Nutty As a Fruitcake

by Mary Daheim

  “I’ve got a pretty fair picture of the events that led up to Enid’s murder,” Judith continued, removing a cookie sheet filled with small decorated wreaths. “Between the known facts and the personalities involved, we can make certain logical assumptions.”

  “Uh-huh,” Renie said, exchanging the snowflake design for a camel. “Is there room in the oven for this batch?”

  “No,” Judith retorted, a bit impatiently. “Listen, coz. Take each of the suspects. Start with Glenda. Her boyfriend cheated on her with her daughter. Enid finds out and gives Leigh hell, then rats on her to Glenda. Three generations are now mad at each other. But would Glenda or Leigh kill Enid?”

  Renie held up another cookie press disk. “Is this a squirrel or a gopher?”

  “I don’t think so. They’d kill each other first. As for Gary,” Judith went on, removing a sheet of small snowmen from the oven, “I’m sticking to my guns. No motive, not after Enid let the cat out of the bag the previous night.”

  Violating the premise of her eggnog diet, Renie stuffed a chunk of cookie dough in her mouth. “Are you sure this is Auntie Vance’s recipe? Did you add salt? She doesn’t.”

  “Consider Art. We only have his word for it that he came after Enid was dead. Early Wednesday morning, JoAnne would still have been at work or asleep, depending upon the actual time of the murder. Art would never kill his father, but he might knock him out with sleeping pills. He could have put them in the glass by the bed Tuesday evening. Why murder Enid? I can think of a couple of reasons—Art couldn’t stand seeing his father suffer Enid’s abuse any longer. That’s one. Two is that Art has…”

  “Silver balls,” Renie said. “Where are they? I want to decorate these gophers with them instead of the red-and-green sprinkles.”

  Snatching up the pan of snowflakes, Judith glared at Renie. “Dammit, coz, are you listening? This is important!”

  “So are spritz cookies. They’re Bill’s favorites.” Renie dug out more dough with an index finger, popped it in her mouth, and sighed. “I am listening. Excuse the expression, but I think you’re beating a dead horse.”

  “No, I’m not!” Judith insisted. “I’ve already eliminated three suspects—Glenda, Leigh, and Gary. I’m working my way through Art. I think he wanted money.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Renie sprinkled silver balls with a lavish hand.

  “Art’s out of work; it’s Christmas; he’s desperate; he’s humiliated. Who pried that desk open? The marks were fresh; the steak knife was at the curb where we saw Art’s car on Tuesday.”

  “The key was there, too,” Renie pointed out.

  “I know. But I’m sure Greg dropped the key. Nobody saw Art come back that evening. It’s a coincidence that the key and the knife should be in the same area, but it happens. Parking is limited in the cul-de-sac. Art was still at the house when Enid told Glenda about Leigh and Gary. We know that because of what O.P. saw and the screams I heard. So where was Art while that exchange was going on? Not in the bedroom, I’ll bet. Art wouldn’t want any part of a quarrel between his stepmother and his sister. Maybe Enid had already turned down his request for money. What does Art do? He goes into the living room, figuring there’s money stashed in the desk. He gets a knife from the kitchen and pries the desk open. Then Enid figures out he’s in the forbidden living room—or maybe George finds him—and Art panics. He runs out the front door, drops the knife, and drives away.” Judith paused, waiting for Renie’s reaction.

  “Logical.” Renie tipped her head at Judith in approval. “But did Art get the money?”

  Judith checked the oven. “I don’t know. We certainly didn’t find any. If he did, one of my motives for Art is shot down.”

  “True,” Renie agreed, now creating tree-shaped cookies. “It all becomes strictly psychological. Abused husband, abused stepson, son sees himself becoming his father. The mother figure is the destroyer, in complete control. Bill says it’s like spiders, where the…”

  The front doorbell rang. Judith was spared another echo of Bill’s opinions. “Guests,” she said, going to the door.

  Judith was right—up to a point. A pair of widowed sisters from Port Royal who had reservations stood on the porch with their tartan suitcases. But behind them, down on the walk, was Ross Cisrak. He stood in the rain looking uneasy and forlorn.

