by Mary Daheim
“Was she…indicted?” Judith asked, drawing away from Freddy’s touch.
At last he regained his full composure. “Plea-bargained her way out of it. Somewhere along the line she met Karl. He was having some problems with his wife. She probably wasn’t giving him any.” Freddy shrugged. “You know how it is after twenty years of marriage. The Boredom Stakes. He was fifty, more or less, and raring to run. Tessa caught him in the clubhouse turn. They went wire-to-wire, and it ended in a photo finish—all over the front page of the Kreager newspapers.”
Judith was looking thoughtful. “I see. So Karl got her a job with Thor Publishing. What happened to Wife Number One?”
“The also-ran?” Freddy gave another shrug. “He paid her off—big bucks, I’d guess—and put her out to pasture. Palm Beach. The Riviera. Switzerland. Wherever first wives go to die.”
“Interesting,” Judith remarked, then shook herself. Tessa Van Heusen’s colorful background didn’t seem pertinent to the murder case. “Say, Freddy, do you know why Kirk came to Bugler?”
Freddy was fiddling with his gold-and-ebony cuff links. “Old Blue-Nose? Business, I suppose. He and Karl are brothers. They have to keep the family rolling in the green stuff, right?”
Judith gave a halfhearted nod. “Probably.” Repressing the urge to grab Freddy by the collar and jerk him off his feet, she fixed him with a hard stare instead. “So why is Kirk upset about Ice Dreams?”
Freddy ignored Judith’s gaze and lavished a longing look at her thighs. “Huh? Oh, I suppose because he’s the money man.” He turned his lust-ridden face upward and smiled like a satyr. “Kirk keeps the cash register for the family. The Kreagers own Ice Dreams, you know.” He made a dive for Judith. “Or did you?”
Freddy was clinging to Judith’s knees.
THIRTEEN
PROFESSOR WILLIAM ANTHONY Jones, Ph.D., had announced his early retirement from the university. Or perhaps it was a mere threat. Either way, Renie was reeling around the Clarges Court condo.
“I don’t blame him,” she declared, clutching her head with both hands. “He leaves for Alaska in half an hour, and he swears he’s never coming back. Months and months of meetings, arguments in the faculty senate, interdivision feuds, entire schools at each other’s throats. And now this!” She clawed the air in frustration.
Judith was lying on the sofa with an inch of scotch on the rocks at her side. Separating herself from Freddy had not been easy. Even as he’d held on for dear life and made major attempts to grope various parts of her body, she had tried to elicit additional information from him while also pummeling him about the ears with her fists. At last Freddy had gotten the idea that Judith found his attentions undesirable. Gasping and panting, he had let go, but it was obvious that the skirmish hadn’t completely dampened his ardor.
“I’ll catch you later in the paddock,” he’d vowed, limping off toward a bistro where carefree customers sat outside under big red-and-white umbrellas.
The cousins had returned to the condo, so Renie had called home before her husband headed for his customary early night. Bill’s news had dismayed her, and now she, too, poured herself a small drink.
“Math is the only department that’s holding out from changing the class names,” Renie said, falling into one of the big armchairs. “Imagine, not only lowering the requirements, but renaming courses just to attract students! Bill says he might as well dress up in a clown suit and get himself a bozo horn! Whatever became of academic integrity? What’s happened to scholarship? Where did educational standards go?”
The diatribe continued, but Judith only half-heard it. “Boris Ushakoff,” she said suddenly. “He was head of the secret police in Mia’s native land. The name came back to me just now.”
“Bill refuses to have his psych courses called by those stupid names,” Renie raged on. “‘Looking Outside At My Insides.’ ‘Let’s See Some ID.’ ‘Borderline Neuroses or Just Plain Nuts.’ ‘Gaga 101 and Gaga 102!’ Gack! I can’t believe the administration would stoop so low!”
“If Freddy’s accurate,” Judith mused, a hand over her forehead, “the Kreagers invested their personal—as opposed to corporate—money into Ice Dreams. Kurt, the eldest brother, was still alive then. He talked Karl and Kirk into the business venture. But they’ve insisted on remaining silent partners.”
