by Mary Daheim
Judith didn’t know. “What about the envelopes?”
Renie had returned, carrying a chair with a bamboo seat that looked as if it belonged to a dining room set. Dagmar rustled around on the pillows, then reached for a glass of juice. “Ordinary Number Ten, no return, the New York City post-mark, my address typed by a word processor, and differing only as to destination.”
Judith gave a slight nod. “So whoever sent them knew your itinerary. Surely that narrows the field?”
Dagmar didn’t agree. “No. The tour was highly publicized. Anyone with any ingenuity could have gotten hold of where I’d be staying.”
“Even here?” asked Judith.
“Certainly. Last month I was silly enough to write about how I looked forward to the Kreagers’ hospitality at Bugler. Book tours are grueling. I was already contemplating how I would unwind and recuperate. Plus,” she added a bit slyly, “it doesn’t hurt to blow Bugler’s horn, so to speak. Resorts are sometimes generous to people who can give them free publicity.”
Having scarcely broken even on the Chatsworth stay, Judith wondered if Dagmar might spare Hillside Manor a line or two in a future column. She thought not, especially when the long-distance charges showed up on Dagmar’s bank card. Judith would be lucky if the columnist didn’t allude to her Heraldsgate Hill visit as The Doorway to Death. In her mind’s eye she could see the column illustrated with a woodcut of the Danse Macabre, its ghoulish figures beckoning from the sidewalk to the front door. Instead of her own welcoming presence, she glimpsed a gruesome apparition with a rictuslike grin, ready to pitch prospective guests into a fiery furnace. The creature transformed itself: Gertrude in a housecoat, proffering pickled pigs’ feet. Judith came back to earth, and was soothed. Sort of. She wasn’t entirely convinced that the ghouls were more frightening than her mother.
Renie was speaking, and Judith hadn’t heard all of her remarks. “…New York with fifteen million people. That eliminates the other two hundred and thirty million in this country, along with thirty million more in Canada.”
Dagmar didn’t take kindly to Renie’s rationale. “So? I could think of two hundred people in Manhattan who might have sent those letters.”
“Oh?” Having figured out that Renie was trying to narrow the field of mean-minded letter writers, Judith arched her dark brows. “Then you do have an inkling about the sender?”
Dagmar scowled at both cousins, ignoring Rover’s sharp little teeth, which were working hard at making holes in the down comforter. “I didn’t say that. I merely meant that there are quite a few people I’ve annoyed over the years. Justifiably, on my part. Many of them live in New York City. But I can’t think of anyone who would try to kill me.”
It was possible, Judith knew, that the letter writer and the killer were two different people. Indeed, it was a stretch to imagine that the person who wrote the threatening letters had come all the way to Bugler to murder Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth. Why not wait until she returned to Manhattan? Unless, of course, the killer was in Dagmar’s own party—or happened to be someone staying at Bugler.
Judith put the question to Dagmar, hoping it wouldn’t rile her further. “Where do Mia Prohowska and Nat Linski live when they aren’t here?”
“Everywhere,” Dagmar replied, the nervous impatience returning. “Switzerland, London, New York.” Her eyes narrowed at Judith just as Rover managed to liberate a cloud of down. “Do you think it was them? Really, they’re impossibly difficult, but I hardly think they’re killers! I’m convinced it’s a maniac—someone who sees himself—or herself—as an Angel of Vengeance for a celebrity I’ve criticized. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
Judith did, however. She realized that there were people—lonely, deranged, and obsessed with famous personages—who wouldn’t think twice about murder for the sake of their idol’s reputation. History, recent and not-so-recent, proved the point.
Girding for Dagmar’s hostility, Judith posed another question: “Were you troubled with threatening phone calls while you stayed at Hillside Manor?”
Dagmar’s lips tightened, all but disappearing. “You ought to know. You were there in the very same room when I got one of them.”
“One of them?” Judith’s gaze was inquiring.
“I must admit, it was the first of the calls,” Dagmar said, again growing listless. “There were—what?—two more before I left your hole-in-the-wall. Luckily, I haven’t received any since.”
