Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  Renie looked away. There were times when her cousin’s enthusiasm and good heart were too much. This was one of those times. But Marin accepted Judith’s peace offering in good faith.

  “I’ve read Dagmar Chatsworth’s columns over the years, of course,” Marin said in a confidential tone. “But I never met her. I do know the Kreagers, though. I sold them their condo last fall. I got their name through a referral agency. They were looking for a year-round resort spot, either in North America or Europe.” The realtor’s mouth twisted slightly. “The commission was grand, but as a rule, once the sale is final, I seldom have contact with the buyers again. Not so with Mrs. Kreager—or Ms. Van Heusen, I should say. Instead of bringing her problems before the condo owners’ co-op, she calls me. Teenagers playing loud music at poolside, termites in the woodwork, the fireplace not drawing properly! She’s a property owner. The problems are hers, not mine, and I’ll bet she didn’t open the damper in the first place.” Marin suddenly looked shamefaced. “Sorry. I sound as if I’m bad-mouthing our clients and our condos. I’m not. Most of the people I deal with are wonderful. And the units are amazingly worry-free, especially when you consider our hard winters. But Ms. Van Heusen called again yesterday, to complain about a window that didn’t shut quite right. I’m afraid I was rather abrupt with her.”

  Judith had now regained her composure. “Do they come here often?”

  Marin’s expression was droll. “Are you asking if they own the condo exclusively? Yes, they do, which isn’t as rare as you’d think. I suppose that’s why Ms. Van Heusen thinks she has a right to gripe. Some people prefer to make their own arrangements instead of being on a time-share basis. It offers a lot more flexibility.”

  Renie was gazing into her Styrofoam coffee cup. “You’d have to be rich, though,” she remarked in a slightly wistful voice.

  “The Kreagers are that,” Marin declared, hastily adding, “Which is a well-known fact. I’m not betraying any secrets.”

  Judith, who had drifted a bit, put a question to Marin: “It looks to me as if the Kreagers have more than one condo. At least their guests seem to be staying in separate units. How does that work?”

  Marin’s answer came easily. “Actually, the Kreagers are using two condos at the moment, but they can be divided into separate apartments, like yours. They own one and arrange with their neighbors to lease the other. The Kreagers often bring guests along, usually writers. Wait just a minute.” With a bounce to her step, Marin hurried off to one of the partitioned cubicles. She returned a moment later with a smaller charcoal binder.

  “I keep track of who stays where at Clarges Court. Here,” Marin said, opening the binder and moving her finger down a page at the back. “The Kreagers are in the upstairs of the unit they bought, Freddy Whobrey is downstairs, and Dagmar Chatsworth occupies the main floor of the neighboring unit on their left. The poor woman who was killed, Agnes Shay, was in the basement section, below Mrs. Chatsworth. The Kreagers were lucky to find the vacancy next door this time of year. But, of course, they probably made their arrangements well ahead of their stay.”

  Briefly, Judith reflected. Karl and Tessa Kreager would have known in advance when Dagmar would go on tour for her book. Naturally, Agnes would come along. But Freddy was another matter. Judith wondered if Dagmar’s nephew always traveled with his aunt.

  “…it’s all a tax write-off or a business expense.” Marin was speaking, presumably in response to a question from Renie about the living arrangements. Judith gave a start. She had been deep in her own thoughts and had missed the exchange between Marin and her cousin.

  Renie was looking amused. “I asked Ms. Glenn how long the Kreagers originally intended to stay at Bugler. She said eight days. But Dagmar and the others planned to leave Thursday. We were wondering if the police have asked them to remain in Bugler until the murderer is caught.”

  Judith caught the drift of the conversation she’d missed. “Oh—well, maybe. It probably gets complicated, because officially, they’re foreigners.”

  Marin gave a nod of her punk-styled head. “Exactly. But I was telling your cousin that power and money carry a lot of weight around here. The Kreagers have both. He’s a publishing magnate, and she’s got wealth of her own.”

  Judith recalled that Tessa’s maiden—and professional—name was Van Heusen. “Shirts?” she asked.

