Nutty As a Fruitcake

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes. Perhaps.” Mrs. Swanson shivered. It was getting colder, and she wore only a lambswool sweater over her housedress. “I’d like to see a young family move in next door. A happy family,” she added, “like my son’s. I leave for Portland tonight to visit them for Christmas.”

  “How nice,” Judith said with enthusiasm, as the UPS truck drove off. “We’ll keep an eye on your house for you.”

  Mrs. Swanson’s smile bloomed fully. “Thank you, my dear. It does make me nervous when there are two vacant houses in a row for several days. Except,” she continued, turning toward the Goodrich residence, “who did that?”

  “Did what?” Puzzled, Judith also turned.

  Ted Ericson’s holiday sign was still in place, as was the one put up by the realtor. But the dogwood tree and the shrubs twinkled with green-and-gold lights. So did the front porch and the eaves. Judith gasped.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said in amazement. “It looks…lovely. Did you see anybody around? Art or JoAnne or Glenda, maybe?”

  “No. I’ve been packing. I only noticed the lights a few minutes ago. That’s how I happened to be on the porch when you came by.” Mrs. Swanson looked as mystified as Judith felt.

  “Whoever did it has nice taste,” Judith said. “It makes the whole cul-de-sac come alive.” Noting that Mrs. Swanson was now shivering in earnest, she put a hand on the older woman’s arm. “Get inside. It may snow again. Have a wonderful trip, and a merry Christmas.”

  After Mrs. Swanson went up her front steps, Judith walked down the sidewalk to admire the Goodrich decor up close.

  “Cool, huh?” said Dooley, who had seemingly materialized from out of nowhere but probably had vaulted the fence and come down Hillside Manor’s driveway. “Did you do that?”

  Judith shook her head. “I’ve no idea who did it. I’m stumped.”

  Dooley admired the lights, then gave Judith a sidelong, almost diffident glance. “We were wrong, huh? About Mr. Goodrich, I mean. But then you were right. You’re pretty sharp at figuring this stuff out, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Sometimes,” Judith allowed. Her gaze shifted to the Ericson house. “I can’t figure everything out, though.” She recalled Jeanne’s odd change of mind about the invitation to view their tree. “People are often unfathomable.”

  “I guess. But this is the time of year that they act odd. Secrets and stuff. You know. Everybody likes to be a little kid again.” Dooley had taken on an air of kindly condescension.

  “That’s true,” Judith said. “I think it’s nice.”

  “I guess.” Dooley shrugged, then turned to gaze in the direction of the Porter house. “Maybe I’ll see if Gaby’s home.” He yawned in an exaggerated manner. “See you, Mrs. Flynn.” His long legs were suddenly in gear as he all but flew across the cul-de-sac.

  Smiling at the romance of youth, Judith approached Hillside Manor. Joe’s MG was parked in the driveway. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Joe was almost never home early on weekdays. Fearing that he might have fallen ill, she hurried into the house through the front door.

  Joe was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of sparkling cider and reading a Western novel.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re all right! How come you’re home?”

  Joe raised his head to accept Judith’s kiss. “Woody and I closed the Shazri case this morning. We got the rest of the day off. I must have come home right after you and Renie went to lunch.”

  Judith collapsed into a chair across the table from Joe. “Wonderful! Congratulations! Whodunit?”

  Joe grinned. “It’s the damnedest thing—Woody and I’d begun to think it was the brother. At least that he was the one who hired the hit man. But after we sifted through the evidence about a hundred times, we realized there was someone else involved. In fact, I realized it—thanks to Arlene Rankers.”

  “Huh?” Judith looked stumped.

  “Sure,” Joe replied cheerfully. “It was the carpet cleaners.”

  Joe’s explanation was so complicated that Judith took in only about half of it. Now that she was home, the two drinks and the heavy meal had made her brain fuzzy. She listened, she commented, she nodded and smiled. But when her husband was done, she had a different question for him.

  “Are Morgan and Rael getting kudos for solving their case?”

  Joe smoothed the graying red hair back from his temples. “Well—I suppose. I’ve been too wrapped up in the Shazri thing to notice. Morgan’s a smart cop, and Rael seems like a real comer.”