“If you think the psych department is bad, wait until you hear about history and political science. There’s a Russian course called ‘Freeze Your Borscht Off,’ and a Latin American—”
“Coz.” Judith pulled herself to a sitting position. “Stop.” She spoke very softly. “I think Bill is teasing you. Oh, I don’t doubt that the university has made a lot of unfortunate changes, but your husband sometimes overdramatizes. Wait until you see a syllabus before you have a four-star fit.”
Renie let her head fall against the back of the chair. “Well…maybe. But even so, it’s depressing to see a major educational institution pander to the inadequacies of the public schools and the disintegration of the family. Bill says that the real problem is spiritual paucity in today’s society, which undermines—”
“Coz.” Judith was getting a headache. “Bill may be right.” Seeing that Renie was about to interrupt her, Judith went on hastily. “Is right. No doubt about it. But I’m trying to figure out how the Kreagers’ investment in Ice Dreams could provide a motive for Agnes’s murder.”
Renie’s fixation began to diminish. “A motive? For what? Oh, Agnes!” She started to say something, then frowned at Judith. “You mean Dagmar. Nobody really wanted to kill Agnes.”
Judith was now sitting up straight, feet firmly planted in the rug’s thick pile. “No. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all evening. That’s why the case is backward. Agnes Shay was murdered. She was wearing Dagmar’s turban and scarf, but why would she do such a thing? We wondered about that earlier, remember? The explanation is that she wouldn’t. Either someone coaxed her into putting on Dagmar’s stuff, or they were planted on her after she was killed. I’m opting for the former. Agnes had quite a few items to carry on the lift. She needed at least one free hand to get aboard. I doubt very much that she would have taken it upon herself to wear Dagmar’s turban. I’m guessing that the killer talked her into it—Agnes wasn’t the type to argue with anybody. Then she was struck on the head, and the lift went down the mountain.”
Renie had become caught up in Judith’s re-creation of the murder. “But there were a bunch of people on Liaison Ledge at the time. They were standing in line to get on the lift. How could all this have happened in plain sight?”
The point was well taken. Judith picked up her scotch, considered her incipient headache, and set the glass back down on the coffee table. “I’m counting on two things—as the murderer must have done. First, people in general aren’t very observant. They’re self-absorbed, and don’t notice what’s going on around them. Quite a crowd had gathered to get on the lift.” She paused to scrutinize Renie. “Where were you looking just before you got into your chair?”
Renie blinked several times. “At the chair. The one coming ’round. I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t fall off.”
Judith nodded. “Right, and while other people may not be as chicken-hearted as you, coz, they’re still watching the oncoming chairs, if only to figure out which one is meant for them. The second big factor is the summer storm, which started about then. According to you, it happens every night this time of year.” Indeed, as Judith glanced out the window, a distant spike of lightning struck the sky off to the north. “Clockwork,” she murmured, noting that her watch said it was nine-thirty-five. “People would have been distracted. I know I was. After all, we came down not too far behind Agnes.”
Renie was also looking out at the glowering sky. “That’s true. We didn’t notice anything unusual. But given all that, why would anybody want to kill Agnes instead of Dagmar?”
Throwing caution to the wind, Judith took a sip of her drink. “That’s the problem. I don’t kn
ow. There are all sorts of motives for getting rid of Dagmar, but Agnes was so innocuous.”
Renie, however, didn’t entirely agree. “Some of the motives that apply to Dagmar also apply to Agnes. Agnes probably knew almost as much dirt on various celebrities as Dagmar does. Agnes was the secretary who kept the files and took some of the calls. It’s possible that she knew something—just one terrible, awful, potentially disastrous thing—that Dagmar didn’t. That’s all it would take to get her killed.”
The lightning was coming closer, its jagged tendrils flashing at more frequent intervals. The thunder followed, low and deep, like the growl of an angry animal. Darkness hadn’t quite settled in, yet the heavy clouds cast a pall of gloom over the mountains.
“So what was it?” Judith sounded bleak. “We can’t begin to guess. All we can do is consider the suspects we know. The Kreagers. Freddy. Mia and Nat. Dagmar herself.”
