by Mary Daheim
“Pass,” Renie replied. “You and Freddy were inseparable last night?”
Esme’s blue eyes twinkled. “Like silks on a jockey. We have quite a time when we get together. Not often enough, but Freddy’s quite the lad—here, there, everywhere, is Freddy.”
“Working for his aunt keeps him busy, I gather.” Judith sounded very casual. Esme said nothing. He was lighting a cigar. “So you never left each other for a minute.” Again Judith waited. The cigar was proving balky. “You never left each other, not even to go to the washroom?”
The cigar finally took off. “May have done.” Esme winked. “Natural function, eh?” He puffed happily away.
“Okay.” Judith spoke carefully. “So you weren’t with each other the entire time.”
“Eh?” Esme seemed a bit startled, peering at the cousins through a haze of smoke. “Did I say that? Don’t recall, actually. Ask Charles. He’d know. Good chap, Charles, even if he is a Frenchie.” Esme drained his glass, then got to his feet and wobbled back to the cabinet.
“What time did you leave?” Renie inquired as Esme made another covert attack on the liquor cabinet.
“Hard to say,” he murmured, squinting into the whiskey bottle. “Midnight? One? Two? Freddy accompanied me home and we had a nightcap. I must have dropped off. Tiring day, what?”
Noting that their stingy host had been more hospitable to Freddy, and sensing that he couldn’t reveal anything of further interest, Judith got to her feet. “Thanks, Mr. MacPherson. We’ll let you know when our article is going to come out. If,” she added as an afterthought, “it gets accepted.”
“If?” Esme almost lost his grip on the bottle. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”
“We work on spec,” Renie answered with a tight little smile. “It’s a way of life with freelancers. And don’t I know it,” she muttered as she followed Judith to the door.
“‘Spec’?” Esme called after his departing guests. “What’s ‘spec’? Who joined up with the Lancers? What about my personal impressions? What about another twenty? I say!”
Judith closed the door on Esme MacPherson.
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Judith admitted as the cousins drove down the winding road that led back to the village center. “How do you suppose he gets by? Makes book?”
“Could be,” Renie answered, turning into Slalom Drive. “I glanced at that notepad by his phone. It looked like racehorses. You know—Montreal Marty, Middleground, Counterpoint, Genuine Risk.”
Judith nodded. “Taking or placing bets, I suppose. Is off-track wagering legal in Canada?”
Renie shrugged. “I’ve no idea. It used to be banned at home, but that never stopped Uncle Al’s bookies. They were stockbrokers the rest of the time, which as far as I’m concerned is the same thing as being a bookie, only in more conservative suits. It’s all gambling.”
Passing the condos and lodges, Judith grew silent. At last, as they turned into Fiddler Way, she uttered a discouraged sigh. “The bottom line is that I’m out another twenty bucks, and we aren’t sure if Freddy has an alibi or not. Esme was too smashed to remember his own name, let alone the exact events of last evening.”
Renie had to agree. “If Freddy went to the washroom—or claimed he did—five, ten minutes could have passed before Esme even noticed Freddy was gone. But Esme might be right about one thing—Charles de Paul would be more observant.”
Judith grimaced. “I can’t face Charles again. Not after the big whopper I told him about Freddy being my cousin.”
“We could call,” Renie suggested. “I could,” she volunteered. “I don’t claim to have any weird cousins except you. What do you think?” They had arrived at the outer reaches of the main village. “It’s not yet five. Shall we browse before dinner? Shall I call Crest House? Shall we keep driving around until somebody remembers I caused a three-car accident on the other side of town?”
Judith had been lost in thought, sorting through alibis. “Let’s not take chances on your immediate incarceration. We’ll stroll the shops and then go to dinner. If I remember the map, The Bells and Motley is just off the smaller town square.”
Somewhere after four sportswear shops, three skiing equipment stores, two souvenir emporiums, and a crafts boutique, Judith sighted a public phone. She gave Renie a little push.
“Go for it, coz. See if you can catch Charles before he goes home. It’s almost six, and maybe his shift changes then. That’s the way it was when I tended bar nights at The Meat & Mingle.”