  “I’m Mrs. MacLeish,” the taller of the two women announced.

  “I’m Mrs. Somersby,” the broader of the two women asserted.

  “We were here last year,” they said together, and then laughed.

  “We’re sisters,” Mrs. MacLeish said, as if to explain the chorused response.

  “But not twins,” Mrs. Somersby put in.

  Judith couldn’t help but look beyond the women to the nervous figure of Ross Cisrak. “Welcome to Hillside Manor. Let’s get you registered.” The women picked up their suitcases and trotted into the entry hall. Judith smiled inquiringly at Ross Cisrak. “And you, sir? May I help you?”

  “Maybe.” Ross took a tentative step forward. “It’s…personal. Are you Mrs. Grover?”

  “No,” Judith replied, gazing uncertainly at the two women on the other side of the threshhold. She beckoned to Ross. “Not exactly. Come in. I’ll join you shortly in the parlor.” Judith gestured to the first door off the entry hall.

  It was ten minutes before Judith’s guests were registered and settled in their room. After a quick word to a curious Renie, Judith finally joined Ross. He was standing in front of the small stone fireplace, staring at the pewter candlesticks that Judith had festooned with holly sprigs.

  “Have a chair,” Judith offered, sitting down on the small window seat.

  “My name’s Ross Cisrak.” He didn’t hold out a hand, but sat in an oak side chair near the hearth. “You probably think I’m nuts.”

  Ross leaned forward, bony hands gripping his knees. He wore faded jeans and a not-quite-matching denim jacket lined with imitation sheepskin. Up close, Judith saw a slight resemblance to the young man in the wedding photo with Glenda. But twenty-odd years had eroded Ross Cisrak’s features. At fifty-plus, he looked as if futility was his best friend.

  “You’re Leigh’s father,” Judith answered in her usual friendly manner. “Why would that make you nuts?”

  A faint light that might have been hope shone in Ross’s gray eyes. “I remembered some Grovers living in this house when Glenda and me were married. You’re not…?” The question dwindled away as the light in his eyes went out.

  “I am,” Judith said. “My maiden name is Grover. Now I’m Mrs. Flynn.”

  Ross looked relieved. “I hoped somebody from the old neighborhood was still around. I’m trying to find Leigh. I didn’t feel right asking any of Glenda’s family. They think I’m a creep. You know where Leigh is?”

  Judith nodded. “She went back to New York. She wants you to call her there. Do you have her number?”

  “No. I got her address, though.” The lines deepened in Ross’s thin face. “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not exactly,” Judith replied carefully. “She and her mother had a falling-out.”

  “Ha!” Ross almost smiled. Judith wondered if he’d forgotten how. “Glenda! She’s a nagger, like her ma. I bet she got on Leigh’s case.”

  “Sort of,” Judith said vaguely.

  Ross hunched over in the chair, inspecting his scuffed cowboy boots. “I shoulda called Leigh. But I was afraid Glenda’d answer. Damn.” He raised regretful eyes to Judith. “I really need to get hold of my kid. Her old man’s kinda tapped out.” Ross’s laugh was pathetic.

  “Call her in New York,” Judith said, with an anxious glance at the Venetian clock on the mantel. It was after three, and Judith still had much to do. “It’s six on the East Coast. Use the phone in the living room. One more long distance charge won’t make much difference—it’s a business expense. By the way, did you talk to the police?”

  The question made Ross jump. “The police? What for?”

  Judith made a se
lf-deprecating gesture. “My husband’s a policeman. I asked his colleagues to find you so that Leigh could get in touch with you. I didn’t know where you were staying.”

  “Oh.” Relief washed over Ross’s gaunt face. “Thanks, that’s nice of you.” Somehow, he managed to laugh without smiling. “You had me going there for a minute. I thought the police wanted to ask me about the poison.”

  Judith stared. “What poison?”

  Ross grew sheepish. “It wasn’t real poison; it was a book. I don’t know where it came from, but I found it in the back of my pickup a couple of weeks ago. It seemed kinda weird. Creepy, too.”

  Judith felt her spine tingle. “Where was your truck parked?”