“Dagmar!” Renie seemed aghast. “No! How could she? She may claim to be fifty, but she’s over sixty, more out of shape than we are, and on the small side. At least up and down. I can’t see her cracking Agnes on the head, then racing off to…” Renie turned thoughtful. “Where? Did the killer stay up on Liaison Ledge or ride the lift down behind Agnes?”
Finishing her scotch, Judith got up and took the glass out to the kitchen. “It depends on who did it. If it was Tessa, Karl, or Dagmar, the killer had to leave the lodge, go up the lift, meet Agnes, get her in one of the chairs, hit her on the head, and then ride the lift back. It would take ten to fifteen minutes, if everything worked smoothly. Dagmar was waiting for her drink—she said. Tessa was trying to find a server—allegedly. Karl was in the men’s room—he claims. But it’s possible that one of them could have done it.” Judith remained in the kitchen, talking to Renie across the dining room. “The same is true for Nat and Mia. Either of them could have gone down the trail half an hour before Agnes left Crest House, doubled back or taken the lift, committed the crime, then headed home. Freddy, too, if we could break his alibi with Esme.”
“Motive,” Renie remarked. “If you insist that Agnes was the intended victim instead of a big mistake, then why?”
Judith gave a shake of her head before picking up the phone on the kitchen counter. “That’s the hard part. We have to ask the obvious—who gains from Agnes’s death?”
Renie was left to consider the question while Judith again tried to reach Joe. To her increasing annoyance, she heard only the tiresome recorded messages. Impatiently, she dialed her mother’s number in the converted toolshed.
“What now?” Gertrude’s rasp came on the sixth ring.
Judith was startled. “Nothing. I’m checking in. How are you?”
“Almost dead. I’ve had a stroke. G’bye.”
“Mother!” Alarmed, Judith tugged on the phone, as if she could force Gertrude to maintain contact. But the loud click signaled that the connection was broken.
“Good grief,” Judith muttered, starting to redial, “I wonder if she’s kidding?” Before punching in the final digit, Judith hung up. “Are you going to call your mother?” she asked Renie.
Wearily, Renie got out of the armchair. “Sure, I guess. If I don’t, she’ll assume we’ve been stolen by White Slavers.” Moving with resignation to the kitchen, Renie eyed Judith quizzically. “What now? No Joe? Too much Mother?”
Judith nibbled her thumbnail. “She claims to have had a stroke.”
“She didn’t.” Renie picked up the phone receiver.
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Sometimes they’re very slight. Let’s face it, our mothers are old.”
“Uh-huh.” Renie was waiting for the phone to ring. Deborah Grover answered halfway through the first buzz. Unlike her sister-in-law, Deborah loved talking on the telephone. Her wide circle of friends and relations kept the wires humming from early morning until late at night. Renie was more surprised that the line was free than that her mother had answered immediately. As she engaged in the preliminary opening sallies, Renie leaned over and pulled out one of the dining room chairs. Drink in hand, she sat down, prepared for the long haul.
Judith went off to her bedroom and undressed. She took a shower and brushed her teeth. She went through the small pile of dirty clothes, then checked on Renie’s laundry bag. Deciding that they had enough for a load, she went downstairs to the bottom unit and started the washer. Returning upstairs, she fetched her romantic suspense novel from the bedroom and meandered out into the living room. Renie was still talking to her mother.
“…but Auntie Vance has always been bossy,” Renie was saying. “Uncle Vince is basically lazy. Unmotivated, then…Okay, okay, so he’s downtrodden…No, I agree, she shouldn’t have set his pants on fire. At least he woke up…h, he didn’t?” Renie’s shoulders slumped as she gave Judith a helpless look. “Well, you’ve been wanting to get a new chair, anyway. The Belle Epoch is having a sale. I’ll check it out when we get…Yes, of course we’re fine. Yes, she’s really fine. Yes, I’m ever so fine. Everything is fine. I don’t know exactly when on Thursday—you can never tell about traffic at the border this time of…In the pewter sugar bowl on the tea wagon. The tea wagon. I put it there myself. You must have dropped the earrings out of the pouch on your wheelchair. No, it’s the red cardinal, not the yellow canary.” Renie was holding her head. Her glass was empty. She was sprawled in the dining room chair, feet splayed. “Really, I have to go…Yes, I’m wearing sturdy walking shoes…Mother, I’ve always had flat feet…” Renie was actually not wearing any shoes, having discarded her flimsy sandals upon the cousins’ return to the condo. “Look, I’ll try to call tomorrow…Yes, she’s right here, reading a book…”
Judith gestured at Renie, mouthing the words “my mother.” Exasperated, Renie nodded.
