Nutty As a Fruitcake

by Mary Daheim

  “You told them?” Judith said in hushed tones.

  Mrs. Swanson seemed shaken. “I told them of a red truck. Only now do I recognize it as that type. Should I telephone the eyepatch man?”

  Judith considered. “If you’re sure, yes.”

  Mrs. Swanson nodded. “Then I will do so. Thank you, Mrs. Flynn.”

  With a reassuring smile, Judith turned back to the checker, a young man named Randy. Efficiently scanning items, he engaged in friendly patter.

  “Looks like you’re going to be busy, Mrs. Flynn. Fudge, I’ll bet. Oysters for tonight? These yearlings are great. Nice broccoli for this time of year, up from California. Walnuts, huh? For the fudge, right?”

  Judith shook her head. “For the divinity. My mother always puts walnuts instead of pecans in hers. I leave nuts out of my fudge because my cousin can’t eat them.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad.” Randy looked genuinely dismayed. “That’d be Mrs. Jones, I’ll bet. I waited on her a week or so ago when she got the stuff for her mother’s fruitcake. No nuts, she said, because she was allergic. Can you imagine fruitcake without nuts?”

  “I’ve had to,” Judith replied with a smile. “That’s how my Aunt Deb makes it. Believe me, it’s still delicious.”

  Randy, however, looked dubious. “I don’t think I’d like it that way. I’d miss the nuts. You know the saying—‘nutty as a fruitcake.’ That’ll be ninety-eight dollars and fifty-six cents, Mrs. Flynn.”

  After writing a check, Judith bade farewell to Randy and Mrs. Swanson. Following the courtesy clerk out into the parking lot, Judith glimpsed Gary Meyers starting up the Cascade Beer truck. He was too involved in angling the vehicle out of the loading area to notice Judith.

  The six bags of groceries were quickly placed in Judith’s trunk. She had just thanked the courtesy clerk when she saw the disheveled man who had paid with food stamps. He was carrying two paper sacks with the Falstaff logo and heading for an orange pickup truck with Oregon plates.

  Taken by surprise, Judith couldn’t think of any excuse for accosting the man with the pickup. But she had the presence of mind to memorize his license number as he drove out of the lot. As soon as she got into her car, she wrote the number down on a piece of paper.

  “No,” she said fifteen minutes later to Joe Flynn over the phone, “I have no idea if he has anything to do with the Goodriches. But what’s the big deal about running the license number through Oregon’s Department of Motor Vehicles?”

  The sigh that Joe let out seemed to curdle the phone line. “One, we’re not in Oregon,” he said, sounding impatient. “Two, this isn’t my case. Three, I’m extremely busy, in case you haven’t noticed. Four, you’re reaching. Five, I’m hanging up now.”

  “Six,” Judith said quickly, “you love me.”

  Joe hung up anyway. Annoyed, Judith unloaded the groceries. Ten minutes later, she was carrying Gertrude’s candy ingredients out to the toolshed.

  “You expect me to make candy in this orange crate?” Gertrude demanded. “What next, I play tennis in my so-called sitting room? I’m lucky I got room to sit!”

  Judith suppressed a sigh. “I thought you’d like to see what I bought. We didn’t plan to actually make the candy until this weekend.”

  Grumbling, Gertrude began to sort through the plastic bag. “Dark corn syrup, okay. Light brown sugar, right. Sour cream—it’d better not spoil. Walnuts…shelled walnuts? What is this, some kind of joke?”

  Judith knew that her mother preferred whole walnuts in the shell. She also knew that Falstaff’s hadn’t carried them for at least ten years. Her mother knew that, too. Judith had been prepared for resistance but had hoped that maybe this year, Gertrude might forego the annual argument.

  “Listen, pinhead,” Gertrude rasped, batting at one of the two cellophane-covered walnut packages, “real candymakers start from scratch. In my day, we went out in the woods and picked the walnuts off the ground.”

  “You never…” Judith began.

  “Your Uncle Cliff knew exactly where to find them, over across the lake off a dirt road that…”

  “Those were hazelnuts…”

  “Free, except for the gas, which was six cents a gallon, and I always paid my share…”

  “There’s a tenplex movie house where the hazelnut orchard was and before that, a bowling alley…”

  “It was walnuts!” Gertrude stamped her foot, unfortunately, on Sweetums’s tail. The cat howled, leaped in the air, and clawed Judith’s ankle.

