Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  Having been mortified and insulted, Judith did. Her unpleasant reception came as no surprise, especially given Tessa’s customary hostility. Judith all but bobbed a curtsy in making her hasty exit. By the time she had reached Renie, her knees were weak and she was gasping for breath.

  “You’re in luck,” Renie said, with a fork poised over the plate of crab legs. “The hors d’oeuvres just got here.” She tasted the succulent crabmeat and sighed. “Heaven. I’m in heaven.”

  “Aaargh!” moaned Judith, reaching for her scotch.

  “Huh?” Renie was chewing away, only now noticing that her cousin wasn’t quite herself. “What’s wrong?”

  With an effort, Judith tried to relax. She also tried to explain what had transpired at the Kreager table in the bar. “Kirk Kreager thinks I’m a homicidal maniac—or a spy for some ice show,” she concluded.

  Renie seemed unperturbed. “Kirk sounds like a nut. Try the lox.”

  Judith did. The Nova Scotia salmon was delicious, but it failed to settle her mind. “I don’t think Kirk Kreager is nutty. A little paranoid, maybe, but not a nut. Why do you suppose he’s here?”

  Half of Renie’s rye had been consumed, and she was making serious inroads on both the crab legs and the lox. A basket of rolls had also been plundered. Still, Renie paused long enough in her orgy to consider her cousin’s question.

  “I suppose Kirk lives in the Twin Cities,” she said, allowing Judith to get at one of the two remaining crab legs. “Maybe it’s easier for him to meet with Karl in Bugler rather than New York. Besides, he’s the one responsible for getting Dagmar to meet her column deadlines.”

  “That’s true,” Judith allowed, savoring the crab in its delicate sauce. “Obviously, Agnes’s murder has precipitated a crisis. Dagmar won’t—can’t—work, and that’s a problem for both Karl and Kirk.”

  “Right.” Renie leaned out of her chair, trying to get the attention of their server. She succeeded, and ordered another drink. “I don’t see anything mysterious about all that.”

  “I agree,” Judith said, sipping her scotch and staring across the dining room with unseeing eyes. “I wonder why Kirk mentioned Ice Dreams.”

  Renie stopped in her assault on the bread basket. “Mia’s show? What did Kirk say?”

  “That it was melting away, or some such thing.” Judith managed to snatch the last roll. “Why bring it up? Why would he care?”

  Naturally, Renie had no idea. The cousins’ green salads arrived, along with Renie’s second drink. Wanting to be companionable, Judith told their server to bring her another round, too.

  “I wish we knew what Dagmar intends to publish about Mia,” Judith mused. “What could be so damaging that it would cause Ice Dreams to fold?”

  For almost a full minute Renie was silent, save for the sound of lettuce crunching and cucumbers snapping. “I’m trying to remember old scuttlebutt about Mia. The only negative press—if you could call it that—is the story from years ago, that she was being pursued by the head of the secret police in her homeland. But so what? Even if the poor woman succumbed, you could hardly blame her, given the old Communist regime.”

  “A martyr to totalitarian depravity?” Judith gave Renie a wry smile. “It could enhance her reputation rather than ruin it. Except that we all have such short memories.”

  Renie nodded over a forkful of crisp romaine. “It doesn’t take long for people to forget. The Young—including our own kids—have only the vaguest sense of what the Cold War was all about. Their kids will think it’s something that happened during the Ice Age.”

  “And virtue isn’t what it used to be.” Judith sighed. “As I recall, when that rumor was first bruited about, public reaction was mixed. Some people saw Mia as a pitiful victim of a brutal political system; others thought she had used her wiles to achieve her ambitions.”

  “That was what—ten years ago, when she won her first gold medal?” Renie used the last lettuce leaf to wipe her plate clean of dressing.

  “It was after she won the first time, I think.” Judith made a face. “It’s hard for me to remember. I was kind of wrapped up working two jobs, raising Mike, and keeping Dan supplied with double-stuffed Oreo cookies. Except for the ice skating, the only thing I recall about those Olympics was that Dan said he’d always wanted to be a luge driver, and I didn’t hear the ‘driver’ part and said, ‘Why not? You’re about the right size and shape.’ He threw a rhubarb pie at me.”

  Renie, who knew the story by heart, smiled faintly. “I wonder who started that rumor in the first place.” She locked gazes with Judith.

