by Mary Daheim
“The recent investigation of the police department obviously didn’t shut it down or Joe would’ve told you,” Renie remarked, taking out her Visa card as their server arrived. “For both,” she told him. “My treat.”
The server smiled and moved off to the register. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ll pay for parking.”
“Yes, you will. It’s twenty bucks for an hour during the day unless you have a monthly rate. I got off cheap.”
“You’re cunning, I’ll say that for you,” Judith said, getting out of the booth. “I’ll head for the back room and meet you there. I’m still not walking quite as fast as I should today.”
Renie arrived at the unmarked knotty-pine door almost at the same time Judith did. It was locked. The cousins both noticed a peephole almost hidden in one of the knots.
“Who’s there?” an echoing deep voice inquired.
Judith saw some tiny circles that must be the speaker just below the peephole. “Al Grover’s nieces, Judith and Serena.”
There was a pause. Then the door swung open. “It’s me, Swede Lundquist,” the tall, broad-shouldered man with the snowy-white hair said. He held out a beefy hand. “How are you two scamps doing? I haven’t seen you in ten, fifteen years.”
“At least that long,” Judith said, smiling up at Uncle Al’s old chum from their basketball-playing days. “Don’t tell me you finally retired from being a longshoreman.”
“Just last year,” Swede replied. “But I couldn’t just sit around, so your uncle saw to it that I had something to do.” He made a sweeping gesture at the large, paneled room where a couple of dozen people—all men—sat in comfortable chairs watching TV screens showing various sporting events and making notes on laptops, iPads, and old-fashioned paper tablets. “We privatized. You’re now members.” He reached into a beer stein and took out two small bronze pins with gold lettering that spelled out win. “I’ll defer your dues for now. Or did you pay for some grub here?”
“I did,” Renie said. “Can we grandmother her in? She actually has grandchildren. I, alas, do not. Yet.”
“Sure. Al wouldn’t have it any other way. How is he? I haven’t seen him for at least a month.”
“As far as we know, he’s fine,” Judith said. “Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince are coming down from the island over the weekend, so we’ll probably have a family gathering.”
Swede nodded. “I remember Vince when he drove a truck. Does he still go to sleep at the wheel?”
“Oh, sure,” Renie replied, “but Auntie Vance stabs him with a fork and he wakes up.”
“She’s a character,” Swede declared. “Got a real mouth on her. Great gal. Okay—so why are you here?” He looked at Judith. “You wouldn’t be involved in one of your mysterious adventures, would you?”
“I would,” Judith said. “We would, I mean. Renie’s a big help. For starters, do you have archives from the old racetrack?”
“Sure. Got it all on the computer now, back to the early days in the thirties. I almost know how to run the damned thing. I can even turn it on. Come on into what I call my office. It’s where I take my naps. Not as young as I used to be.”
Swede’s office was small, cluttered, and faintly redolent of cigar smoke. He lowered his husky frame into the old-fashioned swivel chair behind the oak desk. “Got dates for what you need to find out?”
Judith gave him the three weekend days she thought that Opal and Duke might have been at the track. “I’m looking for big winners,” she said, “which would probably mean Saturday or Sunday.”
Swede nodded once. “Got it. Early in the season, so could be some upsets. Not many big-stakes races then. And, as you know, no betting on any races but the local track.”
Judith nodded. “That came along after the new course was built.”
“Dang!” Swede exclaimed. “They don’t make these keys big enough for my paws. Hold on. At least I got the right year.”
Judith gazed at the walls, which were covered with all sorts of sports memorabilia including some from Swede’s own ball-playing days.
“There’s Uncle Al,” Renie said, after joining her cousin in the stroll down memory lane. “Imagine—being a center back then at only six four.”
“Got it,” Swede announced. “Only one long shot that weekend, ninth race on Sunday. Went off in the feature at twenty to one. A five-buck bet would get you over a hunsky.”
“That’s it?” Judith said in disappointment.
Swede shrugged. “Depends on the amount wagered. Just do the math if you think somebody bet the house.”
