Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  “What about him?” Dagmar was turning sulky. “There were rumors, but it’s old news, going back to before Mia won her first gold medal. I suppose Boris is languishing somewhere in an Eastern European jail cell. Or driving a taxi in Minsk.”

  “Mia says he’s dead,” Renie put in.

  Dagmar gave an indifferent shrug. “Maybe he is. Who cares?”

  “But your columns,” Judith persisted. “Those hints about turncoats and cold storage and deep freeze and Cinderella. If you weren’t talking about Mia and Boris, what did you mean?”

  Briefly, Dagmar looked puzzled, her nose wrinkling. “Oh! That was one of Agnes’s ideas! We were heading for Canada, and she thought a hockey item would be appropriate. She loved hockey—it’s very popular among young people in Minnesota. The innuendos were to lead up to open criticism of Wayne Gretzky, berating him for defecting from the Edmonton Eskimos to the Los Angeles Kings, or whatever they’re called. Red uniforms, ice, Cinderella team, blah, blah. I’m not sure what she planned to say, poor thing, but attacking Wayne Gretzky was guaranteed to garner high readership north of the border. And thus help promote the book.”

  The cousins exchanged quick glances. Wayne Gretzky was definitely not a suspect. They seemed to be going nowhere with Boris Ushakoff, either. Kirk Kreager appeared to have been taken in, perhaps by some right-wing crank. Or, Judith thought fleetingly, the Canadian consortium, in an effort to lure Mia and Nat away from Ice Dreams. “Does the phrase ‘Danzig Connection’ mean anything to you?” Judith inquired, wondering if somehow her powers of deduction had failed.

  Dagmar arched her thin eyebrows. “What? I’ve never been to Danzig. Why are you asking these silly questions?” She looked up at the big clock on the far wall. “It’s going on six. When do they serve dinner in this ridiculous place? I’ve had my stomach pumped, and I’m starved!”

  Judith was not to be diverted. Despite the detours they had taken since arriving at the clinic, there was monumental purpose in the call on Dagmar Chatsworth. Judith steeled herself and prepared to deliver her body blow. “Rhys Penreddy—and everybody else—began this homicide investigation with the premise that you, not Agnes, was the intended victim. I don’t believe that. Oh, the turban and the scarf could have led someone to believe that Agnes was really you. But I don’t think that’s what happened. There’s only one person who could know for certain that you weren’t sitting on that chairlift.” Judith’s hand cut the air as she pointed an accusing finger at Dagmar. “That person is you, Dagmar. I think you poisoned yourself to divert suspicion because you killed Agnes Shay.”

  In the movies and on TV, the accused killer usually laughs derisively when confronted by the clever sleuth. Judith half-expected Dagmar to guffaw with indignant, outraged mirth. It wouldn’t matter, of course. Judith would stand her ground. And Dagmar, hooked up to the IVs and weakened by a self-induced dose of poison, could do nothing except protest her innocence. The police would take over, and eventually, Rhys Penreddy’s diligence would pay off in a solid case against Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth. So Judith—and Renie, standing just behind her—waited for the scoffing laughter. They were prepared, and already wearing incredulous expressions.

  What they weren’t prepared for was tears. Dagmar shriveled under the light bedclothes and began to sob uncontrollably. Her body shook so hard that once again the IV stand threatened to topple. Renie grabbed it and held on tight. The cousins regarded each other with curiosity and, after a full minute had passed, alarm.

  “Should we send for the nurse?” Renie asked in a hushed voice. “She’s getting hysterical.”

  Dagmar was indeed bordering on hysterics. Tears streamed down her face, and she began to choke. Just as Renie reached for the button to summon help, Dagmar began to shake her head.

  “Please!” she gasped. “Please!”

  Renie hesitated, her arm still hovering over the headboard. Dagmar was trying to compose herself, but at tremendous cost. Judith snatched up the water carafe and poured a drink for her.

  “Thank you,” Dagmar whispered. Her red-rimmed eyes were grateful.

  An uneasy sensation was descending over Judith. She writhed on the chair, waiting for Dagmar to regain her composure. Renie was shifting from one foot to the other.