  Judith also howled. “Damn! That cat’s ornery! And so are you!” She glared first at her mother, then at Sweetums. They both glared back. “Why do you insist on walnuts in the shell? It’s such a trial for you to crack them.” Trying to control her anger, Judith rested a hand on her mother’s card table.

  “I like cracking them.” Gertrude’s mouth set in a grim line. “I pretend they’re people I know.” She made a swinging gesture with her hands. “Whomp!” She swung again. “Thwang!” She brought her clenched fists down a third time. “Smack-o!” The small eyes peered up at Judith. “Guess who? Hint, hint. You can start with your husband.”

  Judith didn’t really blame Gertrude for being mad at Joe—if her mother suspected that he’d told Morgan and Rael about the silly threat to Enid Goodrich. On the other hand, Gertrude always felt like bashing in Joe’s head. Rubbing at her temples, Judith tried to calm down.

  “I’ll take this stuff back into the kitchen,” she said quietly. “The recipes are in my file box.”

  “Who needs ’em?” Gertrude huffed. “You think I can’t remember how to make penuche and divinity? I’m not that addled. Yet,” she added on a note of uncertainty.

  Judith’s defenses collapsed completely. “Of course you’re not,” she declared, reaching down to hug her mother. “You make wonderful candy. I’ll do the fudge.”

  Gertrude was now leaning back in her chair, looking thoughtful. “Mexican wedding rings. I used to do those, too. What do you think?”

  Judith shrugged. “That’s up to you. I’ll be going to the store at least once more before Sunday.”

  “We’ll see.” Gertrude had turned away; her wrinkled face was in shadow. “It was your grandmother’s recipe. You remember?”

  “Of course.” Judith’s voice was soft. She remembered so much about her grandparents, especially at holiday time. Not only did she recall the treasured personal memories but those that had been handed down from the previous generation. One oft-told tale was how her grandmother and her great-aunt had never approved of the Christmas trees that her grandfather and great-uncle cut down in the forest that adjoined the farm where the family had lived in the early part of the century. The two sisters would hitch up a swaybacked, flatulent animal named Bob-Horse and go off into the woods to find more suitable evergreens. They would return triumphant in their long skirts and petticoats, while Bob-Horse left a noxious trail behind him.

  But her favorite story was of the mysterious figure who showed up every year on St. Nicholas Day in a flowing beard and long white robes on a steed far more majestic than Bob-Horse. He would ride through the trees to the edge of the fallow field, pause, wave, and disappear into the mist. Grandma and Grandpa Grover and Great-Uncle and Great-Aunt Malone swore they didn’t know who he was. But later in the day, the Grover and Malone offspring would find small cloth bags of candy hidden in the barn.

  “I still miss them,” Judith said, feeling a catch in her voice.

  Gertrude didn’t respond at once. “Them,” she said at last, and it sounded like an indictment. “Grandma and Grandpa. Cliff. Your father. Those two went too soon. They pegged out early on Deb and me. No wonder Deb talks so much. No wonder I talk so mean.” She put her fist against her mouth but still didn’t look at Judith. “Go away, kiddo.”

  Judith didn’t move. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  The small eyes finally veered in Judith’s direction. They were far too bright. But Gertrude’s voice was firm, and surprisingly stro
ng: “Don’t fuss yourself. I’m not alone.”

  Judith left.

  FOURTEEN

  GABE PORTER USUALLY got home from work before five-thirty. As Judith prepared her guests’ hors d’oeuvres, she occasionally went in the front parlor to look out into the cul-de-sac. It was already dark and still drizzling. The shadowy outline of bare tree branches was etched on the bay window, an illusion that always pleased Judith. It made her feel as if nature had crept inside the house to hide from winter.

  At five-forty, Gabe Porter pulled into his driveway. Judith dashed out the front door, calling his name. Gabe turned slowly, a big shopping bag in one hand.

  “I got Rochelle a bathrobe for Christmas,” he said, jiggling the bag. “I hope it’s the right size.”

  Judith asked Gabe if he’d mind coming inside for just a minute. He hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m already late, but that’s because I stopped to buy the bathrobe. Sure, what’s happening?”