“True,” Judith allowed, wondering if Opal—or Duke—had wagered more than a fairly conservative amount. “What was the horse’s name?”
Swede looked at the screen. “Two-year-olds and up, winner was a local chestnut gelding trained by Jorge Gonzales, ridden by Omar Alvarez, horse was Duke’s Dream. Is that any help?”
“It might be,” Judith said, smiling. “That reminds me—do you know a trainer named Duke Swisher?”
“I’ve seen him around.” Swede stared off into space for a moment. “Fairly successful, though he came late to the game. I think he spends part of the year in California.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Hold it. Is there some connection between Swisher and Duke’s Dream?”
“I think he may’ve bet on that horse in the race you just looked up,” Judith said. “He’s also got a stake in Ali Baba Stables. The other owners are Lee Watkins and a Mr. Alipur, who owns The Persian Cat in the Thurlow District, my old neighborhood.”
Swede chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Mr. Alipur. Now, there’s a slippery character. I don’t know anything about Watkins, but Alipur ran book out of his joints in California. That’s why he moved up here.”
“But he’s stayed clean since then?” Renie asked.
Swede shrugged. “Can a leopard change its spots?” He frowned. “Maybe snow leopards can. But not cats like Alipur.”
“Interesting,” Judith murmured. “We’d better leave you in peace, Swede. Thanks for the information. And the membership. We just might come by more often.”
Swede got to his feet. “You do that. Next time the grub’s on me. And tell your uncle to get his butt down here PDQ.” He leaned across the desk to shake hands with the cousins. “Take it easy,” he said. “And stay out of trouble. Odds are that if you look for it, you’ll find it.”
Back out on the street, Renie offered to get the car to save her cousin the three-block trek. After starting to insist she could manage it just fine, Judith gave in. It was the pavement that bothered her more than the actual walking. Besides, the weather was holding and she enjoyed watching the passing parade of downtowners.
When Renie showed up almost ten minutes later, she was cussing her head off. “All this damned traffic! Where do these people come from? Five minutes to go three blocks? That’s galling!” She sped up though the traffic light was already amber and raced across the intersection, startling some pedestrians who had dared to take a step off the curb. “See what I mean? Nobody knows how to walk, let alone drive.”
“Coz,” Judith said, gritting her teeth as Renie pulled out into oncoming traffic around a car that was trying to pick off a vacant parking spot, “someday you’re going to get arrested.”
“Good. Then I can sit in a nice cell and work on my graphic designs in peace. Except,” she went on, glaring at a young man who looked as if he might be thinking about jaywalking, “even our jails are too crowded. Half the people who move here must be criminals.”
“Like Mr. Alipur?” Judith said in a mild tone.
“Huh? Yeah—like him.”
The tactic worked. Renie seemed to calm down. The absence of opposition usually cooled her quick temper.
“I wonder,” Judith continued, “if Ruby asked too many questions at The Persian Cat.”
“I didn’t know she asked any,” Renie said in her normal voice.
“I don’t know either, because she couldn’t remember what happened after she got there.”
“True,” Renie agreed. “But what would she ask about that might alarm Mr. Alipur?”
“I have no idea.” Judith sighed. “I should do some asking of my own—namely about why there was no mention of fingerprints in Woody’s report. It’s so obvious an omission that I assume the killer wore gloves. But it still seems strange. Again, I feel as if I’m missing something.”
“I’ve missed quite a few cars in the past five minutes,” Renie said. “Thank goodness we’re almost to Heraldsgate Hill. Cammy’s like a horse—she knows when she’s heading for home.”
Judith checked her watch. “It’s a good thing we are. It’s almost four. I wonder if Jessi has called back from the bookshop.”
“Jessi? I didn’t know you talked to her.”
“I forgot to mention it. I asked if she could find out anything about Ruby. Barry’s still around, so maybe they can track her down.”
