by Mary Daheim
Renie nodded. “Get another latte. Between Father Hoyle and Moonbeam’s, we might make it to New Year’s.” Sipping at her mocha, Renie acquired another white mustache. “Then again, we might not.”
Judith didn’t argue.
THIRTEEN
JUDITH BRACED HERSELF for the confrontation over her mother’s Christmas tree. It would be too tall, too short, too wide, too thin, too ugly. Judith would be a dope, an idiot, a moron, and an inconsiderate daughter. She knew in advance how Gertrude would receive the jaunty little fir from the SOTs’ lot.
Or so she thought. But Naomi Stein was the first to inform Judith otherwise. Racing over to Judith’s Nissan, Naomi pointed to the unmarked city car that was parked in front of the Goodrich house.
“They’re questioning the neighbors,” Naomi said in a breathless voice. “First, Mrs. Swanson, then the Rankerses, and finally, me. Nobody else is home—except your mother.”
“My mother?” Judith gaped at Naomi, then jumped out of the car to look down the driveway. She saw nothing unusual, except Sweetums, who was stalking an unseen prey in the shrubbery.
“They’re questioning her now,” Naomi added, backpedaling to her own property. “Don’t worry, Judith. I’m sure she’ll be treated with respect.”
That wasn’t what concerned Judith. With a halfhearted wave for Naomi, she all but ran to the toolshed. There wasn’t time to think about the awful things Gertrude could say to the police, especially about Joe Flynn. Judith yanked the door open.
Patches Morgan was standing by the tiny window that looked out onto the backyard and the Dooleys’ house. With arms folded, Sancha Rael leaned against a side chair that had originally belonged to Judith and Dan. Gertrude was sitting on her sofa, smoking fiercely, and wearing a tiger-print housecoat under a lime-and-black cardigan. She glared as her daughter came into the small sitting room.
“Well! Just in time, you stool pigeon! What are you trying to do, get me sent up the river?”
Judith’s mouth dropped open. “What? Of course not! What’s happening?”
With his good left eye, Morgan winked at Judith. “Now, now, me hearties, this is just routine. But,” he continued, growing serious, “it seems that certain threats against Mrs. Goodrich were made by Mrs. Grover. You don’t deny that, do you, ma’am?” His expression was deceptively benign as he turned back to Gertrude.
Gertrude hid behind a haze of blue smoke. “I make a lot of threats,” she mumbled. “It’s my way. I can’t remember them all.”
Judith stepped between Gertrude and Morgan. “Excuse me—who told you that my mother threatened Enid?”
Morgan’s good eye avoided Judith. “Now, I can’t be revealing my sources, eh? You know that anything we might regard as a threat has to be investigated when there’s a homicide involved.”
“It was years ago,” Judith said, then bit her tongue. “I mean, it must have been—I don’t remember it. Either,” she added lamely, with a commiserating glance for Gertrude.
Sancha Rael stepped forward, a smirk on her beautiful face. “This threat involved a family pet. It had something to do with”—she grimaced slightly—“sauerkraut.”
Gertrude stubbed her cigarette out. She shot Morgan and Rael a defiant look. “I forget. I’m old. Senile, too. Maybe I’ve got Alzheimer’s. Who are all you dopey people anyway?” Her small eyes rested on Judith. “You, for instance—I’ve never seen you before in my life. Are you the maid? You know, the French girl who comes in with a short black skirt and a white doily on her head and dusts with one of those feather things.”
Judith didn’t know whether to grin or groan. She did neither. “Look,” she said to Morgan, “this is silly. I can’t believe you’re wasting the city’s time interrogating my mother. Does she look like the sort of person who’d take a hatchet to somebody?”
Morgan eyed Gertrude closely. “In truth, she does,” he said. “Where were you Wednesday morning, December first, between seven and eight-thirty A M?”
The menacing expression on Gertrude’s face did nothing to dispel the unfortunate image she’d given Patches Morgan. “Here—where else would I be? Do you think my lamebrained daughter ever takes me any place? As for that worthless son-in-law of mine, he’d like to put this cardboard box of an apartment on wheels and send me right down Heraldsgate Hill into the bay. The only time they’ll let me out of this dump is when I go sticks up.”
