by Mary Daheim
The nervous horse must have sensed the cousins’ approach. Starbird bolted, catching Freddy completely off guard. He was thrown, crashing into Esme MacPherson. The gun clattered to the pavement as the mare galloped off down the bridle path.
Judith and Renie took off at a run. The two men wrestled on the ground, with Freddy appearing to have the upper hand. As the storm faded over the ridges to the west, the moon peeked behind scudding clouds. The gun’s bluing shone in the pale light.
“Grab it!” Judith shouted at Renie, who happened to be closer to the weapon.
But Freddy had landed a solid blow to Esme’s jaw, leaving him dazed. Diving for the gun, Freddy snatched it away from Renie. Still bewildered by the turn of events, Renie glanced at Judith.
“Should we tie Esme up?”
Judith started to answer, but Freddy broke in with a burst of laughter. “Why not? I’ve got a rope on my saddle.”
“No!” Judith cried, then cringed as she saw Esme writhing on the ground near her feet. “Coz, get back! Esme isn’t the killer! It’s Freddy!”
“Why, you frigging broad!” Freddy raised the gun and released the safety. He was aiming it at Judith even as Renie let out a horrified squeal. And then Freddy was falling backward, yelping with surprise and pain. Esme MacPherson pounced, and wrenched the gun from Freddy’s hand. Freddy still howled. He reached for his leg and rolled over.
Rover had attached himself to Freddy’s calf and didn’t seem inclined to ever let go.
NINETEEN
THE INVITATION FOR drinks had been declined by all. Esme MacPherson was still huddled with Rhys Penreddy at the police station, Karl and Tessa Kreager were tied up on phone calls to New York, Kirk Kreager was sending faxes to Minneapolis, Dagmar was spending the night at the clinic, and Freddy was in jail.
Judith and Renie had one guest, however. Rover was out on the balcony, gnawing on the T-bone remnants. It appeared that the cousins were stuck with him until Dagmar was released in the morning. Tessa refused to let him near the Kreager condos without proper full-time supervision.
“I don’t know why you didn’t tell me it was Freddy,” Renie said for the sixth time since she and Judith had returned from giving their statements at the police station. “What if I’d grabbed the gun and shot Esme?”
Judith, sipping her scotch, was wide-eyed. “But I thought you knew. I kept trying to tell you, and when I got to the part about mischievous kids jumping off the lift, I assumed you had it doped out.”
“Dope is right.” Renie glowered over her rye. “But which of us is the bigger dope, I’m not sure. Oh, the motive is clear—I should have seen that. Dagmar had no will, which meant everything would have gone to her daughter. Agnes had to die so Freddy, as the next of kin, would inherit. He swiped some of Tessa’s termite pesticide to put in Dagmar’s sleeping capsules. But he miscalculated on the amount of Aldrin necessary to kill her. He would have tried again, though.”
Judith nodded. It was almost midnight, and exhaustion was setting in. Her ankle, which was propped up on the coffee table, throbbed so hard that it made her head ache, too. Dagmar’s 222 Canadian painkillers hadn’t yet kicked in.
“Freddy could bide his time with Dagmar,” Judith noted, stifling a sneeze. “Having failed on the first try, he might have waited months or years. Still, I think he got scared, and I’m almost sure he intended to catch that train and head off into the northern reaches of British Columbia until things calmed down. If Dagmar refused to admit she was growing old and wouldn’t make a will, he’d still inherit.”
“I never would have figured the part about the baseball cap,” Renie mused. “And sweatshirt. How did Freddy take those things from the Crest House bar without anybody noticing?”
“That wasn’t hard.” Judith blew her nose. “They’ve got sports memorabilia hanging all over the place. When Freddy pinched Hilde and she dropped the tray of wineglasses, everybody’s attention was focused on her. Then she threatened to pass out from the pain in her tooth. The scene was pretty chaotic. No wonder Charles de Paul didn’t notice anything amiss. Freddy had already swiped Esme’s walking stick. In the confusion, he probably grabbed a cap and a sweatshirt and dashed out of the bar. Esme wasn’t there, as you may recall.”
“He’d gone to the men’s room,” Renie said. Both cousins were still trying to sort through the snatches of information they’d gleaned at the police station. “Freddy hadn’t been in the bar for more than five minutes, but Esme had arrived much earlier.”