  “Dagmar?” Judith voiced Renie’s obvious suggestion. “Karl told us she started writing her gossip column—as opposed to the cooking articles—about eight years ago. It’s possible, I suppose.” She put her fork down, memory triggered by Renie’s earlier remarks. “The Cold War—the Ice Age. Did you read Dagmar’s columns from a few weeks ago?”

  Renie feigned incredulity. “Of course. Don’t we all, though we hate to admit it? ‘Get Your Chat’s Worth’ is my secret vice.”

  Judith nodded, a trifle impatiently. “Right, like talk shows and call-in radio. But Dagmar was throwing out hints. ‘Turncoat’ and ‘redcoat’ and something to do with deep freeze and cold storage. Could she have meant Ice Dreams?”

  Renie considered. “I remember. Cinderella was mentioned, too.” Her brown eyes widened. “Mia? But what? Is Dagmar using these innuendos as a lead-in for the next book? It won’t be out for almost a year. She hasn’t even finished the manuscript.”

  The cousins were stumped. Their waitress whisked away the salad plates. Renie requested another basket of rolls. Judith seemed lost in thought until she glimpsed the Kreager party leaving the restaurant. With a nudge for Renie under the table, she tipped her head toward the entrance.

  “See? The shorter one is Kirk. I wonder where he’s staying.”

  For once, Renie exercised moderate discretion. “With the Kreagers? They’ve got enough space.”

  “Maybe.” Judith waited for the presentation of the entrees before she spoke again. “I started to tell you something before dinner—what was it?” Renie had her mouth full of flaky brown crust. She tried to say something, but Judith couldn’t understand her. “Never mind, I remember now,” Judith went on. “It was about Nat—and Mia. When I cornered him in the ice-rink parking lot, he said that after leaving Crest House last night, they walked down the mountain. They’ve got a place over by Crystal Lake.”

  Renie swallowed and nodded. “That’s on the other side of town. The trail must traverse the entire mountain face. Maybe both mountains, Bugler and Fiddler. The point, I take it, is that they didn’t use the lift.”

  “Apparently.” Judith admired the tenderness of her prime rib. “But there’s something else that almost went by me. Nat stayed outdoors—alone. He was brooding and reminiscing about his homeland. He must have been there quite a while, because he mentioned seeing the lightning storm.”

  Renie looked up from her steaming meat pie. “And Mia?”

  “I assume she went home.” Judith picked at her fresh vegetable medley. “We saw them leave Crest House right after Mia and Dagmar had their encounter in the washroom. Nat and Mia had—what?—at least a half hour head start on the Chatsworth party. The storm started about the time we left the restaurant. I don’t know how long it would take to walk to Crystal Lake, but Nat was still up on the mountain then. Or so he says. Do we believe him? And even if he was, where was Mia? How do we know she was sitting at home, fine-tuning her skates?”

  “We don’t,” Renie said, tackling her steak and kidney pie with verve. “When it comes to alibis, nobody has one. Not really. Oh, Freddy supposedly was in the sports bar at Crest House, but Esme MacPherson’s brain is as porous as Swiss cheese, and Charles de Paul was mopping up broken glass along with his barmaid. Karl Kreager visited the men’s room, while Tessa went off in search of drinks, thus leaving Dagmar alone. Any one of them could have sneaked out of Fiddler Lodge, rid
den the lift up to Liaison Ledge, and cracked Agnes on the head. Ditto for Mia and Nat, who appear to have been apart about the time the murder took place. We’re nowhere, coz. If the killer acted as fast as you say, everybody had an opportunity.”

  Judith added a dash of horseradish to her prime rib. “The worst of it is that we may not be focusing on the right suspects. Our purview of this case is so narrow. All it would take is one anonymous person with an unknown motive.” Judith made a face, partly caused by her feeling of helplessness, but exacerbated by the strength of the horseradish.

  “That’s Rhys Penreddy’s job,” Renie noted. “He has the means to find out who else at Bugler had it in for Dagmar. I’ll bet he’s got quite a list of names.” She swallowed a mouthful of gravy and sighed with pleasure. “Mmmmm! There’s nothing like real English cooking!”

  Judith’s expression was tart. “Yes, there is. The stuff that backs up from your sink, for instance. I’m appalled that you’re the one member of our generation to inherit Grandpa Grover’s taste for English dishes. It’s a wonder Bill didn’t divorce you the first time you cooked bubble and squeak.”

