Auntie Mayhem (21 page)

A battle was raging in Eleanor's eyes. She obviously didn't want to do the cousins any favors, but she also wanted to get rid of them. The phone rang, turning the tide in favor of cooperation.

“He lives with his niece in Old Church Lane, Great Pauncefoot. But,” she added over her shoulder, “you might still find him at the pub.”

Judith closed the door. “We'll have our pint yet,” she said, looking a bit smug. “I wish I liked beer.”

“English beer is better than ours. Stout, that's the ticket. Otherwise, I only drink beer when I wallpaper. Unless I'm forced into it,” Renie added.

“So I've noticed.” Judith's tone was wry. “You haven't done your own wallpapering in twenty years.”

“That's because our upstairs toilet keeps blowing up and flooding the rest of the house,” Renie replied with a trace of indignation. “The insurance pays for the repair jobs. I let the paperhanger drink the beer. That's why the match is off in our bedroom.”

Judith kept the comeback to herself. They had crossed the High Street and were in front of the pub. Over four hundred years, The Hare and the Hart had settled, giving it a crooked appearance. But inside, the common room was dark and cozy. A half-dozen patrons were lined up at the bar, drinking from thick, tall glasses. All were men over sixty, but the most ancient was also the most recognizable: Judith and Renie sidled up to Mr. Pettigrew.

“Hello there,” Judith said loudly, assuming that her prey was deaf. “Could we buy you a drink?”

The other five men cried, “Here, here!” Two of them banged their almost-empty glasses on the bar. Judith blanched.

“Okay,” she said more softly, turning to the barkeep, who was a balding man of middle age. He had narrow shoulders, a sizable paunch, and eyes the color of the dark beer he was serving. Judith gave him an off-center smile. “Let's have a round for everybody.”

The ritual completed, Judith and Renie perched on each side of Mr. Pettigrew. “We're doing research,” Judith shouted. “On the Ravenscrofts. We understand you were their steward for many years.”

Mr. Pettigrew sipped the ale he'd been working on before the cousins' arrival. “Why the devil are you screaming?” he asked in a low baritone voice. “Are you deaf?”

Judith gave a little jump. “Oh—no! I…Excuse me.” She attempted another smile.

“You were at Ramsey's,” Mr. Pettigrew said, making it sound like an accusation. “The inquest, too. Who would you be then? Yanks? Canadians?”

Judith explained as succinctly as she could. Mr. Pettigrew nodded slowly. He was very thin, though not exactly frail. In his younger years, he had probably been the wiry type, with deceptive strength. His lined face was weathered and dry, like an autumn leaf. But the blue eyes that looked out from under the wispy strands of white hair were shrewd.

“Ask me then,” Pettigrew murmured.

The old man's receptiveness rattled Judith. She didn't know where to start. “You retired when Walter Paget came along, isn't that so?”

Mr. Pettigrew snorted. “
Miss Ravenscroft
retired me. Young Paget must have a job, and I was sent packing. Oh, Mrs. Karamzin saw to it that I left with a tidy sum, but all the same, I'd rather have stayed on. What did I know after fifty years but being steward at Ravenscroft House?”

Judith calculated that Mr. Pettigrew would have been well into his seventies when Walter Paget pulled the job out from under him. “You'd earned a rest,” she said in an ameliorating tone.

Mr. Pettigrew snorted again. “A rest! Digby Pettigrew isn't one to rest! I've worked ever since—handyman,
groom, harvester. Keeps me fit. No, I'm not resting until I'm in my grave.”

Renie leaned forward on the bar to catch Mr. Pettigrew's attention. “Why were the Ravenscrofts so anxious to hire Mr. Paget? It sounds as if you were able to handle the work.”

Digby Pettigrew swiveled slightly on the barstool. “So I was, and do twice the job of a younger man. Lazy, they are. But oh, no, Miss Ravenscroft had to take on this lad with no more experience than falling off a haycart. Set on him, she was, right from the start. And everyone else must go along with her. That's the way it always was at the big house. She's gone now, and good riddance, I say.” He swallowed the last of his ale in a gulp.

The subject of Walter Paget having seemed to reach a dead end, Judith switched to Aimee Ravenscroft, Fleur Karamzin's twin. Digby Pettigrew frowned into his fresh glass of ale.

