by Mary Daheim
“No, it’s not. It’s sensible. It’s not necessary to listen to her yak my life away. Short as the rest of it may be.” Gertrude seemed to shrink behind her walker.
Judith started to upbraid her mother, then moved swiftly to give her a hug. “Don’t say things like that. You’ll make a hundred, easy.”
Almost shyly, Gertrude looked up at her daughter. “You’ll be sorry if I do,” she warned, but her raspy voice shook.
Judith hugged her tight. “No, I won’t. I’ll throw you a party like this town has never seen. If I have to, I’ll cater it myself.” Lightly, she kissed the top of Gertrude’s head.
“You better cater it yourself, kiddo.” Gertrude returned the hug. Or maybe it was a little shake. “Your hot-water heater went out while you were gone. The dishwasher busted. The microwave blew up. I’m glad I don’t have your bills.”
“What?” Suddenly in shock, Judith released her mother. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Joe say something?”
Gertrude shrugged, making her heavy cardigan sweater bag even more than usual. “Why worry you? You and my goofy niece were over the border, having fun.” The note of reproach was only a trace more subtle than usual. “Hey, take a hike. My liver and onions are drying up!” She made a shooing gesture with her walker.
With dogged steps, Judith retreated to Hillside Manor. Her first duty was to check her guest list. She had come close to cataloging the evening’s visitors: All five rooms were full, though the Californians were actually Floridians. There was no sign of occupancy upstairs. Apparently everyone was still out playing tourist or conferee.
Swiftly, Judith put the boxes of candy in the refrigerator. She ran down to the basement to throw in a load of dirty clothes. She also stored the new Christmas decorations with the rest of her holiday finery. Then she climbed the three flights of stairs to the family quarters, where she dumped her suitcase and hung up the blue-on-blue crepe de Chine dress she’d purchased earlier in the day at a chic Port Royal boutique. Regrets were useless: Her bank cards were at the limit, her cash reserve was down to eighteen dollars and forty-three cents, and whatever was left in the savings account would go for household repairs. Disheartened, she returned to the main floor to fix appetizers and punch for her guests.
As Judith worked in the kitchen, she listened to the staggering number of messages on the answering machine. Most of them were for upcoming reservations. There were also three requests for catering social events, including a wedding reception at the B&B in January. Since business seemed to be booming, Judith tried to console herself. Maybe she would be forced into keeping the catering sideline going, at least until the bills were paid. That, she knew, would probably take forever. Having insulted Dagmar, Judith was having second thoughts about transferring the phone charges. Three hundred dollars was cheap penance for accusing a bereaved mother of killing her daughter. Of course, she’d have to ask the phone company for a copy of the bill; Rhys Penreddy hadn’t remembered to return it. For all she knew, the Bugler Police Department was using her number to make calls to Zimbabwe.
Having thawed three dozen prawns, Judith was unwrapping a package of Brie when the back screen door slammed. Only family and close friends entered the house from the rear. Judith peered into the passageway. Joe was slinging a rumpled cotton jacket on a peg. His face was very red and he was perspiring. He still wore his shoulder holster.
Seeing Judith, he rocked slightly on his heels. “You’re home,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.
“Of course I’m home,” Judith answered stiffly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Joe came into the kitchen, but made no move to embrace Judith. She held her ground by the tiled counter. They stared at each other for a long moment; then Judith lowered her eyes and went to get a platter from the cupboard.
“Tough day?” she asked in a cool tone.
“Tough. Satisfying.” Joe moved uncertainly about the kitchen, going between the stove and the table. “Say, are you limping?”
“It’s nothing. Renie and I went on a short hike. I fell in a hole. No need for you to worry.” Judith’s air smacked of Aunt Deb at her most martyred.
Joe glanced at Judith’s legs. Luckily, the swelling had gone down while Judith kept one foot propped up during the drive home. “They look okay to me. They always do.”