  “I served toad-in-the-hole, too.” Renie gave Judith an innocent smile. “The doctor insisted that none of those things could have caused Bill’s ulcer.”

  Judith made no comment. Consequently, Renie felt obliged to defend herself further. “I haven’t made any of that stuff in years. You got lucky the second time around—Joe likes to cook. Oh, once in a while Bill gets an urge to play gourmet, and he performs admirably, but your husband actually knows all the basics, like sautéing and braising and making a roux.”

  Still Judith said nothing. She was gazing off into the distance and mechanically eating her dinner. Renie was growing a little desperate. “Sure, sure,” she continued, “I realize that Joe had to cook because his first wife was usually passed out by four o’clock in the afternoon. But as I recall, way back when you two were going together in the sixties, he knew his way around the kitchen. He has a knack. And he likes it. When he has time.” Renie’s voice trailed off, lost somewhere in the thick sauce of her steak and kidney pie.

  “That’s it,” Judith announced abruptly, getting to her feet. “I’m going to call him.”

  “Huh?” Renie looked up from her plate.

  Judith had grabbed her handbag. “Joe. It’s going on eight. He should be home. He should have been home a couple of hours ago.”

  Renie recalled her cousin’s somewhat odd reaction at the chocolate factory. She also remembered that Judith had been unusually reticent about discussing her phone conversation with Joe the previous night.

  “What’s wrong?” Renie asked.

  “Nothing.” Judith’s tone was flat. “I want to ask Joe if he installed the Caller I.D.” She avoided Renie’s gaze as she headed for the pay phones off the bar.

  Joe Flynn wasn’t home. Again Judith heard her own voice on the answering machine, inviting would-be guests to leave their name, choice of reservation dates, and phone number. She tried the private line, and heard herself saying she was temporarily unavailable. Angrily, she slammed the receiver back into place. By the time she rejoined Renie, Judith had a rein on her emotions. Or so she thought.

  “Now what?” Renie demanded, putting down her fork.

  “Nothing.” Judith tried to look unperturbed.

  “Bunk.” Renie narrowed her brown eyes at her cousin. “No Joe?”

  Judith gave a single shake of her head. “No Joe.” She pushed her half-eaten entree aside.

  “Well,” Renie said in an amiable tone, “he’s working that homicide, right?”

  “Right.” Judith was grinding her teeth.

  “Are you worried that he’s heard about Agnes?”

  Judith frowned. “No. Well…yes.” She knew that the death of a tourist in Bugler might run in the local papers. Even without the Dagmar Chatsworth connection made public, the resort was close enough and sufficiently popular that foul play on a chairlift would rate a paragraph or two. It was also possible that Rhys Penreddy was in contact with the local police. Agnes Shay, after all, had made her last stop in the United States at Hillside Manor on Heraldsgate Hill.

  Renie, however, knew Judith too well to think that her cousin was worried solely about Joe’s reaction to his wife’s involvement in another murder case. “Competition?” Renie remarked, then snapped her fingers. “No, that’s not it. It’s something I’ve missed. Give, coz.”

  For once, Judith refused to confide in Renie. “Skip it. I’ll try again later, from the condo. You having dessert?”

  Renie shook her head. As was often the case, she had filled up on what she termed “serious food” and rolls. As for Judith, she had definitely lost her appetite. The cousins requested the bill, and were vaguely horrified to discover that despite the discount and their good intentions, they still owed close to seventy dollars Canadian, tip included.

  “Some discount,” Renie muttered as they left the cozy confines of The Bells and Motley. “Even the thirty-plus cents on the dollar didn’t help much.”

  “We eat in tomorrow night,” Judith replied a trifle vaguely. “At least we’ve paid for the groceries.”

  “Now what do we do?” Renie asked as they trudged across the busy square. It was still light out, though the air had grown cooler and dark clouds once again hovered over the mountains.

  Judith stopped, staring vacantly up at the lost climbers’ memorial. “I don’t know. I’m completely befuddled. As I was saying earlier, everybody has this case all backward.”

  Renie wagged a finger under Judith’s nose. “That’s it! That’s what you were going to tell me! What do you mean?”

  Several people turned to stare, more or less discreetly, at the cousins. One of them was Freddy Whobrey. Judith clamped her mouth shut, turned on her heel, and all but ran out of the square.