Apparently that was the way it was at Crest House, too. Charles de Paul was still on duty when Renie called. Judith leaned over her cousin’s shoulder, trying to listen in to the conversation. The initial exchanges were a bit confused, with Renie trying to avoid explaining their hasty departure earlier in the day.
“Family problems,” she finally said. “Very complicated. You understand, I’m sure.” She added a couple of phrases in French which Judith didn’t quite catch. Charles, however, chuckled richly and replied in kind.
“Oui, oui, c’est vrai.” Renie laughed lightheartedly. “Anyway, what I really wanted to know was if you remember if Mr. Whobrey—Mme. Flynn’s cousin—left the bar last night. You know, to make a phone call or something.” Renie’s voice took on an air of delicacy.
Charles didn’t answer immediately. “No, I think not. M. MacPherson, he left, somewhat briefly. He also unexpectedly descended from the barstool two times, but we pick him up and set him in place.” There was another pause. “But M. Whobrey, is it? Non, non, I do not recall his absence.”
Renie exchanged glances with Judith. “I see,” Renie said, sounding disappointed. “You’re sure? I mean, did you take a break? Un petit répit, comprenez-vous?”
“Ah, oui, mais depuis de le dix heures. I must remain until the dining room grows less busy. Hilde is gone with the aching tooth. One of the waiters comes to permit me the short rest. Then I return until closing.”
Thanking Charles in a flowery fashion with a few more stilted French phrases, Renie hung up. “He didn’t go on a break until after ten o’clock. He insists that Freddy never budged.”
Judith was torn. “Maybe that means we can eliminate Freddy. Darn. It’s good to narrow the field, but I’d love to keep Freddy as a suspect. He’s such a creep.”
The cousins walked slowly past a children’s store. “Charles was on his own after Hilde, or whatever her name is, left with her toothache,” Renie commented. “Maybe he was too busy to notice. Let’s not give up on Freddy entirely.”
“Good point,” Judith agreed. “The problem is, there may be a dozen other people in Bugler who might have wanted to murder Dagmar. This place is loaded with the rich and famous. Frankly, I wouldn’t recognize half the so-called celebrities. What with rock stars and actors and athletes, I’m lucky if I know who Harrison Ford is.”
Renie was distracted by the chocolate factory. “Yeah, right, you ought to know the Presidents.”
“That was Gerald, from Michigan.”
Renie was all but plastered to the window where a young man with slicked-back hair was making truffles. “Sure, the automobile, the Model T, Detroit, and all that.” She grabbed Judith’s arm. “Let’s go in. We can take some candy home to Bill and Joe. Our mothers, too. They can get their dentures stuck and cause us even more problems.”
“Yeah, right.” Judith sounded unsettled.
“You think I don’t know my Fords?” Renie asked wryly. “How about Ford Madox Ford? Victorian writer, produced stultifying tomes about—”
Judith gave an impatient shake of her head. She’d already dismissed the Fords from her mind. “Joe tries to avoid eating sweets.”
Renie steered Judith over the threshold, but not without a curious glance at her cousin. “So? Joe isn’t the only one who might enjoy chocolates. Your mother will love them and you know it.” Judith pretended she hadn’t noticed Renie’s probing gaze, then she saw the glass cases filled with tempting sweets and forgot about almost everything else. Te
n minutes later, the cousins emerged with elegantly wrapped boxes of various chocolate delights. They were also impoverished by another thirty dollars apiece.
“What,” Judith asked as they gazed through the windows of an art gallery, “do you suppose Esme meant by Freddy coming a cropper?”
Renie was scowling at a particularly ugly painting that consisted of great green-and-purple blobs. “An accident, maybe? He’s not that old, for a jockey. Some of them race into their fifties. Esme called him Freddy Fall-Off. I suppose he got thrown and it ended his career.”
“Isn’t Freddy Fall-Off a character out of that old card game, Happy Families? You know, Master Daub and Miss Stitch. We used to play it with Cousin Sue.”
“Right. She always won. I think she cheated.” Renie seemed mesmerized by a sculpture made of macaroni.