“By the way, have you talked to Aunt Gertrude lately? How was she?” Renie’s lengthy pause made Judith tense. “What about the second call you made?” Judith shut her eyes as the silence in the condo went on and on. “Then the last time you phoned her? When was that?” Another pause. Judith put her book aside. The heroine of the story wasn’t in half the suspense that she was. “No, no don’t bother calling her again. That’s fine. Okay, yes, I love you, too…Yes, I will…No, I won’t…”
The cautions, consents, affirmations, and promises continued for another five minutes. At last Renie was able to get off the line.
“Damn!” she cried, struggling out of the chair. “Even after all that, somehow my mother makes me feel guilty when I finally do get rid of her. How does she do that? Can I learn that trick? Will I be able to drive my kids insane when I’m old?”
“Probably,” Judith replied absently. “What about Mother’s stroke?” A muscle along her jaw twitched, revealing her anxiety.
Renie dragged herself back into the living room and sat down in the armchair. “My mother didn’t mention it. She’d called yours twice this morning, and she was fine, but busy grooming Sweetums. With a saw, she said, but I doubt it. Then Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince came down from the island to play cards with them and have supper at my mother’s apartment. They took your mother home before seven. My mother called her around seven-thirty to make sure she’d gotten back safely.” Renie rolled her eyes. “Your mother said she wasn’t the least bit safe, being, as it happened, menaced by the Hounds of Hell, which, she added nastily—my mother’s word, not mine—she would prefer to having her addled sister-in-law call her up every five minutes.”
Judith relaxed. “Mother sounds normal. I guess she was kidding after all.”
Renie sighed. “Great kidders, these loved ones of ours. First Bill, now your mother. What about Joe?” Seeing Judith’s face tighten, Renie wished she hadn’t asked.
“He’s not home.” Judith’s voice was angry.
“He’s on a case.” Renie sounded casual. “He works overtime every so often, right?”
“Right.” The truth didn’t placate Judith.
The storm had long s
ince blown away and night had finally slipped down over the mountains. Several lights glowed in the nearby complexes. No doubt the village was just beginning to get into its party mode, but it seemed very quiet at the edge of the forest.
Renie announced that she was going to take a bath. Judith pretended to read until she heard water running in the tub, then went to the kitchen phone. This time, she called the private number first. Joe answered on the third ring.
“Hell of a day,” he said. “I just got home. How’s it going?”
Joe sounded tired, but otherwise cheerful. His innocent question indicated he hadn’t heard about Agnes Shay’s murder. Judith felt a sense of relief, which was immediately followed by the return of her earlier unease.
“Discount dinner tonight,” she replied warily. “A bit of shopping—big sales, huge savings. The exchange rate is very favorable.” She paused, and her tone took on an edge. “Where have you been all this time? I was worried.”
Did Judith imagine that Joe hesitated? Or that his voice seemed to change? “Trying to wrap up this tavern case. Lapchick—the bartender—is out of intensive care, and his prognosis is better than expected. Woody and I spent about twenty minutes with him this afternoon, and he’s sticking to his story about the affair with Diana. We’ve talked to some of the regulars from My Brew Heaven, and got mixed results. But you know how that goes—they’re hammered most of the time and don’t know what’s going on.”
Judith tried to banish her apprehensions. “As in longing gazes between Lapchick and the owner’s wife?”
Joe laughed wryly. “You read too many of those gushy women’s novels, Jude-girl. As in Lapchick grabbing Diana’s ass, or Diana shoving her knockers under his nose. We’re talking about a rough crowd. But Diana says it never happened—not with her knockers, anyway.”