Judith ignored the slight of Hillside Manor. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“Of course not.” Dagmar’s expression showed contempt for the query. “Initially, I thought it was one of my San Francisco sources. But it wasn’t. I’ve no idea who it could be. The voice was disguised, as you might have guessed. What difference does it make—now?”
Briefly, Judith thought about the call that Joe had taken. He had mentioned something about “menace” and “threats.” Had the foreign accent been feigned? Would it do any good to press Dagmar further? If she hadn’t recognized the first caller, additional questions were useless. Dagmar seemed to have lost interest; Renie was twitching on the bamboo chair; Judith felt frustrated.
Rover, however, didn’t give a hoot about human emotions. Bored with decimating the comforter, he leaped onto Judith’s lap and licked her nose. “Uh…” said Judith, trying to get a grip on the wriggling animal, “can we do anything for you? Something to eat? Egg? Toast? Tea?” The struggle continued as Rover drooled all over her slacks.
Morosely, Dagmar moved about under the comforter. Down floated around the room. Judith stifled a sneeze. Renie got up from her chair and grabbed Rover by the collar, setting him firmly on the floor. Rover clamped his teeth on Renie’s shoes. Renie gave him a swift kick. Rover crouched and growled. Renie waved her foot at him.
Fortunately, Dagmar had her eyes closed and didn’t notice the byplay. “No, there’s nothing I need just now. Nobody can help me.” She opened her eyes to reveal tears. “I feel so alone.”
Judith didn’t know how to comfort Dagmar, whose grief seemed genuine. Freddy Whobrey was the only kin Judith knew of, and he didn’t strike her as a pillar of strength. The Kreagers were friends of a sort, though Judith sensed that the bond was forged in finance rather than affection.
“Do you have family in Minnesota?” Judith asked, trying to ignore the standoff between Renie and Rover.
Dagmar dabbed at her tears and assumed a vague expression. “Not really. My sister—Freddy’s mother—was much older than I. She and her husband have been dead for years. Freddy was born after his parents had given up hope of having children. Then they had Freddy.”
“Instead of a real—” Renie managed to shut up just in time.
Judith leaped into the breach. “Spoiled, I imagine,” she put in hastily.
Dagmar nodded. “Pampered, at least. He was small and sickly in his youth. He remained small, but his health improved by the time he reached adolescence. Don’t mistake me,” she went on, wagging a finger. “Freddy is very attached to me. Why, without him and Agnes—” She choked on her words, cleared her throat, and resumed speaking. “They worked beautifully as a team on my behalf.”
“They got along?” Judith’s voice was casual, despite the distraction of Rover, who apparently had decided that Judith was the less menacing of the cousins and had begun to gnaw on her handbag.
“Certainly they got along,” Dagmar replied. “Agnes had such a mild disposition and Freddy is always cheerful. As I said, they worked in perfect harmony.”
“They should have made a match,” Judith said in a distracted manner as Rover sank his teeth into the handbag’s leather strap.
Dagmar appeared shocked. “I think not! Really!”
Judith grabbed her bag, trying to wrestle it away from Rover. The doorbell chimes rang, and Renie gave Dagmar a quizzical look.
Dagmar lifted a hand. “By all means, answer it. I suppose it’s that Penwhistle person from the police.”
It was. Rhys Penr
eddy was accompanied by Devin O’Connor, the young Irish officer Judith and Renie had met at the station. O’Connor seemed surprised by the cousins’ presence; Penreddy was more appalled.
But the police chief made an effort to be polite. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, approaching the futon, “but I was hoping that Ms. Chatsworth was feeling well enough to talk to us. Do you mind?” He gave the cousins his most appealing smile.
Judith did, but Renie was quick to comply. Resignedly, Judith tugged her handbag away from Rover and bade Dagmar a temporary farewell.
“We’ll be back,” she declared. “We won’t leave you alone.”
Dagmar’s expression was mixed. She lifted one hand in a desultory wave, then snapped her fingers at Rover, who bounded back onto the futon. The policemen settled in for their interrogation.
Renie got as far as the door to the downstairs unit when Judith grabbed her arm and pulled her in the opposite direction.
“This way,” she breathed, nodding toward the front entrance.
