seems real, not since your husband came by our house—when? A week ago?”
Judith reflected. Time passed so quickly in December. “That’s right. It was a week ago tonight that Joe came over to ask about the sign.” She grew silent while George sat motionless, his cup of coffee on the floor by his carefully polished shoes. “Do you remember anything about what happened Wednesday morning?” Judith finally asked, almost in a whisper.
A faint, rueful smile touched George’s lips. “It’s all like a dream. A nightmare, I guess. I remember going to bed, around nine-thirty, like we always do. The only other thing I recall is someone being in the house. It was much later, and I don’t think it was completely dark outside. The next thing I knew, I was sick and there were a lot of people in the bedroom. Art was there. And Enid…” He turned away, a hand over his face.
“At the hospital,” Judith broke in, “you said something to me about a key. What did you mean?”
George uncovered his stricken face. “A key? I said that?” He looked blank. “I don’t remember. Were you at the hospital?”
Judith didn’t answer. Had George said “key”? Or was it “Leigh” or “tree” or “he” or “she”? In all honesty, she couldn’t be certain. George had been virtually incoherent.
“Gary Meyers isn’t here,” Judith said, deciding to evade the issue for the present. She watched George carefully to see if Gary’s name evoked any kind of reaction.
It did. “Gary! I shouldn’t think he’d be here! Glenda would have a fit.”
“Oh? I know they broke up, but I didn’t realize there were hard feelings.” Judith’s expression was politely inquiring.
George finally reached down to retrieve his coffee. His hand was less shaky as he raised the cup to his lips. “The man’s a cad. At least that’s what we called them in the old days.” George’s mouth shut down in a tight line of disapproval.
Even if Judith had found a tactful way of probing further, she wouldn’t have had the chance: Mrs. Swanson was tiptoeing up to them, a bittersweet smile on her face. At first glimpse, George’s eyes lighted up. “Sunshine,” O.P. had said in describing the interaction between the Japanese widow and the beleaguered husband. Judith saw it, and bit her lip.
“Mr. Goodrich,” said Mrs. Swanson in her soft, sweet voice, “my thoughts are always with you.”
George took the small, dainty hand that was offered to him. “Mrs. Swanson, you are very kind. I miss seeing you more than…” He broke off and turned away.
Judith stood up. “Take my chair, Mrs. Swanson,” she offered. “I should be going.”
Demurely, Mrs. Swanson thanked Judith, who hurried over to Renie and Phyliss. Out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw George and Mrs. Swanson, their heads very close together. She wondered about them. Had George missed the widow more than he missed Enid? Or had he missed Mrs. Swanson more than anything? Either way, it was the same.
Getting Phyliss out of the church was only slightly harder than prying Renie loose from the sandwiches. As they went outside, Phyliss exuded a great sigh of satisfaction.
“There’s nothing like a funeral,” she said as the trio walked to the street. “It makes you realize how close you are to the Lord.”
“You’re pretty close to the curb, Phyliss,” Renie snapped. “Look out, here comes a truck.”
The truck was coming rather fast, at least for traveling on a rainy residential street. In fact, it sped up as it approached the cousins and Phyliss. All three women involuntarily stepped back as water flew from a puddle in the pavement.
“Damn!” Renie grumbled, brushing at her expensive black raincoat. “That jerk got me wet!”
“Don’t curse,” Phyliss warned. “What’s a raincoat for if you can’t get it wet?”
“There’s a difference between dirty water and rain,” Renie replied. “I paid four hundred dollars for this coat.”
“Vanity,” Phyliss declared as she and Renie started across the street to the car. “Don’t you know what the Bible says about vanity?”
“Vanity, my butt,” Renie retorted. “It’s an investment. I bought this six years ago and it…”
Judith didn’t hear the rest of the argument. She was still standing on the curb. The truck that had sprayed dirty rain water was orange and battered, and bore Oregon license plates. Judith had not been able to get a good look at the driver, although she had sensed that it was a man.
She was certain it was the same pickup truck she had seen parked the previous week across from Mrs. Swanson’s house.
TWELVE
“I WISH,” JUDITH said fervently as she and Renie once again headed down to the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill, “we could get back inside the Goodrich house. I shouldn’t have given that key to Patches Morgan.”
“What’s to see, coz?” asked Renie as they passed a Metro bus driven by a man in a Santa suit. “That place is creepy with all the blood and gore. What’s to do, for that matter? If George denies he killed Enid, isn’t it up to the cops to make a case against him? If they can’t, then they’ll start trying to find the real killer. Maybe that’s what they’re doing now.”
Judith thought back to the presence of Morgan and Rael at the funeral. “That’s possible,” she admitted. “The strange thing about this case is that there’s only one real motive—Enid herself. It can’t be money, because this is a community property state and nobody gets anything unless George dies, too.”
“Maybe,” Renie said as she barged into the left-hand lane of the one-way street, “George was supposed to die.”
“Then why not take the hatchet to both of them? Or poison Enid? She took enough medication to mask just about anything.” Judith gave an impatient shake of her head. “That’s one of the things that isn’t logical about this case. If the killer wanted one of the Goodriches to be unconscious while he—or she—whacked the other one, then why not give Enid the Dalmane? It was her prescription, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?” Renie remarked, as she turned the corner to head for the Heraldsgate Hill postal station. Having dropped Phyliss off at
Hillside Manor, Renie had offered to drive Judith to the post office. From there, the cousins would head downtown to finish their shopping.
“You’re right,” Judith said. “We don’t know for sure if the Dalmane was for Enid. We never saw the bottle because the police had taken it away. It could have belonged to anybody. Maybe the bottle itself was never there.”
The line of cars waiting to get into the post office parking lot was eight deep. Renie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I should buy more stamps. I’d like to mail all my cards by Friday.”
“I’d still like to get into that house,” Judith murmured. “We never saw the back room or the basement.”
“I mailed my foreign cards yesterday,” Renie noted, moving up a notch in line. “Postage is so damned expensive. Every time I drop somebody from the list, I seem to add two more. It costs money to have friends.”
“Of course, Phyliss said the back room was a catchall,” Judith said, lost in thought and growing mesmerized by the swish of the windshield wipers. “I suppose the room hasn’t been used since Glenda moved out. That was years ago, though I think that after the divorce she and Leigh stayed with…” Judith snapped her fingers. “That’s it! Phyliss and I will volunteer to clean the bedroom!”
Faintly startled, Renie let her foot off the brake. The Chev nudged the bumper of a white Jeep. The driver turned and glared. Renie offered a toothy grin and a helpless shrug.
“You’re going to clean the bedroom?” Renie asked. “Ugh! Coz, that sounds grisly.”
“It’s a dirty job, but…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Renie inched forward in the wake of the Jeep. “Well, go ahead. But I wouldn’t do it for a million bucks.”
Judith said nothing. She would do it for free. If the police would let her.
Joe remained a problem, in more ways than one. By four P M the cousins had completed their shopping. Except for Joe. Judith already had purchased a couple of shirts, a leather belt, a pair of casual slacks, and two of his favorite videos. But that special something was still elusive. Joe was a snappy dresser, though his tastes were relatively conservative: double-breasted blazers, dark slacks, a pin-stripe suit, cotton shirts with button-down collars, classic loafers, and the occasional drop-dead tie. His hobbies were books, movies, music, and cooking. Hillside Manor was well-stocked with all those things, including kitchen appliances. Judith was stumped.