Nutty As a Fruitcake (13 page)

It was only the third day of December, Judith reminded herself. There was no need for panic. She marched up to the Goodrich front door and knocked.

It appeared that Patches Morgan and Sancha Rael were about to leave. Rael eyed Judith speculatively, but Morgan exuded hearty, if wary, warmth.

“Yo-ho-ho, Ms. Flynn!” he said in his deep, exuberant voice. “And what might you be needing on this fine December day?”

“I'm worried about something JoAnne Goodrich told me this morning,” Judith said with feigned candor. “She implied that George isn't guilty.”

“Well, now!” Morgan made as if to put an arm around Judith, apparently thought better of it, and paced the plastic runner with his hands clasped behind his back. “What makes Ms. Goodrich say such a thing, I wonder? Eh?”

“It's what George says,” Judith responded. “Ever since he came to, he's been insisting that he didn't kill his wife. Have you talked to him?”

Morgan smoothed his luxuriant mustache and fixed his good
left eye on Judith. “That I have.” He waited for Judith to react. She waited for him to elaborate. The detective fingered the wide lapels of his crimson-lined raincoat. Today, he wore a muted plaid suit with a bright blue shirt and a dark green tie. Judith couldn't help but marvel at his sartorial audacity. “Well now?” he prompted, the left eye twinkling.

“Well,” Judith replied, “isn't it possible that George really is innocent? I don't mean to meddle, but I've known him forever, and he certainly doesn't strike me as a killer.”

“Now Ms. Flynn,” Morgan said in a kindly tone, “you being Joe's wife and all, it's natural that you might want to help us solve this crime. But Detective Rael and I are doing just fine.” He lowered his deep voice to a confidential level. “Yes, we've heard Mr. Goodrich deny killing Mrs. Goodrich. We hear a lot of things in this job, as I'm sure your very wonderful husband can tell you. Don't think we aren't considering all the angles. That's why we're here.” The left eye winked.

Judith evinced surprise. “Really? You're taking Mr. Goodrich seriously?”

Sancha Rael had sidled up to her superior. “Look,” she said with a condescending smile for Judith, “we have to take
everything
seriously. You're married to a cop—you should know that.”

“Aye, matey,” Morgan said to Rael, “you're absolutely right. We leave no stone unturned.”

Judith gulped. The phrase reminded her of the phony rock in the garden. “Actually, you did,” Judith said a bit anxiously, delving into her pocket. “Leave a stone unturned, that is. We found this key in the gutter and also this steak knife. I'm sure the key was kept in a fake rock. It fits the back door.”

Morgan's mustache seemed to bristle. He took the plastic bag and its contents from Judith. His good left eye regarded her with disapproval.

Rael, however, was clearly outraged. “You've been concealing evidence? How could you, Ms. Flynn, when your husband works for the department?”

For once, Judith didn't try to dissemble. “My cousin found
the items last night by accident. We checked to see if the key fit, but we didn't go into the house. Then.” Judith rushed on: “I didn't want to bother Joe. He and Woody Price have enough on their plate with the Shazri case. I'm handing over these items now, which is the first opportunity I've had. Do you want to hear my theory or not?”

“Your
theory
?” shrieked Rael, throwing up her hands. “How about the story of your life?”

“Now, now,” Morgan soothed. “Ms. Flynn means well, I'm sure. By the Great Hornspoon, what might that theory be, Ms. Flynn?”

“It's sort of vague,” Judith admitted, trying to ignore Rael, who was stamping around the room in a disgusted manner. “If George didn't kill Enid, somebody else may have used the key to sneak into the house. I'm not sure who knew where the spare key was hidden, except Art, JoAnne, and Glenda. It's possible that the grandchildren found out about it. Anyway, whoever it was may have been at the house earlier, probably the previous evening. I think he or she put those sleeping pills in George's antacid glass that he kept by his bed. He became unconscious, which allowed the killer to come back and murder Enid. There's a smashed glass in the garbage, which looks as if it contained some milky liquid such as the stuff George took for his ulcers. It was probably broken intentionally by the murderer because he or she didn't intend to harm George but misjudged the dosage. I'm not sure about the steak knife—that may have been the original weapon, but the hatchet must have been handy. It might be smart to compare that knife with the ones in the kitchen. It could be part of a set. The key and the knife were dropped as the killer fled. I think whoever it was had come in through the back, probably after eight o'clock. That's about the time Ted Ericson brought his Christmas tree home. There were Noble fir needles tracked virtually all over the house, including the living room rug. The murderer must have stepped on them in the driveway.” Judith stopped to catch her breath.