Renie had started up the Counterbalance. “Oh, great! I’m behind two buses. How many buses do we need on this hill? The city is talking about consolidating the four routes. The one on our side of the hill has never made much sense the way it zigzags all over the place until it starts the descent toward downtown. The only good thing is that the end of the line is just two blocks from our house. Not that I ever take the bus, but Bill does sometimes.”
“I can’t recall the last time I took a bus,” Judith said as they waited for one of the two trolleys to pull out from a stop midway up the hill. “I suppose I could bus it to Falstaff’s, but then I’d have to lug heavy bags of . . .” She went silent.
“What?” Renie finally said, before making the left turn off the Counterbalance.
“I just realized what I’m missing,” Judith said. “Now, why didn’t I think of that before?”
Despite Renie’s badgering, she refused to give voice to her sudden insight.
“You know that when I get one of these weird ideas about a case, I have to mull before I tell anybody, even you. I want to be darned sure I’m not making a fool of myself.”
“I’ve seen you do that often—and vice versa,” Renie countered.
“But never when it comes to murder. That’s different. I can’t afford to be wrong.” Judith opened the car door. “I may be crazy. Let me sort through a few things and then I’ll tell all.”
Renie surrendered. “Okay. You still owe me for parking.”
Judith turned around before stepping onto the pavement. “If I’m right, Joe and I will take you and Bill to dinner—anyplace you choose.”
“How about Paris?”
“Get real. See you later.” Judith headed for the house.
The first thing she did was check phone messages. So far, Jessi hadn’t called back. Phyliss apparently was still finishing the laundry in the basement. Judith could hear her singing float up the stairs in an off-key rendition of “Gladly the Cross I’d Bear.” Upon one memorable occasion, Gertrude had listened to Phyliss butchering the hymn and said she thought her religion must be pretty dumb if they worshiped a cross-eyed bear. Phyliss hadn’t taken kindly to the comment.
Feeling antsy—and not being able to endure the cleaning woman’s attack on “The Old Rugged Cross”—Judith went into the living room and picked up the phone on the cherrywood table. She felt presumptuous about dialing Woody’s direct number, but did it anyway.
She had mixed feelings when he picked up on the first ring. “Oh, hi, Woody,” she said, sounding surprised, as if she hadn’t realized she’d called him. “I hate to bother you, but I have a question that may sound stupid. It only occurred to me after going over your case file and it occurred to me there was no mention of—”
“Fingerprints,” Woody said, chuckling in his rich baritone. “I wondered why you hadn’t asked, but assumed Joe told you.”
“Joe?” Judith said, feeling dopier by the second.
“Yes, but maybe he thought it was obvious. There weren’t any, except for the victim’s. If we’d had DNA back then, it might have solved the case. But of course that came along later.”
Judith thought for a moment. “Did you keep Opal’s gloves?”
“The ones she used for gardening? Yes. They’re still locked up in the evidence room.”
“You mean she had other gloves?”
“She may have, but we didn’t go through all of her personal belongings. Nothing was disturbed anywhere else in the house and there were no traces of dirt past the living room, so it’s possible that even Opal didn’t go beyond there either. Reconstructing her movements before she was killed, it appeared that she’d come inside, sat down on the sofa or in one of the chairs, and was reading a magazine when the killer arrived. She’d put in quite a few plants and it was a fairly warm day.”
“That’s my point,” Judith said. “Who’d be wearing gloves?”
“Wearing or carrying?” Woody responded. “Yes, that suggests the murder was premeditated. Time of death is tricky because it got much warmer as the day moved along.”
“Oh!” Judith exclaimed. “I keep forgetting to tell you that Renie and I talked to a neighbor you didn’t interview, Ziva Feldstein, who lives across the street from the Tooms house. She left town shortly after the murder occurred, but she saw Opal working in her garden around noon. Mrs. Feldstein spoke to her only in greeting because she was hurrying to catch the bus.”
“That does move time of death up a bit,” Woody conceded. “I gather you didn’t get the impression this neighbor might be a suspect?”