  Dagmar took another sip of water, then dabbed again at her eyes with a tissue. “I, as victim!” Suddenly she glared at the cousins, her hands frantically rending the tissue into small, damp scraps. “Why should I make up things? Real life is far worse than sham!” She shook her head in a gesture of despair.

  Judith fumbled with the strap on her handbag. She wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel. “Is Freddy really your nephew?”

  Dagmar quivered from head to foot. “Of course he’s my nephew! Do you think I’d put up with the little wretch if he weren’t?”

  “Uh…” Judith was scrambling for words. “See here, Dagmar, you—er—well, we figured you and Freddy were…except Agnes was in love with him, too…and then, you haven’t been writing those columns and books yourself. Agnes did it for you, but she was too shy to be a public figure. Maybe Freddy goaded her into putting the squeeze on you and the two of them were going to run off together, so you, ah, decided to…um…” Faced with Dagmar’s look of revulsion, Judith let her voice trail away.

  “How could you?” Dagmar demanded in a cold, harsh tone. She seemed on the verge of tears again. “How dare you?” She swallowed hard, and held her head high. “I would never harm a hair of Agnes’s head! How could I? Agnes was my daughter!”

  Judith wanted to weep. She felt racked with guilt, embarrassed to the bone, and full of anguish for causing Dagmar such pain. The mistake was monstrous. If Dagmar had possessed the strength, Judith wouldn’t have blamed her for inflicting bodily harm on both cousins.

  There was only one thing to do, and Judith did it. She offered a handkerchief, clasped one of Dagmar’s cold hands in both of hers, and apologized profusely. To Dagmar’s credit, Judith only had to humble herself to the level of a common worm.

  “All right, all right,” Dagmar finally broke in, wiping her eyes with Judith’s handkerchief. “You made a reprehensible mistake. Fortunately, you’re nobody, so it doesn’t matter. But I still can’t believe you’d accuse me of such a heinous crime. I hope you don’t ever play any of those detective parlor games. You must lose every time.”

  Judith was blushing. “I thought it made sense,” she mumbled. “I’d come to the conclusion by applying logic.”

  “Oh, bother!” Dagmar dismissed logic with a curl of her lip. “Try facts. That’s what I deal in.”

  Renie, who hadn’t made as big a fool of herself as Judith had, rested an elbow on the headboard. “If you’re Agnes’s mother, that explains why she did all the work and never complained. But why the big secret?”

  Dagmar shot Renie a withering look. “Why do you think? I’m much too young to have a daughter in her thirties. I didn’t want people thinking I was a child bride. Besides,” she went on, lowering her voice and her gaze, “I was never married to Agnes’s father. There was no Mr. Chatsworth. Nor was there ever a Mr. Shay. That’s my real name—Ingeborg Dagmar Shay. It didn’t suit a newspaper byline.”

  Judith was beginning to recover from her egregious error. She dared to ask a bold question. “Did Agnes always do the writing, or just the research?”

  Dagmar lightly touched the wrinkled skin under her chin. “It’s a long story, but I’ll condense it. I’m good at short copy, and contrary to what you think, I can write. My parents died when I was in college. I finished, though it took me an extra year because I had to work part-time. I got a job on a suburban weekly, and met a printer who was ever so handsome. Muscles everywhere. Dimples, too. In several places.” Dagmar simpered. “And a wife who appreciated none of the above. I got pregnant. He wouldn’t leave the mother of his other children, so I went to Duluth to have Agnes. My sister—Freddy’s mother—took me in, and I went back to work, in public relations for General Mills. It got boring, but
I stuck with it for almost ten years. Then I decided to strike out on my own. I’d saved some money, and my sister was ever so kind. I went to work for the Kreagers, doing the cooking column, expanding it from helpful hints and recipes to gossipy tidbits.

  “Meanwhile, Agnes was growing up, but she had no self-esteem. I suppose that was because she had no father. The Twin Cities are very conservative, and thirty years ago, an illegitimate child was still a target of scorn. I tried so hard to bring Agnes out of her shell. The only thing she enjoyed besides hockey was writing. So when I asked to switch to a regular gossip column, I had her help me write it. She was marvelous. Every frustration, the bottled-up anger, all of her resentment, came out in those scathing accounts of the rich and famous. She was so good at it that after the first year or two, I let her do the whole thing. Oh, I had my sources built up by then, but after a while, she took over that part as well. She wrote the book. She was brilliant. And, of course, she wanted no recognition. In fact, it would have terrified her. Her joy was simple—churning out words, titillating readers, trashing reputations. Who could ask for anything more?”