Patches Morgan's bluff features displayed open admiration. “Oh-ho! Call me a rogue, call me a knave, but I hadn't come
to any such conclusion! What a theory you have, Ms. Flynn! You've listened well at your husband's knee.”

“Knee, my foot,” muttered Rael.

“It's just logic,” Judith said modestly. “Should we check those knives?” Fleetingly, she saw the dark red stains inside the grandsons' van. But there had to be a logical explanation. Judith decided against bringing up a side issue. Enid Goodrich hadn't been killed in the back of a Ford Econoline. “We could search the kitchen,” she added a bit lamely.

“‘We'?” Morgan arched his dark eyebrows. “Oh, why not? Come along, me hearties, let's have a peek at the utensils.”

Judith half expected Morgan to whip out a cutlass. Following him into the kitchen, she felt Rael skulking behind her. Morgan quickly inspected the walls and counters for any sign of knives. None were visible. He began opening drawers. On the third try, he shouted in triumph.

“A-ha! Here we go! Knives galore!” He sorted through the items which included serving spoons, meat forks, and spatulas.

Judith immediately recognized at least three steak knives as mates to the one Renie had found by the curb. She didn't say so but waited for Morgan to come to the same conclusion.

“Yo-ho-ho!” he cried, holding up two of the knives. “Shiver me timbers, these are one and the same!”

“Swell,” Rael said in a sullen voice.

“Ah…” Judith gave Morgan her most innocent smile. “I suppose you checked for prints?”

“That's what we've been doing,” Morgan replied jovially. “Among other things. There seem to be a great many prints. I thought the victim wasn't very hospitable.”

Fleetingly, Judith realized that her own fingerprints were on several surfaces. She didn't let the fact worry her. “Enid wasn't much of a hostess. But the family did come by regularly. At least Art and Glenda did.”

Apparently, Rael had decided to put her pique aside for the sake of professionalism. “It seems there's been a lot of traffic in and out of here since the murder. Somebody forced open
that desk in the living room. Furniture's been carted away, and the drawers have been ransacked.”

“Ransacked?” Judith bridled a bit at the word. She and Dooley had tried not to leave disorder in their wake. But, of course, they'd had to flee in a hurry. “Oh,” she said airily, “those grandchildren wanted some souvenirs, I guess. They couldn't wait a decent interval.”

Morgan gave a short nod. “That Ms. Cisrak put up quite a case for her share of mementoes. We told her to desist. She can leave town without them. This is no time to be hauling off the family heirlooms.”

“Good,” Judith said. “I'm glad you let her know she couldn't get away with wholesale looting. That sounds harsh, but she and her cousins have behaved very callously.” Judith watched Morgan closely to see how he responded to criticism of the Goodrich grandchildren.

He didn't, at least not as far as Judith could tell. “Don't you worry about those freebooters,” Morgan said with a wag of his finger. “We're going to send a patrol car by here at regular intervals for the next few days.”

“That's reassuring,” Judith replied. “Do you think you'll have solved the case by then? That is, do you have some leads?”

Again, Morgan winked with his left eye. “Now, now, Ms. Flynn, that would be telling. You know your husband wouldn't show his hand. I marvel at how close to the vest he and Price are playing this Shazri thing. Not a word about the evidence they're stockpiling against the assassins. But, of course, there's a political angle.”

Judith smiled blandly. She hoped that Morgan and Rael would take her silence for wifely discretion. It wouldn't do to tell Morgan that when it came to evidence in the Shazri case, Joe and Woody didn't have a clue.

 

Phyliss had indeed washed the inside windows. Judith actually made it to the outfitters in the north end of the city where she bought Mike's backpack and cooler. She even managed to wrap a few gifts, stacking them, as usual, on the third
floor landing next to her weeping fig. Later, after the tree was up, they'd be carried downstairs to the living room.

Feeling virtuous, she poured herself a measure of scotch before Joe got home. Not only had she made progress in her holiday preparations, she had handed over the pieces of evidence to Patches Morgan. Judith was sitting in the living room sipping her drink and reading the evening paper when Joe arrived. He was absolutely livid.