“Esme didn’t say anything when I mentioned the alleged relationship between Dagmar and Freddy.” Judith winced at a series of paintings that seemed to represent a woman with acute gastritis.
“Maybe he doesn’t know much about Freddy’s personal life,” Renie said, stepping away from the gallery and moving past a photography studio and an interior decorator’s establishment. “I gather their relationship was professional.”
“As in track-rat and jockey?” Judith turned thoughtful as they paused in front of a jewelry store that featured original designs in native stones. “I suppose. But that doesn’t help us figure out who killed Agnes, does it?”
“Hey,” Renie responded, giving Judith a light jab in the arm, “you’re the one who said there was no such thing as trivia in a murder investigation.”
“True,” Judith allowed, proceeding past another souvenir shop. “We’re not focused. That’s the problem.”
Renie agreed. “Somebody tried to kill Dagmar. What we need to know is why. Who stood to gain by her death? Did she know a secret that was worth killing for?”
The cousins were walking slowly but surely into the smaller of Bugler’s two town squares. It was now twenty minutes after six, and the skateboarders were gone, the office workers were home, and the outdoor sports enthusiasts had retired to await a later, more civilized dinner hour. A half-dozen middle-aged tourists, a woman walking her poodle, two enamored young couples, an artist sketching the bell tower that loomed over the square, and a man with a flowing white beard were the only other inhabitants. Brightly colored pennants hanging from lamp-standards rippled on the summer breeze. Flowers of every hue trailed over balconies, sprung up from rugged rock containers, and circled the monument to lost climbers that stood in the middle of the square.
Tucked into a corner between a bike-rental shop and a designer boutique was The Bells and Motley. The cousins were early for their reservation. Judith started to say as much, but Renie interrupted her.
“Well? Aren’t you going to say something? Am I on the right track or not?”
From the outside, The Bells and Motley looked like a traditional English pub. A wooden sign depicting a Harlequin figure hung over the entrance, and soft amber lights glowed behind the mullioned windows. The restaurant seemed to offer comfort, safety, and reassurance.
But Judith felt none of those things, at least not in the context of Renie’s question. As her cousin had just put it, someone had tried to kill Dagmar. But Agnes was dead. What if…? “No,” Judith answered slowly. “I’m not sure you are on track. I’m not, either. In fact, I think we’ve got it all wrong.” Her oval face set in stern lines as she gazed earnestly at Renie. “The worst of it is that Rhys Penreddy is wrong, too. Unless I’m crazy, this whole case is backward. And that’s exactly what the killer wants us to think. If we don’t start using our heads, somebody is going to get away with murder.”
TWELVE
AS ANXIOUS AS Renie was to have Judith explain, a four-letter priority struck first: “SALE,” read the sign in the window of a year-round Christmas shop two doors down from The Bells and Motley. They bolted inside, emerging somewhat shamefaced a half hour later with big red shopping bags lettered in gold.
Dazedly, the cousins walked in a circle around the lost climbers’ monument. The square was beginning to fill up again, with preprandial visitors. Judith and Renie kept walking; both had grown silent.
At last they stopped. Judith gave Renie a wry look. “How much?”
Renie met her cousin’s gaze, then lowered her eyes. “In American money?”
“Yeah.”
“A hundred and ten—more or less.”
“Piker,” Judith said in mock reproach. “Mine was closer to a hundred and fifty.” She hesitated, fumbling with her big shopping bag. “Bank card?”
“What else? My cash flow is sort of plugged up.”
“Mine, too.” Judith started walking again, Renie at her side. “It’s almost seven, so we might as well go eat. I hope they have gruel. It’s about all I can afford.”
Gruel was not on the menu at The Bells and Motley. Prime rib was, however, and Judith ordered the Queen’s cut. Renie chose the steak and kidney pie. The cousins congratulated themselves over using their discount coupon.
“We’ll save the price of one entree,” Judith noted after they had ordered a drink as well as appetizers of crab legs and lox. “I need fortifying. I’m still reeling from summer with Santa.”
Renie seconded Judith’s declaration. “Let’s put our decadent past behind us. Tell me what you meant by looking at the murder from the wrong angle.”
