Nutty As a Fruitcake

by Mary Daheim

  Judith obeyed.

  An hour later, Judith was finished. Or so she thought. Gertrude was eyeing the tree with displeasure.

  “It looks crummy,” she said. “You’ve bunched everything up. I can’t see any of the birds. They’re all in back. Where’s the Santa at the mailbox? There’s money in that mailbox. Every year, I put in a couple of pennies. I’ll bet there’s sixty cents in there. Did you swipe the mailbox?”

  “It’s right here.” Judith pointed to a stout branch almost at the bottom of the tree. Then she started indicating the half-dozen hand-blown birds with their silver tails. “There’s your parrot, here’s the cardinal, there’s the…”

  Sweetums leaped off the sofa and nailed the parrot. Judith grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and gave him a good shake. Miraculously, the glass ornament rolled onto the floor intact.

  “It’s nine-thirty,” Judith announced. “I’m tired, you’re impossible, and Sweetums is…a cat.” She took a deep breath, observed Gertrude’s sour expression, and hurried to the sofa. “I’m sorry. It’s ten days until Christmas, I feel faintly frantic, and your tree actually looks wonderful. Admit it, Mother. You’re pleased.”

  “What if I were?” Gertrude rasped. “What does that buy me? New legs? Better eyes? Real teeth?”

  Judith sighed. “Of course not. It doesn’t buy me anything, either. You can’t ‘buy’ the stuff that counts.” She leaned down and rested her cheek against the top of her mother’s head. “We didn’t ‘buy’ each other. But that’s what we’ve got. It’s okay with me.” Usually, Judith thought, feeling Gertrude shake a bit.

  After a long pause, one of Gertrude’s gnarled hands crept up Judith’s back. “Yeah, right, why not?” Her old voice was very thin. “It’s okay with me, too, kiddo. What else can it be but okay?”

  Judith would have been the last to argue.

  Somewhere under the window seat in the living room was a J. Paulson catalog. It was buried with all the other mail-order Christmas books and brochures Judith had begun receiving in mid-August. Since Joe was upstairs in the third-floor family quarters, perhaps watching the same movies that entranced his mother-in-law, Judith took the opportunity to rummage through the storage area.

  She found what she wanted on page eighty-six: a real leather World War II aviator’s jacket, fully lined and complete with brass zippers. The price was three hundred and eighty-five dollars. For another forty-five, she could get the white silk twill scarf. Gritting her teeth, Judith dialed the 1-800 number. Joe would have his fantasy after all.

  Except for the Luftwaffe. Even Judith’s credit card couldn’t buy him that.

  Patches Morgan stopped at Hillside Manor the next morning around ten o’clock. He had the voucher for the completed work at the Goodrich house. Judith handed him the key. She also told him about the money under the rug.

  Morgan didn’t try to hide his astonishment. Staring at Judith from his good left eye, he clapped a hand to his head. “By the Great Hornspoon! What was the old boy doing, hood-winking the IRS?”

  “Oh, no,” Judith replied, ushering Morgan into the living room. “He and Enid weren’t earning any interest. I’m sure he reported his regular income. It’s just that one of the Goodriches—or both—apparently didn’t trust banks.”

  Morgan brushed at his wet raincoat. The rain had turned to sleet overnight as the wind blew down from the north. Settling onto the sofa, Morgan picked up the coffee mug that Judith had offered upon his arrival.

  “Well, I’ll be keelhauled!” Morgan was still evincing amazement. “How does that stash figure into this case, I wonder? Mr. Goodrich is still proclaiming his innocence.” The detective winked with his good left eye. “I’m inclined to go along with him, as you’ve probably guessed.”

  “Well…yes,” Judith said, avoiding the disconcerting single gaze. “If charges haven’t been pressed by now, I have to assume you don’t believe George killed Enid.”

  “We’ve questioned the grandsons, the son, the daughter, the daughter-in-law, even the daughter’s boyfriend,” Morgan said, now staring at the coffee table where the usual collection of books and magazines had been replaced by an alabaster Madonna and child encircled by holly. “Not to mention the neighbors, including yourself. Alibis, there’s the thing. Everybody has one.”

  Judith blinked. “They do?”