“Miss Aimee,” he mused. “And Miss Fleur. Couldn't tell them apart when they were small. Full of life, they were, bouncing all over the place. But they changed when they got older. Miss Fleur was still jolly, always ready to laugh. Miss Aimee, now—she was different. Moody-like, and given to tantrums. On her head or on her heels—you'd never know with that one. Fought something fierce with her mother and old Miss Ravenscroft. No surprise there when she ran off with her young man. Come to a bad end, that's what Miss Ravenscroft said, and for once, she might have been right. I heard Miss Aimee and her man died from drugs. Terrible thing, drugs. Why don't people learn?”

“Who was her husband?” Renie asked. “Assuming they were married, that is.”

“They married, all right.” Mr. Pettigrew nodded grimly. “Better if they hadn't. Miss Ravenscroft wouldn't have disowned her, maybe. Lived abroad, died abroad, buried abroad. Served them right. Why can't people stay where they belong? I've never left Somerset. Missed both wars. Too young for the first, too old for the second. But I was no shirker. I did my duty on the homefront. Whatever was asked of Digby Pettigrew, that's what was done.” The old
man raised his glass, perhaps saluting himself.

Renie hadn't given up on her original question. “Aimee's husband—did you know who he was?”

Mr. Pettigrew gazed at Renie with something akin to pity. “Of course not. He was a Yeovil lad. How should I know him?”

Marveling to herself at the insularity that still existed among the older generation of Englishmen, Judith moved on to Colonel Chelmsford. “You must know him—he lives next door to the Ravenscrofts.”

“That I do.” This time the nod was slightly less grim. “Old bore, if you ask me. To hear his war stories, you'd think he was the Duke of Wellington. Kept my distance, I did. Not that it was hard to do—he never came 'round.”

Judith had been absently sipping her beer. Halfway down, she realized that Renie was right—the strong dark brew was definitely a cut above the American variety she bought for Joe at Falstaff's Market.

“But he did come by last Friday,” Judith pointed out. “It seems there's some property dispute. I suppose that's what has caused the bad feeling between the colonel and the Ravenscrofts all these years.”

Mr. Pettigrew chuckled, revealing ill-fitting dentures. “That! Chelmsford wants a—what do you call it?—easement or such so that his cows can get down to the river. He hasn't got but four. The bank is steep on his property, but it slopes by the Ravenscroft stone wall. I hear he wants ten feet of that wall removed to make room for the cows. Well, maybe the young people will accommodate him now that Miss Ravenscroft's gone.”

For a few moments, both cousins were silent. To Judith, the fence dispute sounded minor. Of course, the wall was probably as old as the house. Steeped in tradition, Aunt Pet would have resisted taking down any of the stones. No doubt she had fought all sorts of change. But her supposed refusal of Colonel Chelmsford's request hardly sounded like a motive for murder. Or, for that matter, worthy of a bitter feud.

“Aunt Pet certainly didn't like the colonel,” Judith re
marked at last. “They must have fought over more than the stone wall.”

Under his worn tweed jacket, Mr. Pettigrew shrugged. “They did at that. It was always like cat and dog between them.” Finishing his free beer, he removed a pocket watch from inside his jacket. “Ah! Two minutes after two. The Great Pauncefoot bus comes by at two-oh-nine. I must be on my way.”

Judith and Renie hurriedly downed their own drinks, accepted murmured thanks from the other patrons, and escorted Mr. Pettigrew to the door.

“You've been very helpful,” Judith said as they stepped out into another soft spring rain.

Mr. Pettigrew looked skeptical. “Can't see how. There's no explaining a woman like Miss Ravenscroft. Thwarted, that's what she was. Women are poor losers when it comes to love.” The old man toddled off down the High Street, using the cane for only sporadic support.

Judith and Renie were in hot pursuit. “Hey—Mr. Pettigrew!” Judith caught up with him in front of the greengrocer's. “What's this about love?”

The shrewd blue eyes took on a disparaging cast. “Love! Makes the world go 'round, they say. Could be so. I had a wife who…but that's a long story, both bitter and sweet.” Anxiously, he glanced at the road some fifty yards away. “Pardon, ma'am.” He nodded at Renie. “And ma'am. I'll be missing my bus if I don't hurry.”

“We'll flag it for you,” Judith volunteered, keeping close to the old man's side. “Did Miss Ravenscroft love and lose? Is that why she was…ah…‘thwarted'?”