“That’s right,” Judith agreed. “Freddy left the rest of the dinner party and made his plans. He knew Agnes had to collect Dagmar’s things from the washroom, so he waylaid her before she got to the chairlift. She was carrying Rover’s doggie bag, the champagne, the turban, the scarf, and her own purse. Freddy probably suggested she lighten her load by wearing Dagmar’s belongings. It wouldn’t have been easy for Agnes to get aboard with so much gear. I suppose she was grateful for Freddy’s thoughtfulness. As soon as she climbed into the chair and put the bar in place, he cracked her on the head with Esme’s cane. Then he got into the chair behind her, put on the sweatshirt and cap, jumped off, and scampered away. Or hip-hopped, as Wayne Stafford would say.”
Renie was looking dubious. “I don’t get it. I mean, I know hip-hop is something too cool for my middle-aged understanding, but what’s it got to do with Freddy?”
Judith smiled through her aches and pains. “Nothing. He had that walking stick stuck down his pant leg. It made him walk funny. Wayne thought he was dancing or something. Freddy’s so small that in the dark he could pass for thirteen or fourteen.”
Renie leaned back in the big armchair. “Lord, I’m tired! I feel like I was hit by a bus! And I’ll never know how you figured Esme MacPherson for somebody out of MI-5 or MI-6 or whatever they call it in London.”
“I don’t know what they call it and I didn’t.” Judith looked faintly chagrined. “But when Esme left that walking stick in the apartment, I knew he was trying to tell us something. Or leave a message for the police.”
Judith rubbed her sore ankle. Neither Rhys Penreddy nor Esme MacPherson had been clear with her about the latter’s occupation. Judith wasn’t entirely sure that Esme had an occupation, except that in his past, he’d worked for the British government and had established a convincing cover. He’d been semiretired in Bugler for several years, ostensibly drinking heavily but, in fact, never getting drunk. Judith guessed he’d been hired by the figure-skating consortium to get the goods on Anatoly Linski and to investigate the Kreager brothers’ Ice Dreams involvement so that the Canadians could make a viable counteroffer. Industrial espionage, even in show business, wasn’t unknown.
But whatever Esme MacPherson was, he was no fool. Judith figured he’d suspected from the start that Freddy had killed Agnes Shay. Not wanting to blow his cover, he’d kept a low profile, but had leaked information to Rhys Penreddy after Dagmar was poisoned. Esme had great faith in Penreddy.
“So Esme’s really going back to the UK?” Renie asked, checking the black-and-blue marks on her arms.
“I guess,” Judith answered with a yawn. “He’ll have to wait a day or so until Penreddy and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have everything under control. I overheard Devin O’Connor say something about a wedding.”
Renie arched her eyebrows. “Esme’s family?”
“Esme.” Judith grinned. “Confirmed bachelors don’t always stay that way. I gather he’s had a pen pal.”
Renie smiled. “And those horses were a code.”
Judith scanned the sketchy notes she’d taken at the police station. “Esme wouldn’t answer me directly, but my guesses came close. Montreal Marty is the consortium itself, Spectacular Bid is the offering price, Genuine Risk refers to Ice Dreams, Winning Colors means Mia, and Northern Dancer translates as Nat. The Brothers Kreager are Middleground and Counterpoint. You guess which is which.”
Renie chuckled. “That could go either way. Danzig Connection was Boris Ushakoff,
right?” She stood up, offering to refill Judith’s scotch.
Judith hesitated, then agreed. “We might as well polish it off. We can’t take it through customs.” She raised her voice slightly as Renie headed for the kitchen. “Esme had known Freddy from the Canadian racetracks. Freddy was spreading rumors, including the call he made to Mia from Hillside Manor. The more people who seemed to have a reason for killing Agnes and Dagmar, the better. He probably started the story that Dagmar wasn’t really his aunt, just to throw everybody off. Nobody outside of Freddy, Dagmar, and Agnes knew for sure. Then he pinched the metal box. No alarms went off, because there wasn’t any break-in. Freddy was trying to make it look as if somebody wanted to find out what was in the files. Having had access to the box all along, he knew there wasn’t anything, at least not on any of the suspects in Bugler. Retrieving the files made him look like a hero.”