  Morgan nodded. “More or less. Those grandsons were both at work by eight o’clock. So was the young Ms. Goodrich, Glenda. We’ve checked with the phone company—Art Goodrich placed the calls when he said he did. He also insists his wife was home in bed. The granddaughter—Leigh?—had moved into the Cascadia Hotel the previous night. She called room service just before eight Wednesday morning. That leaves the neighbors.”

  Judith could guess where most of them were. “The Porters and Jeanne Ericson and Ham Stein had gone to work. Ted Ericson was buying a Christmas tree. Naomi Stein was doing errands; ditto Carl Rankers; Arlene was home; so were Mrs. Swanson—and me.”

  Patches Morgan’s grin was off-center. “As well as your dear mother. So where does that leave us?”

  Judith admitted that she didn’t know. “By the way,” she inquired, trying not to sound overly anxious, “did you positively identify the murder weapon as belonging to—who?”

  With a hand at the knot of his wide purple-gold-and-black tie, Morgan regarded Judith with interest. “Did I say we identified it as belonging to someone?”

  “No,” Judith said in an agreeable manner, “that’s why I asked. It must have come from somewhere.” She lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug.

  “Mr. Goodrich had a woodpile. Mrs. Goodrich was killed with a hatchet. Now, what would you deduce, Ms. Flynn?” Morgan smiled slyly.

  “Well…yes, of course. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Judith smiled back. She sensed that her expression was more vapid than sly.

  “Nothing’s obvious,” Morgan answered enigmatically.

  It seemed to Judith that she and the detective were getting nowhere. She considered mentioning the poison book, but her hypothesis was too outlandish. George’s ledger was another matter. Judith explained how she and Phyliss had found it under the mattress.

  “There were entries for December first,” she said. “There were also some notations in the margin.”

  It struck Judith that Morgan’s interest was feigned. “So Mr. Goodrich was capable of working in the wee small hours. That would indicate the sleeping pills didn’t take effect until later.”

  “That’s right,” Judith replied, hoping that the eagerness in her voice would spur Morgan. “I understand that Gary Meyers told you and Detective Rael that Mrs. Goodrich answered the door Wednesday morning around seven-thirty.”

  Morgan nodded. “Aye, so he did.” The policeman waited expectantly.

  “Did he also tell you and Rael that Mrs. Goodrich said Mr. Goodrich ‘was sleeping his life away’?”

  The good left eye roamed the ceiling. “Words to that effect. Are you implying that Mr. Goodrich was already drugged at seven-thirty?”

  “I’d have to think so,” Judith said. “You may not realize that Enid Goodrich never went to the door.”

  “Is that so?” Morgan’s interest now seemed genuine. “Well, well.” He stood up, the black raincoat unfurling like the sails of a ship. “We’ll have to tend to that booty under the rug. It looks as if the younger Goodriches won’t be able to put the house on the market quite yet.”

  It looked the same way to Judith.

  Two days later, however, Art Goodrich appeared in the cul-de-sac with a dapper young man who was obviously a real estate agent. When the two pulled up in a late-model Lexus, Judith happened to be on the front porch, checking her evergreen swag for signs of dryness. Curbing her curiosity, she went inside to finish her household chores. Twenty minutes later, on the pretext of seeing if the rain had turned to snow, she was back on the porch.

  Art was talking to the agent in front of the house. Judith still tried to restrain herself. But a mome
nt later, Arlene was sprinting across the cul-de-sac. Judith couldn’t help but follow.

  Having gone to get her jacket, Judith was a minute late into the conversation. The agent had retreated inside the house again, but Arlene had collared Art.

  “You should have called our daughter,” Arlene was saying in a vexed voice. “Cathy’s been with Peter Peach Realty for years.”

  Looking intimidated and defensive at the same time, Art had his back up against the agent’s Lexus. “I forgot. Really. I still think of Cathy as a teenager.”

  “She’s thirty-four,” Arlene snapped. “Why can’t you keep neighborhood business in the neighborhood? One thing I’ll say for your parents—they were always good neighbors. As long as your mother stayed inside, of course.”