  Shutting his eyes, Ross considered. “I don’t know the street names around here. Four, five blocks away—west. I know directions. Most nights, I been sleeping in the pickup. Motels ain’t cheap.”

  “When? Do you remember which day?” Judith’s voice had taken on an edge.

  But Ross wasn’t sure. “I kinda lost track of time after I got to town. I’m used to the country. The city’s different. I never did like it much. You know, pressure. Like Glenda, always nagging me about a job. What’s so big about a job? It just ties a man down.”

  It seemed to Judith that Ross had paid a high price for freedom. But she kept to her previous question: “Did you find the book before or after your ex-mother-in-law was killed?”

  Ross’s startled expression couldn’t possibly have been feigned. “Mrs. Goodrich? Killed? You’re putting me on!”

  Solemnly, Judith shook her head. “She was murdered, the first day of December.”

  By turns, Ross looked stunned, incredulous, and bemused. “I’ll be damned! I never did hear of such a thing! Well, now!”

  For the first time, Ross Cisrak smiled.

  SEVENTEEN

  “SO WHAT DID he do with this so-called poison book?” Renie demanded after Ross had made his call to New York and Judith had enlightened her cousin.

  “He tossed it,” Judith replied grimly. “It was ‘creepy,’ as he put it.”

  “Why do you care?” Renie had finished baking the spritz in Judith’s absence. She was now placing her share in a plastic container.

  Judith was getting out the ingredients for a chicken casserole. She planned to make enough for the catered buffet and her own dinner. Two other hot dishes were required by the Lutherans, along with condiments. Arlene was preparing the salads and desserts.

  “I’m not sure I do care,” Judith admitted. “But it’s odd. George is poisoned, and a book on poison is discarded four blocks away. Now that’s a coincidence that makes me wonder.”

  Renie, however, wasn’t inclined to speculate about the book. “I’m glad he got hold of Leigh. Ross must be pretty stupid. How could anyone who deperately needed money just hang around for over two weeks without making an attempt at contact?”

  “He was trusting to luck,” Judith said distractedly. She was still mulling over the poison book. “Ross said he was afraid to keep watch by Glenda’s because he and his ex aren’t on good terms. He figured that eventually Leigh would visit her grandparents. She did, of course, but he missed her—both times. Then, he not only didn’t realize she’d left town, but he didn’t know Enid was dead.”

  Renie put on her purple hooded jacket. “As I said, he’s stupid.”

  “Maybe,” Judith allowed. “Mostly, he’s unconscious, one of those vague souls who stumble through life, walking into walls and wondering why the impact hurts.”

  “Let’s hope Leigh sends him a plane ticket.” Renie picked up the container of cookies and her big black handbag.

  “He’d hate New York,” Judith said. “Maybe Leigh will send him the money. Hey,” she exclaimed, “I never finished telling you about my deductions!”

  In the rear entryway, Renie turned to grin at Judith. “Yes, you did. I know the rest, because I know you. Mrs. Swanson is too dainty to kill anyone, the grandsons are too dumb, and JoAnne’s too tired to lift a hatchet when she comes off work at five A.M. That leaves George. See you, coz.” Renie was out the back door.

  Judith was working on her third entrée when she decided to call Gary Meyers. Surely the police had questioned him by now. His guard would have to be down. Unfortunately, the phone book had several listings for people named Gary Meyers. Judith didn’t get the right one until the fifth try.

  “I know you think I’m a nosy pest,” Judith said after identifying herself, “but have you talked to the police?”

  Gary had, the previous Friday. “The girl was great,” he said over a background of TV noise. “That weird guy with the eye patch let her ask most of the questions.”

  Sancha Rael had her uses, Judith thought with a touch of annoyance. “So you’ve nothing to worry about.” Her voice conveyed a comfortable statement rather than a prying question.

  Gary laughed weakly. “I never did, but who’d believe me? At least that’s what I figured until this girl cop talked to me. After all, I was at the house before the murder.”

  Judith’s hand froze on the receiver. “Before the murder? What do you mean?”

  Gary laughed again, though on the other hand, he might have been choking. “It had to be before. Mrs. Goodrich came to the door.”

  “She did?” Judith was flabbergasted. “She never did that. She hardly ever got out of bed.”