Judith ignored the hint of appreciation in Joe’s green eyes. “Dinner may be a little late. I haven’t stopped for a minute since I got home.”
“No problem. I need to unwind.” He removed a beer from the refrigerator. “The arraignment in the My Brew Heaven homicide is set for Monday. Phil Lapchick should be out of the hospital by then. I hear he’s going to plead not guilty. He’s threatening to sue the city and his lawyer is demanding that we drop the charges.”
“Really.” Judith’s interest was minimal.
Joe took a couple of steps closer to Judith. “He’s claiming self-defense. He says Les Bauer had a gun in a cupboard behind the bar.”
“Oh?” Judith sidestepped Joe to get at the microwave, then remembered that it was broken. Except that it wasn’t. A sleek new model sat on the shelf next to the stove. “Joe!” Judith turned to face her husband, her jaw dropping. “Did you buy this?”
“What?” He glanced at the appliance. “Oh, right, I got it this morning after I let the gas company in to install the new hot-water heater. I had to hurry, though, because the dishwasher repairman was coming at one o’clock. Phyliss Rackley didn’t show up until two, because she had to help get ready for her church’s Pentecostal Follies.”
“The dishwasher’s fixed?” Judith could hardly believe her ears. She dropped the plastic plate for the Brie, then bent down to pick it up. “I thought you worked all day.”
Joe shrugged. “I put in a few hours this afternoon. The Bauer case is pretty well wrapped up. Except for Diana, of course. She’s still going to need somebody to help her get through the next few weeks.”
Judith’s rush of good feeling faded fast. “Oh. Well, certainly.” She turned her back on Joe and popped the Brie into the new microwave. “By all means, make time for Diana.”
“I will.” Joe sounded casual. “I told you, it’s tough. The tavern hasn’t been doing well lately, Les didn’t have much insurance, and they bought a new car last month. Diana’s thinking of selling My Brew Heaven, investing the profits, and living off her Social Security.”
Judith opened a box of sesame crackers. “How nice for her.” Sarcasm oozed from her voice. “Is her home paid for or is she—” Judith dropped a handful of crackers. She whirled on Joe. “Her Social Security? Why does she get that? Is she disabled?”
“No.” Joe’s face showed no expression. “Diana’s seventy-three. She’s been drawing it for eleven years, but so has Les. Now she’ll only get her own, or his, whichever is greater.”
Judith dropped her guard. She didn’t care if she stepped on the fallen crackers. Throwing herself at Joe, she started to laugh and cry at the same time. “Oh, Joe! I thought Diana was a gorgeous young girl! I had visions of her fawning all over you and gaining your sympathy and coaxing you into…”
“I tried to tell you she wasn’t exactly a kid,” Joe said on a note of reproach. “But you kept blabbing away at me. Screw it, I figured. Let Jude-girl stew. It might be good for her.”
Judith started to say she thought otherwise, but Joe’s kiss stopped her rampant speculation. She held him tight, choking on tears and laughter. Renie was right: Judith hadn’t trusted Joe; she hadn’t trusted his love for her; she hadn’t trusted their marriage. Instead she’d thrown herself into solving Agnes Shay’s murder. She did have faith in her ability to solve problems. Not her own—eighteen years of marriage to Dan had been an exercise in futility. But Judith could help other people, whether their needs were related to hospitality or homicide. Maybe, she thought vaguely, it was time to let Joe help her be herself. And to trust in each other.
Dimly, she heard the front door open. The guests had their
own keys, and several voices were making merry noises in the entry hall. Over Joe’s shoulder, Judith peeked at the old schoolhouse clock. It was two minutes to six. Reluctantly, she pulled free.
“The social hour,” she gasped. “I’ve got to get this stuff out for the guests.” Hurriedly, she removed the Brie from the microwave, arranged more crackers on a tray, and placed the prawns on a bed of ice. She was putting the ladle in the punchbowl when she unleashed her grievance.
“You were awfully mean on the phone the other night,” she said, though the anger in her voice was subdued.