  The guess was wrong. “No,” Marin replied, “tobacco. No relation to shirts. These Van Heusens are from your Southern states. The Carolinas, I think. Deep roots, old money, new diversification. The tobacco industry has had to move into other areas, since so many people have stopped smoking.” Marin looked as if she wished she weren’t one of them.

  A glance at her watch showed Judith it was going on noon. The appointment had been scheduled for an hour, and since it had proved without profit for Marin Glenn, Judith felt that she and Renie shouldn’t impose any longer. Still, she had one more question for the saleswoman.

  “There’s never been a problem with the Kreagers before, I assume.” Judith spoke casually, almost with disinterest.

  “No,” Marin answered, then frowned. “Well, not a problem as such, but now that you mention it, there was an incident last winter.”

  Judith presented an encouraging face. “Oh? What was that?”

  Marin looked a bit pained, as if she weren’t certain she should be revealing her clients’ secrets. “It was in January, the height of the ski season. A young man broke into Clarges Court while the Kreagers were up on Fiddler Mountain. The alarm went off, and he was caught out in the courtyard.” Hesitating, Marin took a last sip of her now-cold coffee. “This is what’s so odd about it, and why I almost forgot it happened. The man insisted he wasn’t a burglar, that he knew the Kreagers and was supposed to have been given the security code so he could let himself in. But Mr. Kreager said that wasn’t true. Yet no charges were filed. I never did figure out exactly what was going on.”

  Judith couldn’t figure it out, either, which was hardly surprising, given the sketchy information. The cousins thanked Marin Glenn for her time; she thanked Judith and Renie for sharing their personal account of Agnes Shay’s demise.

  “Whew!” Renie exclaimed in relief as they got out of the elevator and headed for the village square. “I was afraid we’d end up buying a condo and then spend the rest of our lives in debtors’ prison! Aren’t you glad I spoke up?”

  Judith was about to express restrained admiration for Renie when Rhys Penreddy came toward them. Or at least he was headed for the office building that housed the condo headquarters. Ignoring Renie’s tug at her arm, Judith marched straight up to the police chief.

  “Sir,” she began, not certain how to address Penreddy, “remember us?”

  Penreddy did, albeit with reluctance. His wide mouth turned down at the corners and suddenly he seemed faintly sheepish. “I was going to lunch and thought I’d save a call to the condo office. I wanted to get your unit number so we could request an official statement. Have you time to drop by the station in the next hour or so?”

  Eagerly, Judith assured him that they had plenty of time. In fact, the cousins could go now. Or would Rhys Penreddy care to join them for lunch? They’d love to treat him. Judith pretended she didn’t hear Renie groan.

  Hardened policeman that he was, Penreddy was nonetheless caught off guard by Judith’s impulsive offer. “I’ve only got a half hour,” he protested. “I was just going to grab a sandwich…”

  Judith was nodding with zeal. She had to refrain from taking Penreddy by the arm and steering him across the square past a juggler, two accordionists, and a young woman playing the cello. “You show us where to get a good sandwich and we’ll pay for it. It’s our way of apologizing for butting in last night. We sure learned our lesson about meddling in a homicide investigation!”

  Penreddy’s expression was skeptical. Perhaps he noticed Renie, who straggled behind, aiming a kick at her cousin’s rear end. Still, Judith paid no heed. She was almost blissful as the
police chief herded them into a small, crowded cafe decorated with rock-climbing gear.

  Penreddy’s status earned them the first empty table. It was round, and not much bigger than a turkey platter. The trio hunched over the Formica top and studied handwritten menus that featured a long list of sandwiches and soups.

  Their orders were taken almost immediately. Penreddy seemed to have inured himself to the cousins’ company. Certainly he was trying to put a good face on his situation.

  “As long as you’re here,” he said, pulling his hands off the table to make room for their coffee mugs, “you might as well answer a few questions. When was the last time you saw Agnes Shay alive?”

  Judith first explained about seeing Agnes in the washroom, while Dagmar was there. Then she said that she and Renie both had glimpsed Agnes one last time, in the restaurant.

  “Did you see her leave?” Penreddy inquired.

  Judith thought carefully back to the scene at Crest House. She glanced at Renie, as if at a prompter. But Renie was still looking disgruntled; she offered no aid.