  Judith tried not to look askance. “Yet you still didn’t acknowledge her as your daughter?”

  Dagmar put a hand to her bosom. “Certainly not! Who would believe it? Why, we were often taken for sisters!”

  The bubble of self-delusion was left unpricked by the cousins. Renie was now leaning on the bedside stand. “But Freddy knew Agnes was your daughter?”

  “Of course!” Dagmar threw Renie a reproachful look. “They grew up together. That’s why the suggestion of a match between them was so ludicrous. Agnes and Freddy are—were—first cousins.” Dagmar’s mouth turned down and her lower lip trembled.

  Feeling limp, Judith sat back in the chair. “Do you have any idea why Agnes was killed? Or who tried to poison you?”

  Wearily, Dagmar shook her head and gave Judith the rumpled, damp handkerchief. “I’m utterly baffled. Whoever it was, I wish they’d succeeded with me. I told you that, didn’t I?” Her gaze was defiant.

  Judith nodded slowly. “Yes, and fool that I was, I thought you’d managed to ingest just enough to make it look as if someone had tried to do you in. You were really lucky, Dagmar.”

  Dagmar had turned away from the cousins, staring at the empty doorway. “No, I wasn’t.” She closed her eyes and started to cry again.

  “One word,” Judith said, waving a meat fork at Renie. “‘Idiot.’ If Joe doesn’t remember, be sure and put it on my tombstone.”

  “Knock it off,” Renie said, cutting up a bunch of scallions for green salad. “It was an honest mistake. I thought you were right. You usually are.”

  “Dagmar may be abrasive, arrogant, and egotistical, but that doesn’t detract from her loss,” Judith said with fervor. “And there I was, making matters worse.”

  Renie sliced a tomato. “Enough. Let’s forget the whole thing. We leave tomorrow, Rhys Penreddy has Esme’s walking stick and the list of horses in code, Nat is not Boris Ushakoff, and Dagmar sent those letters to herself. The case will get solved eventually, and maybe we’ll read about it in the newspaper.”

  Judith had stopped tending the T-bone steaks somewhere during Renie’s monologue. “Nat,” she said under her breath. “What do you suppose happened to him?”

  Renie shrugged. “He probably got away from the hotel security guards and went home to tend to Mia’s alleged attack of nerves. What could they arrest him for, other than on Kirk Kreager’s word? It was a tempest in a teapot.”

  “I guess.” Disconsolately, Judith checked the baked potatoes in the oven. “I wonder what’s happening with Ice Dreams.”

  “Forget it!” Renie’s tone was sharp and compelling. “Come on, coz, it’s after seven o’clock, dinner is just about ready, and I’m fainting from hunger. Let’s start dishing up and discuss whether or not we’re going to stop off in Port Royal tomorrow and hit some of the boutiques.”

  “With what? Do we barter? I can offer some of my pet homicide theories. They’re worth about six cents apiece.” Judith’s tone was bitter.

  “I’ve got a little room to roam on one of my bank cards,” Renie said as she shook up a jar of salad dressing. “We haven’t done any clothes shopping, and if we buy Canadian labels, there are bargains to be had.”

  “We’ve been had,” Judith replied with asperity. “This trip has been a disaster.”

  Renie’s eves sparked. “Thanks a lot, coz! I give you a free vacation to one of the world’s snazziest resorts, and you bitch! Next time, I’ll bring Madge Navarre if I have to kidnap her!”

  The reference to their mutual friend brought a faint smile to Judith’s lips. “Madge wouldn’t make such a public dunce of herself. She’s far too cautious. And smart.”

  “You’re smart,” Renie said, holding out her plate so that Judith could serve the steak. “You just got off on a tangent this time.”

  “Maybe.” Judith took the potatoes out of the oven. She appreciated Renie’s kind words, but her ego was still feeling battered. “I guess it serves me right for trying to compete with Joe.”

  “Stop,” Renie said quietly. “Have some salad.”

  “Of course, Joe is an utter jerk.”

  “I put the dressing in the cream pitcher.”

  “I’m not calling him tonight.”