  “She’s certainly beautiful,” Judith remarked, hoping to sound objective.

  Joe was at the refrigerator, replenishing his cider. “Want some?” he asked. Judith shook her head. “What about Rael? Oh—right, she’s not bad looking. It’s Morgan’s appearance that puts suspects off. For one thing, he confuses them.”

  Sensing that Joe’s indifferent reaction to Sancha Rael’s charms was genuine, Judith smiled. “All that corny pirate talk and those flamboyant clothes? Yes, I can see where he’d unsettle some people.”

  Joe sat down again at the table. “Not that. You don’t rattle hardened killers with flowing crimson ties and a yo-ho-ho. I’m talking about the eye patch.”

  “The eye patch?” Judith frowned. “How odd. The only thing I wondered was how the department allows Morgan to stay on the job. Having only one eye must be a detriment in his line of work.”

  Joe choked on his cider. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Judith’s frown deepened. “No. It’s kind of a handicap, isn’t it?”

  Throwing his head back, Joe roared with laughter. “Judegirl! I can’t believe it! I thought you were the most observant person on earth!”

  “What are you talking about?” Judith snapped.

  Joe rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to his wife. “The eye patch. Morgan has two perfectly good eyes. The patch is flimflam. That’s why suspects under interrogation get rattled. They start to disbelieve themselves, which makes it hard to lie. Didn’t you notice that Morgan switches the patch back and forth, from one eye to the other?”

  Judith twisted in the chair, squealing with disbelief. “No! Oh, good grief! I feel like an idiot!”

  “You had your mind on other things,” Joe said calmly. “Like solving a murder and running the B&B and expecting family visitors and getting ready for Christmas.”

  Still feeling chagrined, Judith got out of the chair. “I’d better change clothes. Mike and Kristin will be here in a little over an hour. I hope. I put all their presents under the tree this morning.”

  Judith started for the back stairs, but the Christmas tree reminded her of the new decorations in the cul-de-sac. She turned at the kitchen door. “Say—have you seen those lights over at the Goodrich house?” Judith didn’t wait for a response. “They’re lovely, and they add just the right touch to finish off the cul-de-sac. I could kiss whoever did that!”

  Rising from the table, Joe stretched his arms wide and puckered up. Judith let out an incredulous little yip, flew across the kitchen, and fell against her husband. Suddenly, it felt a lot like Christmas.

  In a way, it seemed impossible that Judith had never met Herself. Over the years, she had heard the stories of Vivian Flynn’s daring dresses, her smoky voice, her three husbands, and her love affair with Jack Daniel’s. In Judith’s mind, Vivian had become a cliché for every whiskey soprano in thick makeup and a plunging neckline. Judith also knew that her former rival was approximately twelve years older than Joe, but the fact didn’t really register. Thus, Judith wasn’t prepared for the real woman, who was pushing seventy and used a cane.

  But in many ways, Herself lived up to her reputation. The bouffant hair was dyed platinum blond, the figure was still voluptuous, and her style of clothes lived up to her reputation. Vivian had arrived at the airport wearing a mink coat over cashmere slacks and sweater, with a white turban wound around her head and huge sunglasses firmly in place. For Christmas Eve, she had chosen crimson satin, clinging to every
curve. Judith frankly marveled at Herself’s figure.

  So did Renie. “Not bad for a lush, huh?” said Renie as the cousins dished up the buffet offerings in the kitchen. “Bill’s tie is on fire. Where’d she get that mink coat?”

  “Not where—how,” Judith replied, tossing a green salad.

  “At her age?” Renie looked dubious, then reconsidered. “Okay, she wouldn’t need to be mobile or sober. How are she and Caitlin getting along?”

  “Not bad.” Judith lined up three separate bowls of salad dressing. “Caitlin’s very sweet. No,” Judith contradicted herself, “not sweet. Honest and sensible and genuine. Smart, too. I like her very much.”