Renie had returned with their refills. “Dagmar would never print anything about Tessa’s spotted past, not as long as she’s with Thor and the Kreager syndicate. But I thought Freddy seemed genuinely surprised when Nat’s file came up missing.”
“He was.” Judith shifted her legs on the coffee table. At last the pain pills—and maybe the scotch—were taking hold. “Dope that I am, I didn’t suspect Freddy at that point. And he didn’t suspect Esme of being other than he seemed. Freddy stashed the box at Esme’s, figuring he was too befuddled to notice. That was a weird coincidence. Esme opened it and pulled Nat’s file, presumably to show the Canadian consortium that their Ice Dreams king was definitely not Boris Ushakoff.”
“So Mia’s doing fine and Nat’s not in trouble,” Renie mused. “Kirk Kreager’s rumor mill was a dud, it seems. I’ll bet Karl talks him into keeping Ice Dreams as is.”
Judith inclined her head. “That’s up to the negotiating skills of the Kreagers—and their ability to soothe Nat’s and Mia’s ruffled feathers.”
“Well, now.” Renie was bemused, contemplating the jumble of events. “So Rover didn’t actually find the metal box. But how did he find us?”
Judith reached into her handbag and pulled out the bedraggled handkerchief that she had lent to Dagmar. “I honestly don’t know. I suspect that Tessa threw him out of the condo, and he’s been running all over, looking for his mistress. Maybe he went to the clinic. They wouldn’t let him in. Eventually he followed Dagmar’s scent to the trail—and to us. Freddy must have scared him off after they reached the bottom of the trail. But Rover’s persistent.” Seeing Renie’s skeptical expression, Judith amended her statement. “Of course, it’s possible that Rover was following Freddy instead of us. If animals have a sixth sense about people, Rover never liked him, either.”
Renie wasn’t inclined to argue that point. “Freddy took a great risk killing poor Agnes. He had to count on so many different things going his way. I almost have to admire his nerve.”
“Hey, he’s a jockey,” Judith countered. “In his prime, he was big stuff. You don’t win races without taking chances, making split-second decisions at sudden opportunities, using every trick of the trade to your advantage. If he could pull it off, Freddy was riding into the winner’s circle, big-time. Of all the suspects, only Freddy had the personality and the daring to make it—almost—work.”
Rover, having finished his bones, was whimpering outside the glass door that led to the balcony. Renie and Judith chose to ignore him. He started to howl. Renie got up and let him in. The phone rang just as she was sliding the door closed.
Judith jumped. “Joe!” she breathed, and couldn’t suppress a smile. Who else would call after midnight? Her heart raced as Renie picked up the receiver.
“Yes, she’s doing fine…I know, she realizes you forgive her…Well, we all react strangely under pressure…Talk to…? Of course—here.”
Judith had struggled to her feet and was halfway to the phone. But Renie was on her knees, holding the receiver to Rover’s ear. Rover listened, barked, and sat up on his hind legs. Judith collapsed against the dining room table. Renie put the phone back to her ear.
“Don’t worry, your floofy-woofy is doing fine. You get well. Good night, Dagmar.” Renie hung up.
“It wasn’t Joe.” Judith’s voice was flat. She felt drained and depressed.
Renie grimaced and avoided Judith’s eyes. “Uh…no. It was Dagmar. She’s shocked about Freddy, of course, and says her sister raised him all wrong. Spoiled. Selfish. A brat.” Anxiously, Renie finally met her cousin’s gaze. “She forgives you for the bum guess, though. Maybe she’ll mention Hillside Manor in a column someday. Assuming she gets around to writing them again.”
Rover was sniffing at Judith’s slippered feet. Judith felt like kicking him with her good leg. “Beat it. You make me sick. Literally.”
Recognizing that Judith’s ire wasn’t really intended for Rover, Renie put on a sympathetic face. “You’re exhausted. Go to bed. Everything will look better in the morning.”
“Like fun it will,” Judith muttered, still glaring at Rover. “What if I get home and find that Joe’s moved out?”