Judith was now getting angry. “Mother, you know that’s not true! You play bridge, you go to bingo, you get out to dinner with Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince…”
Gertrude’s face went blank. “Bridge? Bingo? Who are Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince? Where am I? What happened?” She began to hum, a tuneless rendition of “Mademoiselle from Armentieres.”
In exasperation, Judith threw up her hands. “Do you mind?” she said to Morgan. “Leave her alone. She’s…difficult.”
Gertrude took out her dentures. She smiled, a fearsome sight.
Morgan surrendered. “We can come back,” he said under his breath, motioning to Rael. “Let’s talk to Ms. Flynn inside the big house.”
“The big house?” Gertrude echoed in a singsong voice after replacing her teeth. “Am I going to the big house? Oh, my! I’ll have to wear a striped suit and one of those funny hats shaped like a custard cup and a ball and chain and…”
Judith softly closed the door on her mother’s irksome rantings. “I’m sorry,” Judith said tersely. “As I told you, she can be difficult.”
“So your husband informed us,” Morgan replied. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions, too.”
“Sure, why not?” Wearily, Judith led the way to the back door.
The schoolhouse clock told Judith that it was almost eleven-thirty. She could hear Phyliss Rackley upstairs. With any luck, the cleaning woman wouldn’t come down until after the police had left.
Judith seated Morgan and Rael in the living room. She didn’t offer coffee, since she wanted to keep their visit short. But even as she sat down in Grandma Grover’s rocker, the reason for the detectives’ call struck Judith.
“Wait a minute,” she said, her face animated. “You’re carrying on with this investigation because you really don’t believe George is guilty, right? Plus, the arraignment’s been postponed or maybe canceled.” She waited for a reaction. Neither Morgan nor Rael responded immediately. “Well?” Judith prodded.
Rael seemed to be admiring the big gilded holly wreath over the mantel. Morgan had picked up a glass ball that contained three singing angels. He shook it, causing snow to fall inside.
“Nice,” he remarked without enthusiasm, setting the ball down on the coffee table. Accidentally, he triggered the music box mechanism. “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” pealed gently through the living room. Morgan cleared his throat. “Yes, very nice. You understand I can’t tell you exactly what lines of investigation we’re following, Ms. Flynn.” The detective was now very much the professional. The carol was tinkling at a speedier pace. “What we’d like to learn from you is your whereabouts last Wednesday morning. Purely routine, of course.”
“Of course.” The glass ball’s music was going faster and faster, and at a higher pitch. Judith’s mind went back to a week ago. Carefully, she recounted her activities, as well as she could remember. “So you see,” she concluded, as the music reached a frenzy, “I didn’t hear the sirens because of the vacuum cleaner. The first thing I knew about the tragedy was when my neighbor, Arlene Rankers, came over to tell me something had happened at the Goodrich house.” Judith jumped out of the rocker, grasped the ball, and shut off the screeching carol.
Morgan looked relieved as the music box went dumb. “You’re certain you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”
“That’s right.” Judith tried to remember what she’d already told the detectives. And what she hadn’t: The commotion at the Goodrich house Tuesday night. The mysterious orange pickup. The odd stains in Greg and Dave’s van. Greg, taking the spare key from its
hiding place. Gary Meyers, calling on the Goodriches Wednesday morning. What O.P. had seen through his brother’s telescope. “Have you talked to the Dooleys?” she finally asked.
Morgan frowned. “Who?”
Judith explained that while the Dooleys didn’t live in the cul-de-sac, they had a good vantage point behind Hillside Manor and the Ericson house. It would be better if Morgan and Rael heard O.P.’s account firsthand. Maybe Mrs. Swanson had already mentioned the Cascade Beer truck. Ted and Jeanne Ericson had heard the row on Tuesday night; no doubt they would be questioned later, when they got home from work.
Morgan had gotten to his feet. “Your husband told me how he went over to the Goodrich house Tuesday night. It isn’t often that a member of our own crew has such firsthand knowledge of the victim and the family.” The detective’s face was expressionless.