“No, though she didn’t think much of the company Opal kept.” Judith paused, hoping that Woody wouldn’t scoff at what she intended to say next. “I think the killer wore Opal’s gloves.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” Woody conceded. “But what does it prove?”
“Nothing, really. Except that if the killer is ever found and you still have Opal’s gloves, you might be able to nail him. Or her. DNA, I mean.”
“That’s also possible,” Woody said drily. “But first we have to find him—or her.”
After she’d rung off from talking to Woody, she felt foolish, despite his assurances that he still believed in her logical and uncanny ability to sort through even the most baffling of homicide cases.
“Down in the dumps, huh?” Phyliss said, putting on her raincoat. “Feel like the Lord doesn’t love you? Could be true, given the way you people worship pictures of some gal jumping up and down on a snake.”
“The Blessed Mother isn’t ‘some gal’ and she’s standing on the serpent that represents Satan and evil,” Judith asserted with less than her usual vigor. “Even you know better than that, Phyliss. It’s symbolic.”
“I know what I see with my own two eyes,” Phyliss muttered. “Maybe you’ve got the epazootik. Isn’t that what your mother calls it?”
“It’s sort of a family saying,” Judith said. “My grandmother used that term to describe any illness that hadn’t been diagnosed.”
“Hunh.” Phyliss started for the door. “Then with all my troubles, I must have about twenty epazootiks. See you tomorrow.” She went on her way in a flutter of black all-weather fabric and pious self-righteousness.
Judith checked in the arriving guests—two couples, one from Juneau and the other from Kansas City, Kansas. She’d keep the appetizers simple: a platter of prawns, vegetables, tiny sausages, two kinds of dip, and an assortment of crackers. By the time Joe came home just after five-thirty, she was peeling potatoes for the boiled dinner.
“You look worn out,” he said, after kissing her hello.
“I’m frustrated,” she admitted. “I think I’m getting somewhere with this case and then I think I’m nuts.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Were you serious about that pliant inspector for the Watkins house?”
Joe frowned. “Well . . . not really, but if it’d help Woody . . . and you . . .”
Judith smiled. “It might. You can tell whoever it is that the visit comes as a request from Modern Manse magazine.”
“That almost sounds real
,” he murmured. “Hey—why can’t I be the inspector? That’d save me begging a favor.”
“I . . . why not? But you’re working.”
“I’m on my own time and I’m making progress. I could do it tomorrow afternoon. I wonder if Bill would like to go along? There’s a new sporting goods place south of the Thurlow District that we’ve been thinking of checking out.”
“Good idea. Bill’s a trained actor. He’d be perfect.”
“I keep forgetting that,” Joe said, getting the Scotch down from the cupboard. “Just as well he gave up a career in theater to become a psychologist. He got all the drama he needs living with Renie.”
“He provides enough of his own,” Judith said. “Let him take the lead. You might start acting like a cop.”
Even before taking a sip of her drink, Judith began to feel better. She was further buoyed by Gertrude’s pleasure over the sauerkraut and boiled pig hock dinner, though she noted that Judith couldn’t make nefle like Grandma Grover did.
“Nobody can,” Judith said, “unless it’s Auntie Vance.”
“She comes close,” Gertrude allowed.
“How’d you do at cribbage with Carl?”
“I beat the socks off of him,” the old lady replied. “He’s good, but I outpegged him six games out of nine.”
“Good for you,” Judith said, and on that note she went back into the house just as the phone rang.
“Hi, Judith,” Jessi said. “Barry and I found out where Ruby lives, so we went over there after I closed the shop, but she wasn’t home. The place was dark. Maybe she got another job.”
Judith’s rebooted spirits plunged. “If you hear anything, would you let me know? By the way, when we first met her she was hanging out with some guy named Burt. He’s a blogger. Do you know him?”
“I don’t think so,” Jessi replied. “Maybe he was in town only for Oktoberfest.”
“Very likely,” Judith agreed. “Thanks for checking on Ruby. I realize you don’t know her well, but what’s your impression of her?”