Renie didn’t dignify the remark with a response. Instead she pushed Judith in the direction of the hallway. “I mean it. Hit the hay, or whatever Freddy would call it. And don’t pick on Rover. We owe him,” she reminded Judith. “I’ll take him downstairs and give him some water. Come on, you wretched little mutt. You’re going to sit and stay and fall down and go to sleep.”
Rover trotted along, his pink tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. Out of sight, Renie bent down and scratched him behind the ears. “Good doggy,” she whispered. “Wenie woves Wover.”
“I heard that,” Judith called from the hallway.
Renie and Rover didn’t reply.
The full force of the late-afternoon sun was hitting the front of Hillside Manor when Renie dropped Judith off the next day. The big windows, with their rows of diamond panes, reflected the houses and shrubbery from both sides of the cul-de-sac. A slight breeze stirred the maple, fruit, and evergreen trees that shaded the neighborhood. All appeared peaceful, though there was no sign of life at the B&B.
Limping around to the back door with her suitcase and parcels, Judith panicked. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t remember who was booked for Thursday night. Californians, maybe. A repeat couple from east of the mountains. Four attendees of a conference on something or other. Judith’s mind was a quasi-blank.
Dumping her burden on the back porch, she hurried down the walk to the converted toolshed. Despite the heat, Gertrude had the door and the windows firmly closed. Judith knocked and called to her mother.
Gertrude allowed the door to open only a slit. “Hunh,” she growled, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “You’re back. Finally. I thought you’d be here by noon.”
“We stopped in Port Royal,” Judith replied, waiting for the door to swing wide. It didn’t. “Besides, it’s almost three hundred miles from here to Bugler.”
“Bugler? I thought it was called Bassoon. Or Baboon. Speaking of which, he isn’t home yet.” Gertrude moved just enough to allow Sweetums’s exit. The streaking blur appeared to be in fine fettle.
Judith had already checked the garage. She knew Joe’s MG wasn’t there. “I know,” Judith said, trying to wedge the door open with her good foot. “It’s just a little after five. I gather he’s been working late.” She almost choked on the words.
Gertrude stuck her head outside, staring in the direction of the porch. “What’s all that stuff? Don’t tell me you and your dim-witted cousin bought up Canada.”
“I got you some chocolates,” Judith answered with a big, artificial smile.
Briefly, Gertrude brightened. “Good. Leave ’em on the doorstep.” She started to close the door.
“Mother!” Judith grabbed the doorknob just in time. “What’s going on? Are you hiding a man in there?”
Mother and daughter tussled with the door. Judith won, though the battle wasn’t easy, especially on a bad ankle. Marching into the little apar
tment, she surveyed Gertrude’s domain. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. The hot, airless room smelled of liver and onions.
“You’re eating?” Judith asked, still suspicious.
“Just going to sit down. You know I like my supper on time.” Gertrude glared at her daughter, but her movements were nervous.
The adventures of the past three days, the long drive home, the physical battering, and the uncertainty about Joe had taken a big toll on Judith. She was too tired to hassle with her mother.
“I’ll come back after dinner with your chocolates,” she said in a tired voice.
“Fine,” Gertrude retorted. “G’bye.”
The phone rang. Judith’s eyes automatically darted to the green Trimline on the small table by the davenport. A gray box sat next to the phone. The ringer sounded a second time, but Gertrude didn’t budge. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a hard line. The phone rang again.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Judith demanded.
“No.” Gertrude advanced toward Judith on her walker. “G’bye.”
Circumventing her mother, Judith moved swiftly to the phone. She started to pick it up, then stared at the little box, taking in the small screen and the logo.
“That’s my Caller I.D.!” Judith exclaimed. “What’s it doing here?”
“Rats!” Gertrude banged her walker on the carpeted floor. The phone kept ringing. She sighed and her stooped shoulders sagged. “The stupid thing won’t register phone calls from outside the city. So it’s worthless to you, right?” She paused as Judith took in her mother’s meaning. “That current lummox you married let me try it out.” The phone was still ringing. “I won’t get one of those dopey answering machines, but this works just fine for my purposes.” At last the phone was silent. Gertrude hobbled over to the small table. “Ha! It was Deb! See, her number comes up on this little TV-screen thingamabob. Now I can avoid talking to her more than six times a day.”
Judith held her head. “Mother—that’s mean.”