  With rain running off the end of his nose, Art now looked just plain miserable. “I’m sorry, Arlene. Like I said…”

  But Arlene had turned away and was heading for the house. “Never mind. I’ll talk to this interloper myself. He’d better make it a multiple listing.” She glared at Art over her shoulder. “You won’t even have a lookiloo this time of year. January fifth, that’s when prospective buyers start thinking about moving again. Cathy says so. And she’s always right. Except when she’s wrong.” Arlene stomped up the front stairs.

  Art was holding his head. “Everything’s a mess. Who’d want to buy a house where somebody was…murdered? It’s all a nightmare. Now I can’t even please the neighbors! Damn!”

  “Don’t worry about the neighbors,” Judith soothed. “Come over to my place, Art. We’ll have a cup of coffee while Arlene and your agent duke it out. Okay?”

  Art seemed to have no will of his own. Like a lost lamb, he followed Judith to Hillside Manor. It was midafternoon on a dark, chilly Friday. In the kitchen, Judith decided to offer her guest a Tom and Jerry.

  Art brightened. “I’m no drinker, but that sounds good. Thanks, Judith.” He grew silent, sitting at the table while Judith heated the teakettle, set out mugs, removed the refrigerated Tom and Jerry batter, and got a bottle of rum from the shelf above the counter. “Where’s this all going to end?” Art asked with a heavy sigh.

  “Logically?” The word flew out of Judith’s mouth. Indeed, she herself hadn’t looked that far ahead. Waiting for the teakettle to boil, she sat down across the table from Art. “If your father’s innocent, his future is up to him. Does he want to stay with you and JoAnne? Would he rather come home? Has he thought about a retirement place?”

  Art looked askance at Judith. “He doesn’t want to think about anything. Pappy’s letting the rest of us make the decisions for him. It’s like he doesn’t care. The only thing that worries him is that he thinks he’s losing his mind.”

  “But you found his money,” Judith said quietly.

  The statement jarred Art. “What? Oh—yes!” The hint of a smile played around his mouth. “You found it, I hear. That was a shock.”

  “So what happened to it?” Judith stood up as the teakettle whistled.

  “JoAnne insisted we put it in the bank.” Art was looking dazed, apparently still overcome by the discovery. “Pappy said Mama thought banks were dishonest. He knows better—but she always had to have her way. So JoAnne opened an account yesterday for Pappy. Did you know there was thirty-six thousand dollars under that rug?”

  Judith laughed. “No. But I’m not surprised.” She stirred the Tom and Jerry ingredients, then handed Art a steaming mug. “Did your father realize how much was there?”

  “I don’t think so.” Art was looking downcast again. “I don’t think he cares. He said Glenda and JoAnne and I could have it as far as he was concerned. Money doesn’t mean anything to him.”

  “It will if he decides to go into a retirement home,” Judith pointed out. She had sat down again, cradling her mug in both hands. “Art, what did you find in the desk after you pried it open Tuesday evening?”

  If Art had been startled by Judith’s question about the money, he now went completely still as the color drained from his face. “How…?” He couldn’t go beyond the single syllable.

  Judith retained her matter-of-fact air. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out—the part about the desk being pried open, I mean. The fresh marks were there, the steak knife that matched your parents’ set was in the gutter by where you’d parked your car—and something was missing from the desk. It wasn’t money or your father’s account book, which were my earlier guesses. So what was it?” Judith’s black eyes were fixed on Art’s ashen face.

  “Oh, Judith!” Art gripped the seat of the chair and swung away, his head down. “It was a book.” The words were barely audible. “About poison.” Art hesitated, then finally looked at Judith. “I think Pappy wanted to kill himself.”

  Judith nodded once. “I see. He was that unhappy?”

  “Unhappy?” Art seemed to be savoring the word, as if it were an exotic delicacy. “He was never what you call happy. But lately…maybe around the time I lost my job…he seemed to go downhill. He says now that was when his memory began to slip. My problems affected him, I guess.” Art laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “They sure never bothered Mama.”

  “She wouldn’t lend you money.” The statement was simply put.

  Art nodded slowly, then drank from his mug. “She was tightfisted. Oh, hell, that’s putting it mildly! She wouldn’t have given us a dime if we were starving! And here was Christmas coming up, and I didn’t have any money for presents…Poor JoAnne works her butt off at Falstaff’s, and those boys of ours are always wanting something…I felt like such a dud. Isn’t a man supposed to provide for his family?” Art seemed close to tears.