  Judith waited until they were in the kitchen to explain. “Don’t think I’m crazy, or be offended, but I’m working on a theory concerning Enid’s murder. It involves motive. Would you like a beer?”

  Gabe grinned. “I come home late and with beer on my breath? I don’t think so, Judith. Have you ever seen Rochelle when she gets mad? She can be one wild woman.”

  Judith grinned back at Gabe. “Okay. But tell me—how hard would it be for one of your United Foods employees to steal meat that was intended for a grocery store?”

  Gabe’s reaction was studied. “Oh—that depends. I imagine there’s a little pilfering every now and then, especially with produce. It’s hard to keep track of. How much meat? We usually ship in bulk.”

  Judith had sat down across the kitchen table from Gabe. “I don’t really know. Here’s what I’m guessing.”

  Carefully, she explained about the reddish brown stains in the back of Greg and Dave’s closed van. Then she relayed Harold’s complaint regarding shortages at Falstaff’s. “Greg Goodrich works with you at United Foods in shipping. Dave got on at Pacific Meats, where his grandfather still helps with the books. I don’t know what Dave does there—it’s something to do with computers. You probably think I’m a suspicious, nosy person, but I wonder if the two grandsons have a meat scam going.”

  Gabe took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Collusion, huh? Having one of them at each site would sure make it easier. I run the produce section for the big chains, so I haven’t heard anything about problems with meat deliveries. But it could be done, at least on a small scale.”

  “What would they do with the meat?” Judith asked. “That’s the part that stumps me.”

  Gabe’s expression was rueful. “There are lots of people who can’t afford meat. Immigrants, the elderly, the unemployed. United Foods has a program where we give our overstock to the food banks. Usually it’s canned goods, but sometimes produce and bakery items. Dairy, too—anything perishable. Never meat, though. As our meat manager says, we cut it too close to the bone.” Gabe chuckled at the inhouse joke.

  Judith, however, was nodding thoughtfully. “So if Greg and Dave were stealing sides of beef or pork or whatever, they could take them into one of the poorer neighborhoods, sell cut-rate, and still make money.”

  “Sure.” Gabe put his glasses back on. “They wouldn’t get rich, because they can’t be dealing in volume or somebody would have noticed by now.”

  “Harold has noticed,” Judith pointed out.

  “Yes—but did we say Greg and Dave were smart?” Gabe’s smile was awry. “Truth to tell, I don’t know either of them. I see Greg at work just enough to recognize him. But judging from that stunt they pulled the other night with their cousin, Leigh, I’d guess they’re a pair of dumbbells. If they’re stealing from us—or Pacific Meats, or both—they’ll be caught. In fact, I’m going to talk to our meat manager first thing tomorrow morning.” With a grunt, Gabe lifted his big frame from the chair.

  “It’s only a theory,” Judith said, faintly alarmed.

  “It’s only a suggestion,” Gabe replied. “On my part, that is.” But his brown eyes were hard. At the swinging door into the dining room, he paused. “Hold on—are you saying that this theory of yours has something to do with Enid getting killed?”

  Grimacing, Judith heard the back door open. Joe was home. “Sort of,” she said hurriedly, anxious to keep her latest sleuthing efforts from her husband. “It could provide a motive. I’ll explain later. Lovely bathrobe, Gabe. See you.”

  Joe had entered the kitchen, wiping raindrops from his high forehead. “Gabe came calling in his bathrobe? Should I be jealous?” He brushed Judith’s lips with a kiss.

  Flustered, Judith laughed weakly. “It’s Rochelle’s bathrobe.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “Gabe’s wearing his wife’s clothes? What’s happening to this neighborhood?”

  Hearing the tread of her guests on the stairs, Judith whisked the hors d’oeuvres tray off the counter. “I’ll explain later. Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes.”

  Returning to the kitchen, Judith checked the pork chop she’d fried for her mother. Gertrude hated oysters. Spearing broccoli from a steamer and removing a baked potato from the oven, she readied her mother’s plate. Five minutes later, she was back at the stove, putting crumb-covered oysters into a sizzling skillet.