Despite the cane, Mr. Pettigrew's gait was nimble. “I was a mere lad at the time, working the stables. Miss Ravenscroft was eighteen, handsome in her way, perfect carriage and excellent seat on a horse.” They had passed the butcher shop and were turning the corner, heading for the library. “She fell in love, as young girls do. Her father reluctantly encouraged the match, since the boy's family was county but the bloodlines were mediocre. His parents pushed him, but the lad had a roving eye. Oh, he courted Miss Ravenscroft, but his heart wasn't in it.” Panting just
a bit, Mr. Pettigrew stopped at the edge of the road. He wore an air of expectancy and kept his eyes on the oncoming traffic from Yeovil. A middle-aged couple and two teenagers were also waiting for the bus. “The next thing you knew, it was all off. The lad had gotten another young lady in trouble, as we used to say. Bun in the oven.” Mr. Pettigrew winked. “Miss Ravenscroft was never the same. Two minutes,” he said, checking his watch again. “The bus will be here in two minutes.”

Judith noticed that the other waiting bus riders were eyeing Mr. Pettigrew and the cousins curiously. “Yes, um…Who was this fellow? The beau, I mean.”

Mr. Pettigrew frowned at Judith. “I thought you knew. Didn't you mention a feud between the families? Miss Ravenscroft was madly in love with the colonel's father, Clarence Chelmsford. Bit of a rogue, if you ask me. Ah well—that's life. Here's the bus. It's been a pleasure.”

Mr. Pettigrew queued up with the others and got on the red and white vehicle. Judith and Renie were left, if not in the dust, at least in a daze.

“I
NEVER HAVE
time to work on the jigsaw,” Judith complained, referring to the puzzles she kept on a card table in the living room at Hillside Manor. “The guests enjoy them, but I miss putting the pieces together. I suppose figuring out the lives and loves of Little Pauncefoot is the next best thing.”

“Better,” Renie declared as they trudged back to Ravenscroft House. “This is a real-life puzzle. The problem is, the pieces may not fit. Has it occurred to you that all these events may be isolated?”

But Judith shook her head. “They aren't, though. Clarence Chelmsford was the great love of Aunt Pet's life. Dora overheard her mistress and the colonel say something that sounded like ‘cadence' or ‘valence.' I'll bet it was ‘Clarence.' Mr. Chelmsford died in February. Maybe the colonel had gotten around to bringing Aunt Pet some keepsakes from his father.”

“She kept them, even if she threw Chummy out.” Renie scuffed at a withered seed pod, then wrinkled her nose. “Phew—there's that smell again. It's worse than the paper mills at home.”

Trying to ignore the awful odor, Judith walked faster. “Old sins cast long shadows, as they say. The lives of the Ravenscrofts and the Marchmonts and the Karamzins are entwined with the rest of the village. The staff, too—
Mr. Pettigrew, Mrs. Tichborne, Dora Hobbs, even Harwood.”

“Harwood isn't a real person,” Renie said as they stealthily passed through the archway of the gatehouse. “He's wax.” Furtively, she looked over her shoulder to see if Walter Paget was lurking somewhere, watching them. “Say, coz, we never got around to calling on Arthur Tinsley. I still think we should talk to him about how to handle this inheritance thing.”

Judith kept her eyes on the winding drive. “Right, we'll do that. Real soon. Tomorrow morning, maybe. Now I want to call the hospital and see how Mother is doing.”

“It's six in the morning at home,” Renie pointed out, giving Judith a curious look.

“I know,” Judith said as they approached the main entrance to the house. “That's a good time to call—the nurses change shift at seven, so I'll be able to get a full report on how Mother got along last night.”

“Then go for it,” Renie urged. “If it were my mother, I'd do it.”

Judith gave a faint nod. Gazing up at the facade of the house, she saw the Nine Muses reposing in their niches. Which was Melpomene, the muse of tragedy? Judith voiced the question aloud, but more to herself than to Renie.

“The one who's holding the bottle of Prozac,” Renie answered impatiently. “How would I know? I like history, not mythology. Give me real people every time.”

Judith wasn't inclined to argue. Inside the house, all seemed unexpectedly quiet. If the police were still present, there was no sign of them. The door to the drawing room was closed, which might indicate that the family members were closeted there to plan the funeral.

“Let's go use the phone in the library,” Judith suggested. “Then we're going to make some notes.”

The phone call went through with efficiency. It took a few moments, however, to reach the nurse who was in charge of Gertrude. When she finally came on the line. Judith spoke in an uncharacteristically obsequious manner.

“Ramona, is it? What a lovely name! Yes, I'm Mrs. Grover's daughter. I hate to bother you, but I'm concerned
about Mother. Even a slight fall at her age can be dangerous. And sometimes she's a bit foxy about telling me things. How is she doing?”

Ramona the Nurse didn't respond immediately. Judith wondered if they'd been cut off. She glanced at Renie, who was trying to keep an impassive face on the other side of the big desk.