  The cousins trotted out their various dishes to the dining room and placed them on the long oval table. In the living room, a hubbub of voices could be heard: Bill and Uncle Al were arguing about the upcoming bowl games; Aunt Deb was relating a recent atrocity committed by her neighbor’s poodle to Uncle Vince; Uncle Vince was snoring in the green recliner while Sweetums clawed holes in his cardigan sweater; Mike’s girlfriend, Kristin, was explaining to Anne Jones why shopping for clothes was irrelevant and definitely not the spiritual experience that Bill and Renie’s daughter claimed; Auntie Vance and Gertrude were wrangling over something that ended when Auntie Vance called Gertrude “goat-breath” and Gertrude dumped the rest of her eggnog on Auntie Vance’s shoes. It was a typical Grover holiday gathering.

  Almost. Back in the kitchen, Renie grabbed a pair of pot holders and opened the oven to remove the chicken lasagna she’d made at home. “I love your idea of reinstating the hidden Christmas tree and having Santa come. It takes me back to my youth, which is getting to be quite a trip. What time is Carl Rankers due to play Santa?”

  “Seven-fifteen,” Judith replied. A glance at the schoolhouse clock told her it was now shortly after six. “We have plenty of time to eat. I gave Carl a list of the family names so he could call on everybody from behind the curtain. Do you think it’s too crowded with that half of the living room shut off?”

  “It’s fine,” Renie replied. “There’d be more room for people to sit down if Herself wasn’t sprawled out on the sofa like Madame Récamier.”

  “Did Madame Récamier drink?” Judith asked, then bit her lip. “Sorry. I’m trying to think good thoughts. The best one is that Herself will be gone in five days.”

  In five minutes, the buffet was ready. Already late with his meal schedule, Bill Jones was first in line, managing to outmaneuver three of the Grover shirttail relations. His sons were pushing their grandmother in her wheelchair. Gertrude used her walker to shove Sweetums directly into their path.

  “My cat!” she yelled. “You’re going to kill my cat! Watch it, you morons!”

  “Run right over the damned thing!” Auntie Vance urged. “I hate cats! They’re the dumbest animals God ever made! With one exception.” Her sturdy figure turned. “Vince! Wake up! We’re eating! You can go back to sleep when you get to Gertrude’s potato salad!”

  Judith checked the table to make sure that she and Renie hadn’t forgotten anything. Then she glanced into the living room. The dark blue flannel sheets were still securely in place, despite the best efforts of Cousin Sue’s small grandchildren to dislodge them. Judith was pleased by the effect, with the far end of the room shrouded in mysterious darkness. The floor under and around the tree was literally covered with presents. For Judith, the most mysterious of all were the big blue-and-silver boxes with her own name on them. They had suddenly appeared just before the relatives started arriving. The tags were written in Joe’s handwriting.

  It had taken Judith a few minutes to solve the nagging little mystery: The UPS delivery Arlene had seen at the Ericsons’ the day before the murder; Jeanne’s odd reaction to inviting Judith into their house the following week; Joe’s Saturday afternoon in the basement, allegedly working on the wiring—everything came together in logical order. Joe had bought her a computer system for Christmas. She was excited, not in the unbridled, greedy way of childhood, but with a deeper feeling, of appreciation for her husband’s desire to please her, just as she hopped to fulfill his dreams with the leather flight jacket.

  Judith smiled fondly at Cousin Sue’s grandchildren. The girl was almost three, dancing around the room with anticipation. The boy wasn’t quite a year, on the verge of walking, and though he lacked understanding, he was charged with contagious excitement. Someday, perhaps, Judith would have grandchildren of her own. Her gaze roamed to Mike, tall, broad-shouldered, honed to manhood by his work as a park ranger. He stood at the end of the buffet line with Kristin. She was almost as tall he was, a blond Viking goddess of a young woman who loved the outdoors as much as Mike did. After more than four years together, they seemed to love each other. Maybe an official engagement was nigh. The fond looks they exchanged indicated that it was due, even overdue, in Judith’s opinion.

  On one of the matching sofas, Herself still reclined. She was looking up at Joe and making gestures with her fingers. Judith tried to behave in a casual manner as she crossed the room to join them.

  Herself transferred her seductive smile to Judith. “Joe’s going to get me a plate. He says you’re the most marvelous cook. I was telling him not to let me gorge. If I eat too much, I’ll simply explode out of this dress!” Vivian Flynn laughed in her husky manner, then gave Joe a little pat on the arm. “Run along. You need to get your food, too. A man has to keep up his…strength.” The false eyelashes fluttered alluringly.