“Isn’t it closer to go back through the garage?” Renie inquired.
Judith gave her a condescending look. “Closer to what? Do you really think Rhys Penreddy can get rid of me so easily? I’m harder to shake off than Rover.”
Renie knew better than to argue.
NINE
ONCE OUTSIDE, JUDITH stepped over the herbaceous border and positioned herself against the wall next to the front bedroom window. With a sigh, Renie joined her, trying to provide some kind of cover by admiring the small garden.
“You eavesdrop, I’ll weed,” Renie murmured, bending down to inspect the carefully tended beds. Finding no intrusive growth, she contented herself with plucking off a few brown leaves from a dwarf privet hedge.
Fortunately for Judith, the courtyard was deserted. She could hear Penreddy’s voice in the bedroom, inquiring after Dagmar’s physical and emotional states. Judith wished he’d get to the point of his visit.
At last he did. “We’ve sent those letters off to the RCMP,” Penreddy was saying. “I can’t promise that much will come of it, but we’ll see. What I’d like for now is to have you go over the last hour or so before you left the restaurant.”
Dagmar’s voice wasn’t as audible as Penreddy’s. Her reply faded in and out, like the reception on a shortwave radio. “…a celebration…such fun, until that awful woman showed up…but you know about that…”
Penreddy interjected a comment. “We’ve spoken with Ms. Prohowska and Mr. Linski. They deny having threatened you. Is that true?”
Thinking she’d missed something, Judith strained to hear. But Dagmar was merely taking her time to answer. “Mia didn’t make threats of a physical nature,” she said at last in clear, measured tones. “It’s difficult to understand precisely what Mia means. Her accent, you know. It becomes more pronounced when she’s excited. As I recall, the thrust of her intentions was mainly legal. A lawsuit, I presume.” Dagmar now sounded indignant.
“You didn’t talk to Mr. Linksi?” Penreddy asked.
“No. At first, he was glowering at us from their table, but when Mia attacked me, he came over and accosted Karl. I’ve no idea what Nat was saying. He must have been swearing in one of those Slavic languages that make no sense at all.” Dagmar’s indignation was acute.
Penreddy cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, certainly. But Ms. Prohowska did lay hands on you, eh?”
“She was hysterical.” Now there was scorn in Dagmar’s voice. “If she intended to kill me, she wouldn’t have attempted it in the middle of a fine resort restaurant.”
“Agnes Shay wasn’t killed in the middle of a fine resort restaurant,” Penreddy reminded Dagmar. His tone was dry, and Judith could imagine his ironic expression. She could also picture Dagmar’s crushed reaction.
Sure enough, the gossip columnist’s voice dropped once more. “…forgotten my turban…Agnes was so solicitous…never let me lift a finger…”
Renie was standing up, making a face, and rubbing the small of her back. She gestured toward Judith and the window. “How long?” she mouthed silently. She had to repeat herself three times before Judith understood.
Judith held up two fingers, despite having no idea if the interview was running down. Dagmar was recounting how the group had left Crest House. Though Judith could catch only about half of what was said, the facts jibed with what she already knew.
“So you went down the lift first,” Penreddy remarked. “Then Mrs. Kreager—or Ms. Van Heusen, as she prefers—and lastly Mr. Kreager. Were you one after the other?”
“Yes indeed, we were.” Dagmar’s certainty gave her voice strength.
“And after you got off the lift?” As ever, Penreddy was calm and courteous.
“Why…” Dagmar faltered. “Let me think…It became so confusing…Karl went to the men’s room at the lodge. We couldn’t get anybody’s attention, so Tessa walked down to the bar and asked for a server. Then I heard something going on outside. Tessa finally came back, and I told her to see what was happening…” Dagmar succumbed to sniffling.
After a discreet pause, Penreddy posed another question. “How long was Ms. Van Heusen gone? To the bar, that is.”
“Oh, forever!” Dagmar now sounded ragged as well as revived. “Editors are the slowest people this side of an ice floe! Do you know how long it took her to read my manuscript? I write faster than she can read!”
Penreddy betrayed the faintest hint of amusement. “Could you be just a little more precise?”