  Joe was at the kitchen table, drinking a beer and reading the paper. Judith asked him about the Shazri case. He and Woody were making progress, Joe replied, apparently absorbed in the sports page. Judith waited for her husband to inquire about Gabe’s presence, but Joe said nothing further. Feeling foolish, Judith decided not to mention her meat scam idea. She was about to dish up the oysters when the phone rang. The caller was from Utah, wanting to book two nights in February. Judith wrestled with her reservations calendar, her ledger, and her calculator while trying to turn off the stove. She dropped the calculator and almost knocked the skillet onto the floor.

  “I need a computer,” she grumbled after she’d finally taken the reservation and rescued the oysters. “I could put it on the far counter by the door to the pantry. If I wait until we redo Mike’s room, it’ll be the twenty-first century.”

  Joe set the newspaper aside. “The five-day forecast calls for temperatures down in the low thirties. I’d better wrap the outside pipes Saturday. Assuming I can take the day off.”

  Judith looked up from her broccoli. “You have to. Renie and Bill and the Prices are coming to dinner.”

  “Woody and I can still eat,” Joe said. “Or did you want me to cook?”

  “No, it’s just that you’re always so beat when you work weekends. Besides, I thought you were going to put the tree up Saturday.”

  Joe didn’t respond. He seemed absorbed in his dinner, particularly the oysters, which were a great favorite of his. Out in the living room, they could hear the polite conversation of guests who were strangers to each other. They spoke stiltedly over the faint strains of carols from the CD player.

  “We could do the tree Sunday,” Judith finally said. “The candy can wait until Monday or Tuesday.”

  Joe made an indifferent gesture. “Like I said, it depends on what’s happening with the investigation.”

  “The tree’s a big job. It takes most of the day. Maybe Sunday’s best.”

  “I thought you wanted to show it off to Woody and Sondra.”

  “Maybe they could drop in for drinks later during the holidays. They could bring the children. I haven’t seen them in ages.”

  “At three and eighteen months, they’ll trash everything. Both the Price kids are full of hell.”

  “I don’t believe that. Woody and Sondra are excellent parents.” Judith swallowed her last oyster and regarded her husband with a wary eye. “You’re trying to distract me. From what, may I ask?”

  Joe broke into a grin. “From asking questions. Don’t you want to know what I found out from the Oregon DMV?”

  “Oh!” Judith slapped a hand against her cheek. �
��But I thought you weren’t going to check.”

  “I wasn’t. I didn’t. But I passed on the license number to Sancha Rael. She’s always very cooperative.”

  The muscles along Judith’s jawline tightened. “How nice.” But curiosity overcame annoyance. “Well? What did the beauteous Ms. Rael learn?”

  Joe’s green eyes glittered. “That orange pickup was recently resold by some guy in Enterprise, Oregon. The new registered owner actually lives in Idaho. His name is Ross Cisrak.”

  Judith couldn’t contain her excitement at discovering that the battered pickup that had been sighted around Heraldsgate Hill belonged to Glenda Goodrich’s ex-husband and Leigh Cisrak’s father. But Joe didn’t share her elation. Without rancor, he told his wife that he’d closed the door on crime for the day when he left the squad room at five-twenty. Thus, Judith was forced to phone Renie.

  “Ross Cisrak,” Renie repeated. “So why has he been hanging around the cul-de-sac? Why not Glenda’s place?”

  “Maybe he has,” Judith replied, stretching out on the bed in the cheerful white-and-yellow room she shared with Joe on the third floor. “I saw him at Falstaff’s today, and he looks pretty down-at-the-heels. He used food stamps to pay for his groceries. Maybe he came here to ask for money.”

  “Ask who? Glenda?” Renie sounded dubious.

  “Not Glenda. Leigh. She’s the only one in the family who makes a decent living. Plus, she seemed fond of her father, even though she hasn’t seen him for years.”

  “‘Hasn’t’ or ‘hadn’t’?” Renie asked.

  Judith understood the distinction. “When I talked to her the other day after Morgan threw her out of the Goodrich house she spoke as if she hadn’t seen him since she was a kid. For all I know, she returned to New York. Leigh wasn’t at the funeral.”

  “Was Ross?”

  Judith thought back to the half-dozen people she hadn’t recognized. None of them had looked particularly shabby; if memory served, none of them resembled Ross. Yet his pickup had passed by the church as she and Renie and Phyliss were leaving.