It hadn’t occurred to Judith that Morgan and Rael would interrogate Joe. “My husband didn’t see Mrs. Goodrich Tuesday night. She was ailing. We’d been at loggerheads with her over the Christmas decorations in the cul-de-sac,” Judith said, wondering if she and Joe were actual suspects. A shiver of apprehension crept up her spine. “Joe probably mentioned that,” she added a little too casually.
Morgan nodded. “Your husband gave us a very fine personality profile of the victim. He’s been extremely helpful. He’s also been able to tell us about the rest of the neighbors in the cul-de-sac. Having such a reliable source right in the department is unusual.” The detective’s face remained impassive, but Rael snickered as she joined her colleague.
Judith’s eyes widened. “Joe didn’t tell me,” she blurted. “About being questioned.” A surge of anger replaced the previous fear. “You have to remember that he doesn’t know these people as well as I do.” She regarded both detectives with a dark expression.
A hint of color spread across Morgan’s broad face. “He did his best. And your husband is a very fair man.”
Fair, my butt, Judith thought. Joe had ratted on Gertrude. Given her mother’s attitude toward her son-in-law, Judith could hardly blame Joe. But she was still angry.
Judith and the detectives had reached the front door when Phyliss came panting down the stairs. She took one look at Morgan and Rael, then let out a shriek.
“Jehovah’s Witnesses!” she cried, and fled back upstairs.
Judith didn’t bother to correct her.
Judith wasn’t up to another shopping expedition, not downtown, not the nearest mall, not even the top or bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. But she was frustrated. Her gifts for Joe were so pedestrian. She wished she could think of something exciting to give him.
“How about a fat lip?” Renie suggested on the phone that afternoon. “Do you really think he told Morgan and Rael about your mother threatening Enid?”
“Who else?” Judith demanded. “Mother said it happened a couple of years ago. I honestly don’t recall, but if she’s right, then it was after Joe and I were married. He must have remembered, and decided to wreak a little revenge on his mother-in-law. It would be mean if it worked. But, of course, Mother was outrageous.”
“Of course.” Renie was matter-of-fact. “How’d she like her tree?”
Judith sighed. Sometimes it was hard to decide if she should be mad at Joe or her mother—or both. “She said it was scrawny and dry. She called me a knothead, which just happened to be one of the things I didn’t think of while I was anticipating her tirade.”
“My mother cried. She said her tree was beautiful, and I shouldn’t have bothered.” Renie emitted a low groan. “Then she told me not to decorate it, she could maneuver her wheelchair around and do it herself. Of course it would bother her arthritis and her bad knee and her back and her ankles and her eyebrows or whatever else she’s got left. So I decorated the damned thing then and there. I just got home.”
Judith couldn’t help but be touched by Aunt Deb’s sentimental streak. It was not unlike her own, and a far cry from Gertrude’s view of life. “So was she thrilled?”
“She cried again.” Renie sighed. “Then she said it was too soon to put up a tree and why didn’t I leave it out in back of the apartment in a bucket of water like my dad used to do. It’ll turn yellow before Christmas and all the needles will fall off and she’ll have to crawl around with her chin on the rug, trying to vacuum. She swears that when I was a kid, she and my dad never put the tree up until Christmas Eve. That’s true, but damn all, this is the nineties!” Renie’s voice had risen to an aggravated crescendo.
“You can’t win,” Judith said, trying to be philosophical. “Mothers, husbands, kids—we’re always in the wrong.”
There was a pause, as the cousins mulled over their situation in life. “Herself,” Renie said at last. “Are you going to buy her a present?”
Judith let out a squawk. “Are you kidding? What would I get? A noose?”
“We-ll…” Renie was trying to sound reasonable. “You know how it is on Christmas Eve—we make sure everyone there gets at least a couple of token presents.”
Wincing, Judith thought of the many occasions when their shirttail relations and hangers-on had showed up at the last minute, empty-handed but eager-eyed. Their sometimes unexpected arrivals triggered last-minute rustling in closets, cupboards, basement, and attic for suitable, if generic, gifts.
“I’ll lay in a supply of coffee from Moonbeam’s and some Fandango truffles from Donner & Blitzen,” Judith said. “Which reminds me, I’ve got to grocery shop. I’ll order the rib roast for Saturday.”