  “Well, she did that morning,” Gary insisted. “Glenda and I’d had kind of a…misunderstanding. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodrich to tell Glenda how bad I felt and that I wanted her back.” His voice dropped a notch. “I really care about Glenda. But Mrs. Goodrich told me to go away.”

  At the moment, Judith wasn’t interested in Gary and Glenda’s muddled love life. “How odd. About Mrs. Goodrich answering the…” Judith interrupted herself. “Where was George?”

  “I don’t know,” Gary replied. “I didn’t get to see him. He must have been in bed. Mrs. Goodrich made some crack about him sleeping his life away.”

  Judith paused, her mind busily fitting pieces together. “That was what—? Around seven-thirty?”

  “I guess. I was headed for my delivery stops on the top of the Hill,” Gary replied. “I usually hit Athens Pizza first, right around that time.”

  “How did Mrs. Goodrich seem?”

  Gary snorted. “Like she always does. Crabby.”

  With a couple of perfunctory comments, Judith rang off. Putting the chicken casserole in the oven, she checked her reservations book. To her dismay, she noticed that she had overbooked for Tuesday night. Written in her own hand were six sets of guests for five rooms. Frantically, she grabbed the phone to call the state B&B association for nearby availability.

  Ingrid Heffleman sounded surprisingly pleased to hear Judith’s voice. “Let me check, Judith. It’s a Tuesday night, so there’s probably something…What did you do, press the wrong key on your computer?”

  “I don’t have a computer,” Judith replied, trying not to sound testy. “If I did, this might not have happened.”

  “That’s true,” Ingrid agreed. “You had a similar problem in September, as I recall. And twice in August…Ah, here we are, Rogers House, over on the other side of the Hill. They had a cancellation just half an hour ago. They’re tied directly into our network, you know.” Ingrid’s voice was smug.

  “Thanks, Ingrid,” Judith said with relief. “I’ll give you the registration information. If they arrive by cab, I’ll pay their way to Rogers House.”

  “Of course.” Ingrid efficiently took down the information. “By the way, Judith, an opening on the state board is coming up in January. Would you be interested in serving a two-year term?”

  Judith had been dodging the request for the past three years. But Ingrid had just done another favor for Judith. “Ah…Can I think about it?” Judith hedged.

  “Certainly,” Ingrid answered cheerfully. “And while you’re at it, think about a computer. It would save everybody a lot of trouble.” A touch of steel rang in Ingrid’s
voice.

  The last thing Judith needed was more things to think about. Luckily, Arlene volunteered to deliver the food for the St. Lucy’s buffet. Judith didn’t argue. It was too late in the day to start the candy-making and too early to make hors d’oeuvres. She had mailed off her cards that morning, but there were still presents to wrap. In fact, there were still a few to buy, including that special elusive something for Joe.

  At five-thirty, Judith was wrapping Gertrude’s microwave. She put a big red bow on the bulky red-green-and-white-striped package, then picked up the cordless phone and dialed Renie’s number.

  “I’m still working, you twit,” Renie complained. “You know I don’t quit until five-thirty.”

  “It is five-thirty,” Judith countered. “And you’d better get dinner together by six to ward off Bill’s ulcers. Wait until you hear what Gary Meyers told me.”

  “Rats,” muttered Renie. “Okay, I’ll take the phone upstairs to the kitchen and start peeling potatoes.”

  “Good.” Judith cradled the phone against her shoulder, recounting her conversation with Gary. “What do you make of that? Enid told Gary that George was quote, ‘sleeping his life away.’”

  “So he was already knocked out from the Dalmane?” asked Renie, who was making a considerable amount of noise at her end of the line. Judith guessed that her cousin was closing up the design shop for the day.

  “It could be,” Judith said, choosing an elegant gold foil in which to wrap a pair of earrings for Mike’s girlfriend, Kristin. “George must have been out of it, or Enid would never have roused herself to go to the door. That was around seven-thirty. Ted Ericson drove off to get his tree shortly before eight. He noticed nothing unusual. He came back around eight-fifteen, give or take five minutes. Then he left again. Art started calling his folks about that same time. I think we can pinpoint the murder to eight-twenty.”