  “No,” Judith finally replied. “I didn’t see Agnes leave. The last time I saw her alive was when they were standing at their table, getting ready to go.” Pointedly, she turned to Renie. “Right, coz?”

  Renie brightened, though Judith couldn’t tell if the mood change was caused by her natural resiliency or by the steaming bowl of French onion soup the waitress was placing in front of her.

  “That’s right,” Renie agreed. “I don’t recall seeing Agnes leave with the others. In fact, I really only remember the Kreagers actually going out of the restaurant. They’re both tall. Dagmar and Freddy are short. So was Agnes.”

  Rhys Penreddy jotted information in a notebook. “You saw none of the others afterward? That is, between then and when you came down on the lift?”

  Judith confirmed that they hadn’t sighted any members of the Chatsworth party—except the unfortunate Agnes—until reaching Fiddler Lodge. As Penreddy made his notations, Judith mentioned the confrontation between Dagmar and Mia.

  “Yes, the restaurant staff told us about that,” Penreddy responded, looking grave. “Naturally, we’ve questioned both Prohowska and Anatoly Linksi.”

  Over her clubhouse sandwich, Judith eyed Penreddy expectantly. But the police chief revealed no more. Just because the cousins were picking up the tab, Judith couldn’t pick his brain.

  Nor did Rhys Penreddy have any more questions of his own. He ate his roast beef on Russian rye in silence. Judith felt her frustration mount.

  “The weapon,” she said, no longer able to keep quiet. “Have you found it?”

  Wiping a dab of mayonnaise from his upper lip, Penreddy shook his head. “No.”

  “Can you tell from the blow what was used?” Judith wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  Penreddy started to shake his head, then gazed at Judith. His brown eyes twinkled. “A blunt instrument,” he said. It appeared that he was having trouble keeping a straight face.

  In spite of herself, Judith flushed. Renie giggled, spewing cheese remnants onto the tabletop.

  “Oops!” Renie cried, now also embarrassed. Hastily, she wiped the table clean.

  “Look,” said Rhys Penreddy, leaning as far back in his chair as he dared without bumping into his neighboring diner, “I’m not sure why you’re so interested in this case. I can understand your fascination because you knew some of these people from their stay with you, but I must emphasize that it isn’t wise to make nuisances of yourselves. Homicide is a very serious business. A woman has been killed, and if the killer feels threatened, he or she won’t hesitate to kill again. It’s a matter of survival.”

  Even though Judith had frequently heard these words in one form or another, including from her own husband, she still found them daunting. At least temporarily. She also felt that she owed Rhys Penreddy an explanation.

  “I’m married to a homicide detective,” she explained. “We discuss his cases quite a bit. Plus, my cousin and I have sort of accidentally been…” Her voice trailed off. It wasn’t prudent to admit that she and Renie had somehow gotten themselves mixed up in murder on other occasions. The acknowledgment could make a lawman suspicious.

  Fortunately, Penreddy was nodding in understanding. “I know. You were accidentally thrown in with the victim and her friends, on not one but two occasions. And I appreciate your honesty. I talk about the job when I get home, too, though luckily, this is my first homicide.” He caught himself, and gave Judith a hard stare. “That doesn’t mean I’m an amateur, Mrs. Flynn. Police work is police work, as I’m sure your husband will tell you.”

  Judith was trying to cooperate. She nodded and smiled. Both efforts were feeble. “It’s just that…I feel challenged.”

  Penreddy arched his eyebrows. “Challenged? Or competitive?”

  Judith’s jaw dropped. “What? Oh, no! I would never dream of matching wits with Joe!”

  “Good.” Penreddy took a last sip of coffee and got to his feet. “Thanks for the lunch. Don’t forget to drop by the station and sign those statements. And remember what I said—don’t act foolishly. Your safety is our responsibility. Enjoy your visit to Bugler.” With a brisk step, the chief of police made his exit from the busy cafe.

  Judith was brooding. It had never occurred to her that the sleuthing she had done over the years might be an effort to outdo Joe Flynn. In the beginning, when the fortune-teller was murdered and Joe had reentered her life, maybe she had wanted to show him how clever she was. Joe was still married to Herself then. He and Judith hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years. But now she felt no need to impress him, other than with her desire to be a loving wife. Her attempts at crime-solving were virtual accidents, the result of circumstances over which she had no control.