  Joe obeyed. Judith perched on the arm of the sofa. As far as she could tell, Herself was relatively sober. The highball glass on the coffee table was still more than half-filled with bourbon.

  “You must find this rain depressing after living in Florida,” Judith said, seeking refuge in talking about the weather. “Of course it’s supposed to snow tonight and get very cold. I just hope it holds off until everybody drives home safely. The forecast could be wrong—snow’s been predicted for the last few days. But this afternoon, my mother said she could feel it in her bones.” Judith suddenly stopped, aware that she was running on like a river.

  “I like the rain,” Herself said. “I lived here for many years, as you may recall.” She flicked her tongue over her scarlet upper lip. “Florida is getting too crowded. And there’s so much crime. Sunshine isn’t important if you don’t get outside much.” One hand with its long acrylic nails tripped across the back of the sofa.

  “I’ve never been to Florida,” Judith said, suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Much of it is lovely,” Herself said, tucking a stray tendril of platinum hair behind her ear. “I’m right on the beach, but most of the people who live nearby are so old. They look old; they act old; they talk all the time about being old. That’s very bad for them.”

  Judith nodded, a bit uncertainly. “I guess that’s why they’re…old.”

  “Who’s old?” Bill Jones asked as he set his plate down on the coffee table and seated himself on the matching sofa.

  “Oh—” Judith replied vaguely. “People. In Florida.”

  Bill nodded. “It’s a retirement mecca, not only for Americans but Canadians, too. Most of them come from big eastern cities, such as New York, Washington, Boston, Toronto. It’s an interesting mix, psychologically speaking. Throw in the exiled Cubans and Haitians, not to mention the existing natives, which include African Americans, Caucasians, and what’s left of the Seminoles, and what you have is a…”

  “‘For Sale’ sign in your front yard,” Renie interrupted, sitting beside her husband. “Tell me this, Professor Jones, what kind of psychological profile would you draw on somebody who’d buy the Goodrich house?”

  Bill never answered questions impulsively. He thoughtfully chewed on a marinated chicken wing before giving his answer. “It’s not psychology so much as economics. That house is going to be very hard to sell. There’s a law requiring the agent to disclose the fact that a capital crime has occurred on the property. Naturally, the price becomes negotiable because
the Goodrich family will have to lower it under market value.”

  Seeing Joe approaching with Herself’s plate, Judith got off the arm of the sofa. “You mean somebody will get a bargain on Heraldsgate Hill? That doesn’t happen very often. Prices up here are sky-high.”

  “True,” Bill agreed, “but this is one of those rarities. All the same, I wouldn’t expect that house to sell for a long time.”

  Joe delivered his ex-wife’s plate. She gushed; she cooed; she thrust her bust every which way. Joe started back to get his own meal, then stopped and turned to look at Bill.

  “You’re right,” Joe said. “But maybe somebody will buy it as an investment.”

  “A rental?” Judith cringed. “I hope not. Mrs. Swanson wouldn’t like that. I’m not sure I would, either.”

  Renie made a face. “Joe has a point. Who else would be crazy enough to buy that house and live in it?”

  Herself raised her highball glass. The deep blue eyes slid from Renie to Joe to Bill and finally to Judith. Her scarlet mouth tilted upward in a provocative smile. “I would. The ‘sold’ sign goes up Monday.” She put the glass to her lips. “Merry Christmas.”

  AUNT DEB’S DARK FRUITCAKE

  1 cup shortening

  2 cups sugar

  4 fresh eggs

  1 cup butter milk

  1 cup any fruit juice

  5 cups shifted flour

  1 tsp. baking soda

  4 tsp. baking powder

  1 tsp. cinnamon

  1 tsp. ground cloves

  1 tsp. mace

  1 tsp. allspice

  1 cup whiskey or brandy

  2 lbs. seeded raisins, chopped

  1 lb. currants

  1/2 lb. dates

  2 cups candied pineapple, cut in strips

  3 oz. bottle maraschino cherries

  1/4 lb. candied lemon peel, minced

  1/4 lb. candied orange peel, minced