“Your mother is gone,” Ramona said at last in sepulchral tones.

Judith reeled in the leather chair. “
Gone?
You don't mean…You can't mean…?” The ghastly question hung in the room, causing Renie to freeze in place.

“Mrs. Grover checked out last night,” Ramona explained in the same morbid voice. “Her doctor saw no reason for her to stay on and she was anxious to go home. Naturally, with the high costs of hospital care, we don't encourage patients to remain when it's not medically necessary. Mrs. Grover assured us that her daughter would take excellent care of her.” There was another pause, though much briefer. “Would that be you or a sister?”

The relief, which was now mingled with confusion on Judith's face, had allowed Renie to relax momentarily. But Judith's next words weren't entirely reassuring.

“I'm the only child. I can't take care of Mother. I'm in
England
.” A desperate note had crept into Judith's voice.

“That will be difficult,” Ramona allowed. “Excuse me, a patient is buzzing. Good day.”

Judith sat with the receiver balanced precariously in her hand. “Damn! Mother did a bunk! She told the doctor I could play nurse. Now what?”

Renie considered. “The Rankerses are probably taking over. Maybe it was too complicated to explain.”

“Maybe.” Still juggling the receiver, Judith sighed. “I hate to impose on Carl and Arlene. They're so good-hearted, but this is asking too much.” Impulsively, Judith rang again for the overseas operator and put another call through, this time to the toolshed on Heraldsgate Hill. “I'm calling Mother,” she told Renie. “It's six-thirty. She might be awake, especially if she had an uncomfortable night.”

The first eight rings caused Judith no concern. The sec
ond eight had her chewing her lower lip. By the time the count had reached twenty-five, Judith hung up.

“Maybe she's sleeping,” Renie suggested, now exchanging her frown for a feeble smile of encouragement.

“Maybe,” Judith said without conviction. The cousins sat in silence for a full minute before Judith suddenly passed the receiver over to Renie. “Call your mother. She always wakes up early. She'll know what's going on. I hope.”

Renie jumped back from the phone as if it might bite. “Good grief, Mom will talk for hours! I'll be in debt up to my ears! How about calling Carl and Arlene?”

“They're probably fixing breakfast for the B&B guests. I don't want to bother them.” Judith pressed the phone on Renie. “Come on, coz, this is urgent!”

It was, and Renie knew it. Sighing, she grasped the receiver. Two minutes later, her mother's voice was humming in her ear.

“Dearest! Where are you? What's happened? Are you all right? Did you get sick? Have you been hurt? Did you lose Bill? I'm listening to the morning news, and the most terrible things are happening!”

“I'm fine, Mom,” Renie finally managed to get in. “Judith is fine, too. So are Bill and Joe.” She glanced at Judith, whose teeth were now clamped on her lower lip. “We're calling about Aunt Gertrude. Judith can't seem to…ah…find her.”

Deborah Grover's voice took on a note of umbrage. “Well, how should I know where Gertrude is? Does my sister-in-law ever call to tell me anything? No, not her—she sits over there in that nice remodeled apartment of hers just a stone's throw from her daughter and never lifts a finger to dial
my
number. She could be dead for all I know.” It sounded as if the thought was not altogether displeasing to Deborah Grover.

Judith was now wringing her hands. Renie was wringing the receiver, as if she could choke the information out of her mother. “Where
is
Aunt Gertrude exactly?”

Renie's mother sniffed audibly. “I'd be the last to know. Ordinarily, dear, that is. By chance—merely by chance,
you realize—your Auntie Vance, who isn't nearly as big a
poop
as your Aunt Gertrude, filled me in. She and Uncle Vince have taken Gertrude up to their house on the island for a few days. Gertrude had to go somewhere, after they threw her out of the hospital.”

Hastily, Renie put a hand over the mouthpiece and relayed Gertrude's whereabouts. “How did that happen?” Renie asked her mother, not wanting to cause Judith further alarm. Yet.

“Your aunt can be so ornery.” Deborah Grover emitted a put-upon sigh. “And don't I know it, after all these years of playing bridge with her. Just last week, she wouldn't speak to me for two days because I didn't bid my hand. Or so she said. I had thirteen points but
no
suit. Now how could I bid no-trump with cards like that? She insisted we would have had a small slam, just because
she
opened. Well, sometimes Gertrude takes
terrible
risks. Oh, she had fifteen points and a slew of spades, I'll admit, but how was I to know? I passed at three diamonds. I see no point in—”

“Mom!” With her free hand, Renie clutched at her hair. “Mom,” she repeated in a softer voice, “tell me about
now
. How Aunt Gertrude…um…left the hospital.”