“Precise?” Dagmar was clearly taken aback. “I’m never precise. It’s not my style. I’m a writer.”
Apparently Devin O’Connor felt obliged to help his superior. “Two minutes? Five? Ten?” His tone was soft, wheedling, and youthful.
“Oh—five, maybe.” Dagmar was obviously irked. “What difference does it make? Karl got back before she did, and he saw to it that I got my drink. Or was that after Tessa went outside?” Now Dagmar had become confused. Again her voice sank. “Really, it’s so muddled, like a bad dream…”
Renie had her arms crossed and was looking like a summer storm cloud. Judith couldn’t suppress a smile. It was short-lived: The skies didn’t burst, but the automatic sprinkler system went on. Both cousins were caught in its soft spray. Renie jumped back across the herbaceous border and fled to safety in the courtyard. Judith raced away from the condo, fought through the heaviest volleys of water, tripped over the edge of the walkway, and finally staggered to Renie’s side.
“Serves you right.” Renie grinned; she was merely damp. “Maybe the dog drool got washed out of your slacks.”
“Be quiet,” urged Judith, gazing from the Kreager and Chatsworth units to their own condo at the end of the opposite row. “What do we do now? We’re supposed to be baby-sitting Dagmar.”
At that moment, Freddy Whobrey sauntered down the walk from other end of the Clarges Court complex. He was whistling a tune from My Fair Lady when he espied the cousins. Ducking down, he beamed at them from behind an upraised arm.
“Jiggers! It’s the cops! Let’s make a run for it!” Freddy chuckled all the way to the middle of the courtyard.
Judith felt like making a run for it, at least to get away from him. But good manners and a Grover upbringing rooted her to the spot.
“You knew the police were here?” she asked, self-conscious in her clinging clothes.
“Sure,” Freddy replied cheerfully. “I came around the other way and saw their car. That’s why I’m taking the air, instead of a powder.” His eyes raked Judith up and down. “Say, you look real good when you’re all wet. Want to take a shower together? I’ve got a ducky, and it’s not rubber. Of course, these days, everybody should use a—”
“Knock it off, Freddy,” Judith interrupted, her good manners fraying. Observing his expression of mock horror, she tried to correct herself. “I don’t mean that you should knock—oh, never mind. As long as you’re here, we’re leaving.” She turned on her heel.
“Well, thank you ver
y much!” Freddy sounded aggrieved. “Do you think it’s fun to whip your pony when you’re all alone-y?”
Judith glanced over her shoulder. It was pointless, as well as tasteless, to engage Freddy in conversation. “I’m not being rude, but when the police leave, someone needs to stay with Dagmar until Tessa and Karl get back from the pool. Now that you’re here, you can take over. Good-bye, Freddy.” Judith forced her voice to sound pleasant.
“Think of me when you’re getting out of those wet clothes!” he called after the cousins. “Think of me when you’re putting on dry ones! Think of me any old time you like, sweetheart! Freddy’s always ready!”
“Freddy’s always a jerk,” Renie declared, slamming their condo’s front door and checking the lock. “Maybe Agnes committed suicide to avoid being around him. It would be worth trying to bash yourself in the head while going down a ski lift. I’d rather spend a day locked up with our mothers than an hour with that creep!”
“Well, now…” Judith lifted one eyebrow. “Let’s not get carried away.”
With a smirk, Renie eyed Judith. “Freddy put you off. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you let a suspect off the hook. You didn’t ask him a single question. Thus, he must be particularly repellent, even worse than some of our shirttail relations.”
Judith recalled the unfortunate occasion of a family birthday party she’d catered the previous winter. Renie was right: As loathsome as their uncle Corky’s in-laws were, they couldn’t match Freddy for vulgar effrontery.
“Okay,” said Judith, heading down the hall to change clothes. “I can’t stand being around Freddy because he’s too forward.” She couldn’t help but smile at the old-fashioned phrase. “Crude,” she added for emphasis. “Sexual harassment,” she called from the bedroom, trying to move up into the nineties. “I ought to file a complaint.”
Renie, who was already drying out, lounged in the doorway. “Go ahead. Meanwhile, how are you going to find out where Freddy was at the time of the murder?”