  Freddy was quick. He caught up with Judith and Renie just before they reached the parking lot. “Naughty, naughty!” he cried, grinning and leering. “You two are avoiding me! How about a double date with my old pal Esme? I hear you’ve been hanging out with him. How come you never told me about your writing career?”

  It was Renie who responded, her voice drenched with sarcasm. “It’s a sideline, to provide us with luxuries like postage stamps and Scotch tape. Esme didn’t exactly make for hot copy. He’s not much of a host, either—he didn’t even try to get us drunk.”

  Freddy shook his head in mock dismay. “That Esme! He’s forgotten how to have a good time. Stick with me, ladies. How about a little something at Club Cannes? It’s early for the show, but we could hoist a few and dance a bit. What do you say?”

  Judith was trying to get into the car, but Renie hadn’t yet unlocked the doors. “Call Esme. Dance with him. You lead. We’re leaving.”

  “Ohhh.” Freddy was chagrined. “Party poopers! It’s not even eight-thirty! I misplaced Esme, and I can’t go back to the condo yet. Karl’s stick-in-the-mud brother is there, and he doesn’t approve of me. I can’t think why.” Freddy assumed a perplexed air.

  Renie unlocked the car, but Judith hesitated. “Kirk Kreager? Is he staying with Karl and Tessa?”

  Freddy shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “He put himself up at Chateau Arbutus. Mrs. K.—she hates to be called that—doesn’t like to have her husband’s relatives sleeping under her roof. Maybe it’s because they know something about her that isn’t fit to print.”

  Judith gritted her teeth. As much as she loathed being around Freddy, it was difficult to pass up an opportunity for information. “Like what?”

  Freddy simpered and drew closer to Judith. “Like her deep, dark past. Mrs. K.—Ms. Van Heusen—isn’t all she seems.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Judith and inched even nearer. Judith could smell his breath, and though Freddy seemed sober, he gave off a distinct aroma of gin.

  “Really.” Judith tried not to look askance. “What is—was—she?”

  Freddy snickered. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? What’
s it worth, sweet-buns? How about a little romp in the barn with Freddy Whoa?”

  “Whoa, Freddy!” Judith drew back. But she smiled, if tremulously. “I’m married, remember? To a cop.” Judith tried not to wince; she wasn’t up to thinking about Joe at the moment. “Whatever Tessa has done, it can’t be too dreadful, or Karl wouldn’t have married her.”

  Freddy attempted to lean on the Chevy’s roof, but couldn’t quite reach it. His elbow slipped, and he frowned. “I don’t know about that. It’s amazing what a man will do if the woman he wants is good in the sack. Tessa may look like she’s got a riding crop up her rump, but I’ll lay you five to two she can heat the sheets when she puts her mind—and other things—to it.” Freddy leered.

  Renie got into the car and closed the door. Firmly. Judith wanted to join her cousin, but wasn’t quite ready to let Freddy go. “So Karl and his family suppressed the bad news about Tessa,” Judith said, taking a long shot of her own. “What was it, promiscuity?”

  Holding his small sides, Freddy rollicked with laughter. “You scamp!” he cried between gusts of mirth. “You little dickens!”

  Judith held her head. Surely no amount of sleuthing was worth putting up with Freddy Whobrey. “Well?” she finally said in a vexed tone.

  Freddy got himself under control. “It was…politics!” He succumbed to another burst of merriment.

  Judith stiffened. “Politics?” Surely Freddy was leading her on. “What did she do, vote for Nixon?”

  Stifling what appeared to be a sneeze, Freddy shook his head. “No,” he gasped out, “no, no. Much worse.” He didn’t notice Judith cringe as he put a hand on her bare arm. “She went the other way. It was 1972. Tessa was a Spotted Leopard!” Freddy again fell into convulsions.

  From the well of memory, Judith recalled the anarchist group that had started fires, robbed banks, and otherwise committed mayhem in the name of social progress. Their base of operations had been a liberal Midwestern university, though, off the top of her head, Judith couldn’t remember which one. Most of the rebels had come from solid, upper-middle-class families; one of the ring-leaders had actually been rich. Some had been caught and imprisoned. Others had recanted and relinquished both their ideals and their co-conspirators’ names. A few had gone to law school. Judith remembered nothing about Tessa Van Heusen. Obviously, she had changed her spots.