“Under a cloud,” Deborah replied with malice. “She accused the nurse of cheating at cribbage. You know your aunt, she will
not
give in. She always has to be right. The nurse wouldn't apologize
and
she refused to play with Gertrude anymore. So your aunt said, ‘Fine, then let me out of here.' You know how she is—if Gertrude can't play cards, she'd rather be
dead
. The doctor came to check on her, and she told him off, too. She always has to have
her say
, as she puts it. The poor man must have been at wits' end when she unplugged her roommate's heart monitor. Then she lit a cigarette. Such a filthy habit, and it's not allowed in hospitals, thank goodness. No wonder the doctor decided to send her home.”

Renie was nodding in a dazed fashion. “Well, certainly. Except she didn't go home, she went up to the island with Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince, right?”

“That's right,” Deborah agreed. “They'd come down to
visit her in the hospital—of course they stopped to see me for a bit and brought some lovely clam chowder—I do wish they could have stayed longer, but they're just like you, always in such a hurry to be off.” The note of reproach in her mother's voice caused Renie to wince. “They got to the hospital around seven, just when the nurses were wheeling Gertrude's roommate off to intensive care. Or was it the nurse they were taking away? I don't recall. Anyway, after some
discussion
, your aunt and uncle promised to take Gertrude with them. It's a good thing, if you ask me. The only person who can get the better of your Aunt Gertrude is your Auntie Vance.”

On any given day, Auntie Vance could get the better of Ivan the Terrible, as both Judith and Renie well knew. With her rough tongue and good heart, Vanessa Grover Cogshell was a study in contradictions. She was also capable of holding Gertrude's head under water until she cried “Uncle.” Which, if she were crying for Uncle Vince, would do no good, because he'd probably be asleep. He usually was, except when driving. Even then, there was often some uncertainty about his level of consciousness.

“It sounds,” Renie said, trying to keep her voice even, “as if things are under control.”

“I should hope so,” Deborah responded. “The Rankerses are feeding the cat. And taking care of the B&B, of course. Such nice people—I do wish they'd drop in here more often. Arlene always has such a lot of news. I spoke with her on the phone the other day, and she told me that Sophie Weinerhoffen's gall bladder had—”

“Mom,” Renie interrupted gently, “I really should go so I can tell Judith about Aunt Gertrude. She's been pretty worried. You know how that is.”

“Oh!” Deborah's gasp was palpable. “I do! Worry—that's all I've done since you and Bill left town! You can't imagine how relieved I'll be when you're safe at home! Just last night I was talking on the phone to Mrs. Parker, and she said that—”

Frantically, Renie poked a random button on the receiver. An ear-splitting squawk ensued. “Hey, Mom! I
think we've got transmission problems! I'd better hang up! Love you!”

“What, dear? What was that you uttered? Now Serena, don't go out in the rain without your plastic bonnet—”

Renie poked another button. “This interference is
deafening
. Don't worry, everything's great, take care.”

“Don't worry about
me
,” Deborah Grover said, at her most pitiful. “I'll be all right, alone here in my squalid little—”

Holding her head, Renie hung up. “Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind,” she murmured. “Or something like that.
Your
mother got tossed from Good Hope Hospital. You're lucky they don't cancel her membership plan.”

Judith groaned. “Oh, jeez! What did she do now?”

Renie told Judith everything. Her previous desire to spare her cousin the gruesome details had been obliterated by Deborah Grover's martyred whine.

“They'll outlive us yet,” Renie said in conclusion. “Wait and see. When we're gone, they'll both bitch about what rotten daughters we were because we croaked from aneurisms and left them in the lurch.”

Numbly, Judith nodded. “At least Auntie Vance may be able to cope with Mother. Oh, dear.” Raising her head from where it was lying on the desk, Judith tried to shake off the most recent dual maternal experiences. “Maybe I'll call Mother tomorrow.”

Renie made no comment. Judith stared off into space for some time, then finally gave herself a good shake. “Let me show you the will. If it's still here.” She opened the desk drawer cautiously. “Ah!—it is. I'm almost surprised.”

Quickly, Renie read through the lines of spidery blue ink. “It's just as you—and Tinsley—said.” She sighed, as woefully as her mother. “We've got to get out of this mess, coz.”

Judith lifted an eyebrow. “The inheritance? Or the murder?”

“Both,” Renie said firmly. She started to push the single sheet back at Judith, then suddenly retrieved it. “You're right,” Renie said, gazing at the handwritten will. “There
is
something odd about this paper. It's short.”