  “Have you got the butter over there?”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me until I, quote, ‘get my ass home,’ unquote.”

  “I wonder if Bill’s caught any fish yet.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go home at all. Maybe I should move into the toolshed with Mother.”

  “Bill’s planning to spend one day with a guide going for steelhead on a river.”

  “Or maybe I should move Mother back into the house and put Joe in the toolshed.”

  “The last time Bill went up one of those rivers in Alaska, he saw a grizzly bear.”

  “I’m not taking this kind of guff lying down, you know.”

  “The bear ate him.”

  “It would serve him right.”

  Renie feigned innocence. “Who, Bill? What did he do? My husband isn’t the type who carouses on a fishing trip. Early to fish, early to bed. I doubt that he even has a drink the whole time.”

  Judith glared at Renie; then her mouth opened wide. “Oh! I’ve been an idiot twice over!”

  “Right. I knew you’d come to your senses.” Renie blithely chewed her T-bone steak.

  Judith gobbled up the last of her salad. “I’m not talking about Bill. “I’m not talking about Joe.” She whisked her plate off the table and got to her feet. “I’m talking about Wayne Stafford. Shovel the rest of your dinner in, coz. We’re going to the chairlift. This time, I know who killed Agnes. Honest, I do.”

  EIGHTEEN

  TO JUDITH’S CHAGRIN, Wayne Stafford wasn’t on duty. He’d taken a break and had ascended to Crest House, where he was meeting another college student who worked as a waitress.

  “Young love,” Judith muttered as the cousins waited in line behind a family of four.

  “I thought we didn’t have to ride this damned thing again,” Renie complained. “I had to eat so fast, I’ve got a stomachache.”

  Judith clambered aboard, and Renie reluctantly followed. Twilight was coming down on the mountains, with a hint of gold and purple in the western sky. As usual, dark clouds were gathering to the north. Judith realized that she was growing accustomed to the rhythm of life at Bugler. To her surprise, she found herself wishing they didn’t have to leave so soon.

  Grumbling, Renie alighted on Liaison Ledge. “Okay, okay, so I’m still alive. But I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. Keeping secrets doesn’t become you.”

  “Just give me a few minutes,” Judith urged as they approached Crest House. “If I’m wrong again, I’ll be mortified, even with you.”

  “Dumb,” Renie muttered. “We’ve been mortified in front of each other for fifty years, more or less. Dumb.”

  “Bear
with me.” Judith led the way to the restaurant, then squeezed past the waiting diners and entered the bar. Wayne Stafford and a pretty young woman with long taffy-colored hair were sitting at a table, sipping what looked like club sodas.

  At first, Wayne didn’t recognize the cousins. Then he suddenly grinned and put out a hand. He fumbled for names in an attempt to make introductions, but Judith rescued him.

  “We won’t take a minute,” she assured the couple. “I know you’re on a break. Just tell me again exactly who you saw coming down the lift the night Agnes Shay died.”

  Wayne’s forehead knit in concentration. The bar was busy, though it was not yet nine o’clock and the evening wouldn’t get into full swing for at least another hour. “Gee,” he said, mulling over the event, “it seems like two weeks ago instead of two days. So many people go up and down…Let me think…” The taffy-haired girl smiled encouragement.

  But Wayne’s memory wasn’t tracking well. “I honestly can’t say who came down right ahead of the dead lady. The only thing I’m sure of is that the chair behind her was empty, and then the older guy who got real impatient came next.” Wayne’s earnest face showed disappointment in himself.

  Judith wasn’t giving up, however. “That’s good, Wayne. That part is important, too. Now tell us again who you saw walking past the lift office.”

  Wayne wrinkled his nose. “Walking past…? Oh, you mean about the time the lift stopped?” He bent his head to give his companion a sly little smile. “Young lovers, hand in hand. They made me think of…something.” The taffy-haired girl giggled.

  Judith kept her smile in place. “And? Anyone else?”

  Wayne’s face lighted up. “A man, tall, in a hurry, like he had to get somewhere.”

  It took some effort on Judith’s part not to appear overeager. “Good, very good. Did he have a beard?”

  Wayne thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Oh, jeez! I didn’t notice! I was looking at his jacket. It was really cool, especially for an older guy.”