  “I’m an ass,” she announced to Renie. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m a horrible person and a big fraud.”

  “You sure are,” Renie replied, fingering the lunch bill. “You just blew thirty bucks on a lecture. If the killer doesn’t get you, I’ll do you in myself.”

  Renie did not look as if she were kidding.

  EIGHT

  THE STATEMENTS THAT the cousins made at the police station were brief. They were required to state only when and where they had last seen Agnes Shay alive. Already feeling glum, Judith was disappointed with her limited official contribution.

  The young policeman who took their statements noticed her downcast manner. “That’s all right,” he reassured her, his pleasant smile enhanced by a slight overbite. “It’s really hard to find yourself involved in a crime, no matter how coincidentally.”

  Judith genuinely wanted to explain her exact feelings, but she took note of Renie’s warning glance. “It’s okay,” she mumbled. “I just wish we could be of more help.”

  “You’ve been wonderful,” the policeman asserted. “Now just go back to Clarges Court and relax. We’ll catch the culprit. Never fear, eh?”

  The young man’s official badge stated that he was Devin O’Connor. His flaming red hair also proclaimed his Irish ancestry, and his green eyes reminded Judith of Joe. However, the resemblance ended there. Devin O’Connor was well over six feet, very thin, and retained a faintly gawkish manner. His nose was slightly hooked, and his face was almost gaunt. Yet he had charm. But Judith had always been a sucker for Irishmen. She had, after all, married two of them.

  But they were a sucker for her, Judith knew. She gave Devin O’Connor a tremulous smile. “We had lunch with your chief,” she said, and saw Devin’s green eyes widen in surprise “He told us you hadn’t yet found the blunt instrument that killed Agnes Shay.”

  “That’s right,” he replied, still looking impressed at the apparent intimacy between the two female tourists and his boss. “I didn’t realize you knew Chief Penreddy.”

  Judith waved a hand while Renie turned her back and stomped off toward a bulletin board. “It’s all very casual, not what you’d call a close friendship.” She wasn’
t really lying; Judith never did. Or so she always convinced herself. “By the way, did Miss Shay have her purse with her?”

  “Good question.” Devin wagged an approving finger at Judith. “No, she didn’t. We found it up on Liaison Ledge, along with a bottle of champagne and a doggie bag full of beef.” He moved a step closer and his voice lowered a notch. “The poor lady must have dropped the stuff when she was killed.”

  “Ah.” Judith’s black eyes darted swiftly to the stiff figure of Renie and back to Devin O’Connor. “That was just outside the restaurant?”

  “No, it was right by the lift.” Devin suddenly clamped his mouth shut over his protruding teeth and errant tongue. “Excuse me, I really should get back to my paperwork. There are always so many forms to fill out after a major crime, eh?” With an apologetic gesture, he hurried away.

  Judith grabbed Renie by the upper arm. “Stop sulking. I’m the one who’s feeling morose.”

  Renie whirled on Judith. “Dammit, coz, Penreddy’s right! One of these days you’re going to get us killed! Either that, or we’ll end up in the poorhouse! Do you realize we’ve already spent almost three hundred bucks just on food?”

  “Since when did you start complaining about paying to eat?” Judith demanded, her own temper catching fire. “I’m the one who feels like a creep. What if Penreddy is right, and I’m competing with Joe?”

  “You’re competing with Ivana Trump when it comes to spending money on this trip,” Renie shot back. “Forget about one-upmanship. You always were a nosy little twit. When we were kids, it was who swiped whose bike or who kissed whom in the raspberry bushes. Now you’re into corpses. What’s the difference?”

  Judith thought the question was rhetorical, but she was wrong. “Well, I’ll tell you,” Renie went on as they departed the police station. “Nobody wanted to murder us over a stolen roller-skate key. But this is Murder One, and I don’t intend to die in middle age. I’m having too much frigging fun.”

  Observing Renie’s grim expression, Judith burst out laughing. The contrast between word and deed was too much. “Coz,” she said, taking Renie’s arm, “stop! You haven’t been this mad at me since I shot hairspray at your brioche on the steamer up the Rhine in 1964!”