“Our perp got whacked,” he announced, yanking at his tie and throwing his blazer onto the back of the beige sofa. “They found him in a Dumpster by the ferry dock.”

Judith stared. “Does that mean he didn't do it? Or that he did, and somebody wanted revenge?”

Joe circled the space between the matching sofas and the bay window. “Hell, I don't know what it means, except Woody and I have to start from scratch. Why don't Middle Eastern dissidents stay in the Middle East? Or why don't they keep their mouths shut when they move onto our turf? Shazri and his wife were experts at manipulating the media, but so what? All it did was get them killed.”

Judith got up to fix a drink for her husband. “They owned a carpet company, didn't they?”

Joe gave a slight shake of his head, then collapsed onto the sofa. “It was his brother. He's lived here for years. He took Shazri into the business after they fled their native land. The brother's not political, but he's the one who fingered the hit man. The guy had worked as a driver for the company a while ago. And now he's lying in the morgue with six bullets in his chest. Damn! Woody and I will have to pull some weekend duty. The media is going to have a field day with this one.”

Judith handed Joe his drink. “Oh, Joe—I thought we were going to buy the tree this weekend.”

Joe took a grateful sip of scotch and gave Judith a rueful look. “Sorry. Take Renie along. She's got a designer's eye.”

“Maybe I will.” Judith tried to dampen her disappointment. “Except she and Bill and the kids are going to get their own
tree. You know how that goes—they always end up in a five-way fight, and nobody's speaking by the time they get the tree home.”

“They get over it,” Joe said complacently. He was scanning the front page of the newspaper. “The latest wrinkle in the Shazri case hasn't made it into this edition.” Along with the scotch, the fact seemed to cheer him.

Judith glanced at the grandfather clock. It was going on six. The guests' appetizers were made, but she hadn't yet prepared the punch. Halfway to the kitchen, she heard a timid knock at the front door. Friday's lodgers had already checked in and taken possession of their keys. Puzzled, Judith crossed the entry hall, remembering to turn on the New England village lights en route.

Miko Swanson stood on the porch, huddled in her winter coat. She gazed up anxiously at Judith. “Oh, Mrs. Flynn,” she said in her small, precise voice, “I am so sorry to trouble you. But there are questions I must ask, and the telephone is not the means.”

“Come in,” Judith urged. “If you don't mind, we'll go in the kitchen. I'm getting ready for my guests.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Swanson all but reeled in the entry hall. “I should not have bothered you at this hour! But, of course, it is dinnertime. Eating alone makes one forget.”

Judith smiled kindly at her visitor. “It's no trouble. My husband just got home and needs to unwind. My mother is another matter,” she added somewhat darkly.

“Your mother,” Mrs. Swanson echoed wistfully. “She and I should be friends. We are both widows and must have much in common. May I call on her someday?”

“Why not?” Judith marveled that the idea hadn't occurred to her sooner. Or to Gertrude or Mrs. Swanson. It was amazing how distant neighbors could be even when they lived practically on top of each other.

Mrs. Swanson declined Judith's offer to take her coat. “I shall not stay long,” she said, easing her small body into one of the kitchen chairs. “But I must ask a question. Please don't find me impertinent.”

“Of course not. Would you care for a drink?” Judith asked as a matter of courtesy.

Mrs. Swanson's fine dark eyebrows lifted. “How kind! Yes, that would be most helpful. A gin martini, please, very dry. One olive is plentiful.”

Judith concealed her surprise at the unexpected request. As she prepared the cocktail, she asked Mrs. Swanson what was troubling her.

“Today I see the police return,” Mrs. Swanson answered, taking a dainty sip from her glass. “That seems strange. Why should they come back unless something unexpected had happened? So when they leave, I go outside to ask what is taking place. The gentleman with the eye patch is very discreet. But he is the same age, or thereabouts, as my son, Jimmy, who lives in Portland. I know when these fellows are trying to evade questions. Jimmy could never deceive me. So I wheedle and make guesses, and finally it becomes clear that this detective is no longer convinced that Mr. Goodrich killed Mrs. Goodrich. I am so glad. I knew he couldn't have done such a terrible thing.”