But Judith didn’t get an opportunity to explain. Karl and Tessa Kreager had entered The Bells and Motley. They appeared to be headed for the bar rather than the dining room. Judith squirmed in her oak chair.
Renie sighed. “Go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“You’ll eat both the appetizers,” Judith countered.
“So? To each his own.” Renie smirked. “You grill, I’ll guzzle.”
The Bells and Motley’s bar was partitioned off from the dining area by rough-hewn open beams. Brass warming pans and other homely items hung from the rafters, effectively impairing the view. Unable to resist the Kreagers’ presence, Judith left her seat and headed for the bar.
She was halfway across the room when she realized that Tessa and Karl weren’t alone. They sat at a small table in the far corner with a third party, a gray-haired man who looked every bit as distinguished as Karl Kreager. Indeed, he looked a lot like Karl in every regard, except that he was younger, and possibly somewhat smaller in stature. Judith shifted uneasily, wondering if she dared to intrude.
A door at the opposite side of the restaurant led to the lavatories. Judith considered feigning confusion and landing at the Kreager table. She discarded the ruse; it would make no sense. Instead she continued on to the rest room. When she returned, she pretended to spot the Kreagers, and evinced surprise.
“How nice to see you,” she said, her voice sounding artificial even to herself. “Is Dagmar able to stay alone this evening?”
The trio of faces which were lifted toward Judith did not seem pleased. Tessa, in particular, exhibited hostility.
“Dagmar’s asleep,” she said in a brittle tone. “We called a doctor. He gave her a sedative. Besides, we don’t intend to be away very long.” Abruptly, she turned back to the man who looked so much like Karl.
Judith moved from one foot to the other. “Maybe Dagmar will sleep through the night. That would be the best thing for her.”
Karl nodded curtly. “Yes, certainly, of course.” He resumed concentrating on the other man.
“I hope the doctor didn’t give Dagmar pills,” Judith said, and the horror in her voice was only part sham.
All three members of the Kreager party again looked up at Judith. “I beg your pardon?” said Karl, his usual affability ruffled.
Judith grimaced. “Well, Dagmar’s emotional state is very fragile. She’s riddled with guilt. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have tranquilizers or sleeping pills at hand. She might be…unpredictable.”
The man who resembled Karl Kreager spoke for t
he first time, not addressing Judith, but his companions. “Who is this? Some resort official?” His steel-eyed gaze raked Judith’s unpretentious cotton slacks and top.
Tessa’s color rose. It was obvious that Judith’s presence embarrassed her. “This is Mrs. Finn. She knows Dagmar, if tenuously.” Tessa glared at Judith.
“Flynn,” Judith corrected softly. Tessa wasn’t the only one who was embarrassed. Judith started to back away.
“Hold on.” The eyes of steel were now fixed on Judith’s face. “What’s your interest in all this?”
The authority in the man’s voice rooted Judith to the spot. “Well, I…Dagmar and her party stayed at my B&B when they were in—”
Karl intervened, putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Enough, Kirk. Mrs. Flynn means well. It’s just a coincidence that she happened to come to Bugler when we did. Don’t be concerned.” Karl attempted to placate everyone with his charming smile.
But charm failed with Kirk. “Coincidence? Someone tries to kill Dagmar, Agnes dies, Ice Dreams is melting away, and a strange woman shows up? You call this a coincidence? I call it a conspiracy!”
Karl’s smile was growing strained. His manner toward Judith was apologetic. “My brother is inclined to find bogeymen under the bed. He used to keep me up half the night when we were children.”
“Kirk Kreager,” Judith murmured, and started to put out her hand. It was quite clear, however, that Kirk didn’t care to be sociable. He picked up his old-fashioned glass and took a deep drink, then glowered at Judith.
“Who do you represent?” he demanded. “The Ice Capades? Tour of Champions? Walt Disney?”
To Judith’s amazement, Karl put his hand over his brother’s mouth. “Please!” He gave Kirk a hard stare. “Let Mrs. Flynn be. I’m sure,” he added with a quick look at Judith, “she wants to get back to her dinner.”