  “You always have, until lately. That’s not your fault.” Judith tried to cheer Art with a compassionate smile. “I worked two jobs to support my family when I was married the first time.” She didn’t add that her efforts hadn’t seemed to trouble Dan McMonigle. But the truth was, she didn’t really know.

  A touch of color returned to Art’s drawn face. “Anyway, it seemed to bother Pappy. But he couldn’t offer help—Enid would have killed him.” The irony of his words made Art grimace. “You know what I mean. I knew there must have been money around the house because Mama hated banks. I thought it might be in the desk—why else lock it up? That Tuesday evening, Mama and Glenda and Pappy were in the bedroom. Mama was carrying on something fierce with Glenda about Leigh and Glenda’s boyfriend, Gary. I couldn’t stand listening to them, so I was going to leave. But then I thought about that desk and maybe there was money in it and Mama had told me I’d burn in hell before she’d loan me a lead nickel—well, I took the knife and forced the desk open. There wasn’t any money, but there was this book right in the middle compartment, and it was all about poisons. I knew then that Pappy was going to commit suicide.” Art raised a stricken face to Judith. “I grabbed that book and ran out of the house and got into my car and drove away and pitched that goddamned book out into the street! Do you blame me?”

  Judith was caught in midswallow. “No,” she said, putting her mug down on the table. “Of course not. That’s what I figured.”

  At precisely noon on Saturday, it started to snow. Renie had just arrived at Hillside Manor, carrying a loaf of her mother’s fruitcake wrapped in aluminum foil. She took one look out of the kitchen window and screamed.

  “I can’t drive in snow! I’ll be killed! I’m out of here!” And she was.

  Smiling, Judith picked up Aunt Deb’s fruitcake. Removing the foil, she sliced off a piece and popped it into her mouth. There were no nuts. It was delicious. Judith suddenly knew who had murdered Enid Goodrich.

  Joe Flynn didn’t give a hoot about his wife’s theory. He was busy in the basement. If Judith wanted to drive to Art and JoAnne’s house in the snow, that was up to her. He had things to do. Like with the wiring, he added unconvincingly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with our wiring,” Judith protested from the head of the stairs. “It has to be up to city code because this is a B&B.”

>   Joe didn’t answer. Frustrated, Judith went out on the back porch. There was still rain mixed with the snow; the thermometer registered thirty-three degrees. Judith’s Nissan had studded tires, but there were several steep streets between the B&B and the neighborhood above the railroad yard. Heraldsgate Avenue was the most treacherous thoroughfare of all. When it snowed on Heraldsgate Hill, residents who didn’t have four-wheel drive were virtually marooned from the rest of the city. Judith was thwarted.

  She was also upset. Maybe calling on the younger Goodriches was foolish. Perhaps she should talk to Glenda first. Or Mrs. Swanson. Judith went back indoors, still mulling things over as she made gingerbread cookies. When the last batch was done an hour later, the ground was covered in white.

  Judith put on her jacket and went outside. The aroma of gingerbread followed her to the front porch. Noting that the New England village was dusted with snow, she went back to switch on the lights. The cluster of buildings and figures seemed to spring to life. Judith couldn’t help but smile.

  Exactly one week before Christmas, the cul-de-sac looked beautiful. And quiet. Even though it was a Saturday, no one seemed to be stirring. Perhaps some of the inhabitants were shopping. Judith felt the snow melt against her face as she walked toward Mrs. Swanson’s house.

  Nearing the driveway between the Goodrich and Ericson properties, Judith saw Ted’s handsome sign with its season’s greeting. On the parking strip was another sign, put up by the real estate agent. Judith slowed her step, feeling sad.

  Amid the other neighbors’ festive facades, the Goodrich house looked particularly poignant. The darkened windows seemed to stare out hopelessly at Judith. She picked up the pace; Mrs. Swanson’s fairy lights drew her like a beacon on troubled seas.

  At first, she didn’t hear her name being called. Indeed, it was the footsteps padding softly in the snow that made her turn around. George Goodrich, wearing rubber boots, a heavy wool jacket, and a crumpled fisherman’s hat was standing by the walkway to his house.