Joe was taking off his holster. “You were awfully unreasonable. I was awfully tired. And it was awfully hot here this week, especially in the attic bedroom. Besides,” he went on as he hung the holster over the back of a kitchen chair and moved to get the appetizer tray, “I kept worrying about you, Jude-girl. I couldn’t help thinking how you and Renie get into all kinds of trouble when you leave town. I’m glad as hell that you managed to kick back and relax on this trip.”
Judith blinked. Giving Joe a sidelong look, she was almost certain that he was quite serious. Perhaps the local media hadn’t covered the murder of Agnes Shay or the attempt on Dagmar’s life. The Kreager factor might be keeping a lid on the story. And maybe the Canadians hadn’t made an inquiry into the Chatsworth party’s stay on Heraldsgate Hill. Or, if any of those things had happened, it was possible that Joe had been too busy to notice.
Judith let Joe elbow open the swinging door that led to the dining room. They greeted their guests warmly, delivered the punch and the appetizers, then retreated to the kitchen once more.
“Bugler’s a beautiful spot,” Judith remarked noncommittally. Casting about for a change of subject, she dropped the empty fruit-punch can. It rolled almost to the sink.
Joe was scanning the evening newspaper’s sports page. He looked up from the baseball scores as Judith threw the can in the recycling bin. “How did you and Renie amuse yourselves? Neither of you is exactly what I’d call athletic.”
Judith was searching the freezer for dinner ideas. “Oh, as I said, we hiked. We swam. We shopped. We ate. We drank.” She found four small lamb chops and avoided Joe’s gaze as she defrosted them in the microwave. “There were horses and dogs and all sorts of interesting people. Mostly, we just sat around and enjoyed the scenery.”
Joe was now leafing through the front section of the newspaper. “Sounds great. By the way, the mail’s in the basket by the phone. Nothing much except bills.” He grinned over the top of the paper. “I half-expected us to get a summons from that Chatsworth woman. She was pretty riled about her dumb dog. I wonder what happened to that crew.”
Judith took a deep breath. She should tell Joe the truth, of course. That was part of the trust they must forge between them. But would she be bragging? Did she want to top Joe’s latest homicide arrest with her solution of Agnes Shay’s murder? Was she really competing with him or merely an innocent victim of circumstances?
Old habits die hard. Judith turned to Joe and gave him her most beguiling look. “I don’t know,” she said. Judith would never mention Dagmar again; she would keep her mouth shut about Bugler; she would drop no hints of any kind. But she almost dropped the chops.
Joe continued reading the newspaper. Judith lined the broiler rack with aluminum foil. From the living room, the guests could be heard laughing and talking. Sweetums managed to claw open the back-door screen. He ambled into the kitchen and dropped a dead starling at Judith’s feet. If it had been a crow, Judith would have felt like eating it. She scolded Sweetums, who seemed to sneer at her. Judith wrapped the dead bird in a paper towel and threw it in the garbage can. Sweetums yawned.
“Hey,” Joe noted, glancing at the cat, “he looks pretty good. Frisky, too. I wonder what happened to Rover.”
Judith came over to the kitchen table and sat on Joe’s lap. “Who knows? Who cares?” She kissed Joe on the lips. He returned the kiss.
They dropped the subject.
About the Author
Seattle native Mary Daheim began telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.
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Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Mary Daheim
from Avon Books
THIS OLD SOUSE
HOCUS CROAKUS
SILVER SCREAM
SUTURE SELF
A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE
CREEPS SUZETTE
HOLY TERRORS
JUST DESSERTS
LEGS BENEDICT
SNOW PLACE TO DIE
WED AND BURIED
SEPTEMBER MOURN
NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE
AUNTIE MAYHEM
MURDER, MY SUITE
MAJOR VICES
A FIT OF TEMPERA
BANTAM OF THE OPERA
DUNE TO DEATH
FOWL PREY
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MURDER, MY SUITE. Copyright © 2007 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061737237
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