“Yum,” Renie said appreciatively. “Yorkshire pudding?”
“Sure.” Judith was now smiling into the phone. Her cousin’s honest appetite was far more endearing than the presumptive greed of other people. At least certain people, such as Herself and the shirttail relations. In her own way, Renie was as generous as Judith. Or were they both put-upon? Judith had gotten so she couldn’t tell the difference.
Falstaff’s was busy in the noon hour. Judith had to wait at the meat counter behind three other people who were already putting in their orders for Christmas dinner. Two turkeys and one goose later, Judith was face-to-face with Harold, the butcher. She ordered a standing rib roast for seven and tried not to calculate the cost at five ninety-nine a pound.
“I’ll pick it up around eleven on Saturday,” she told Harold. “Do you think I should order my turkey now? A lot of customers seem to be jumping the gun.”
Harold’s genial smile fled. “You’d better, too, Mrs. Flynn. It’s going to be first come, first served at Christmas.” He leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “We came up a dozen turkeys short at Thanksgiving. You wouldn’t want to be left out in the cold.”
Trying not to let her sleeve fall into the specialty meats display, Judith also leaned closer. “I don’t get it—is there a turkey shortage?”
Harold gave a sharp shake of his head. “Not that I know of. It’s the problem I mentioned with our main supplier, Pacific Meats. Those people can’t count anymore. I’ve asked our manager to check it out, but he’s so busy this time of year that I don’t think he’s gotten around to it.”
Behind Harold, one of the other butchers was cutting a side of pork into spare ribs. Noting the stains on his apron and the matching set on Harold’s, Judith began to get a strange idea.
“Do you buy direct?” she asked.
Harold had straightened up, his gaze shifting to the next person in line. But his manner remained affable as he answered Judith: “Not exactly. We get everything through our main wholesaler, United Foods. They actually own the store, you know.”
Judith did know. The big grocery supply house owned at least two other stores outright and also sold to chains and independents throughout the region. The strange idea began to grow, and in the process, became less strange.
“Thanks, Harold,” Judith said, shoving her cart out of the way. On a whim, she picked up a jar of oysters for dinner. Then she proceeded to the baking aisle, where she selected ingredients for Gertrude’s
penuche and divinity. Judith also bought a big jar of whipped marshmallow cream for her own special fudge.
Four aisles and fifteen minutes later, she was standing in line at the checkout counter behind a young mother with two squirming children. Judith remembered those days of hauling Mike to the store. She wondered if he’d like the two sweaters she’d bought him for Christmas. Or the CD player. Or the slacks or the hiking boots or the camping equipment. She was still wondering when a timorous voice spoke up behind her.
“Hello,” said Mrs. Swanson. “You must be baking.” Her gloved hand indicated Judith’s cart, which was filled to over-flowing.
Judith nodded. “My mother and I try to get an early start. We’ll probably make our candies Sunday.”
Edging her own cart closer, Mrs. Swanson dropped her voice to a whisper. “The police called on me this morning. It made me very nervous, though I don’t know why. Except for the hatchet, of course.”
With a grimace, Judith’s eyes darted around the store’s front end. No one seemed to be paying attention to her and Mrs. Swanson. The mother with the two children was now being checked through, and a tall, disheveled man of about fifty at the next register was counting out food stamps.
“Do the police know the hatchet belonged to you?” Judith whispered back.
“I told them so,” Mrs. Swanson said with a small shudder. “To lie would be dishonest. I have nothing to hide.”
Judith was about to agree when she noted that Mrs. Swanson’s black eyes abruptly shied away. Faintly disconcerted, Judith heard the checker call to her. She began to help unload her items onto the counter.
“Did they stay long?” Judith asked over her shoulder.
“Not so long,” Mrs. Swanson answered. “They asked what I had done and heard and seen that morning.”
Judith said nothing but waited expectantly for Mrs. Swanson to elaborate. The other woman merely inclined her head toward the big window that looked out onto the parking lot. Following her gaze, Judith saw a Cascade Beer truck parked by the loading dock.