Nutty As a Fruitcake (15 page)

“Yes,” Judith replied, leading the way into the house. “Except that it's the second Sunday of Advent, which means…something or other, like let's have a drink anyway.”

Judith poured a small bourbon for Renie, a smaller scotch for herself. The cousins adjourned to the living room where the early-morning fire Judith had built for her guests was now out. Staring at the empty grate, Judith forced herself into action. Moments later, kindling was crackling and paper was burning. An English chorale was singing medieval carols on the CD player. The old house creaked in the wind, and the rain rattled the windowpanes.

“I don't think Gary took a hatchet to Enid,” Judith said at last, picking up the thread of their conversation where they'd dropped it at the Boy Scout lot. “Even if she was the cause of the breakup between him and Glenda, that's too extreme. But I'd certainly like to know why Gary—assuming it was him—called on the Goodriches at seven-thirty Wednesday morning. More to the point, I'd like to know what he found when he got there.”

Renie was rubbing at the back of her neck. It appeared that she hadn't quite fully recovered from her various bouts with the Douglas fir. “Such as Enid's body and George in a deep sleep?”

Judith nodded. “Exactly.” The bloodstained bedroom danced before her eyes. So did the interior of Dave and Greg's van. On a whim, Judith described the rust-colored streaks to Renie.

Renie rolled her eyes. “You're getting carried away. Greg and Dave may be about as smart as your average termites, but
they wouldn't drive around in a bloodstained van. And even if they did, what has it got to do with Enid's murder?”

Judith fingered her lower lip. “That's the part that makes no sense. Logic is lacking, and it bothers me. We've got a spare knife and an extra set of what might be blood streaks. I hate it when things don't fit.”

“You don't know if that's blood inside the van,” Renie chided, more gently than usual. “You said ‘rust-colored.' So maybe it's rust or paint or some kind of chemical. Drop it, coz.”

Judith did. She forced her mind back on its original track. “Even though I don't believe Gary killed Enid, I keep thinking he's the key. I wonder how we can arrange to meet him again?”

“Lunch,” Renie said promptly. “It sounds as if he usually eats at Buster's Cafe. I'm always ready for lunch. In fact,” she went on, glancing at the grandfather clock, “I'm overdue. It's twelve-thirty. I hate to drink and run, but I've got a zillion things to do this afternoon, including the collection of our own monster evergreen.”

Judith didn't try to persuade Renie to linger. There was much to be done at Hillside Manor, too. She began by addressing another dozen cards, then wrapped four more presents, and finished decorating the second and third floors. Each task was interrupted at least three times by telephone requests for reservations. The B&B would be partially closed from December twenty-second to the twenty-ninth. Judith needed two of the guest rooms for Caitlin and Kristin. It was none of Judith's business if Mike and Kristin wanted to sleep together, but under Hillside Manor's roof, they would occupy separate quarters. Besides, Mike had only a twin bed in his old room. Judith had been tempted to convert the space into an office with a computer and a fax machine. But sentiment held her back. Mike came home at least four times a year, and until he was more permanently settled, Judith was loath to cut the cord.

By four o'clock, she was worn out. Reviving herself with a cup of hot tea, she went outdoors in the fading light to take a second cut off the fir. It was no mean feat, since she had to
grapple with the tree by herself. Unfortunately, she couldn't manage to right the tree again, let alone hoist it into a bucket of water. She was standing in the rain, wondering when Joe would get home, when Dooley and O.P. bounded over the back fence. To Judith's elation, they volunteered to set the tree in the bucket.

“I feel bad,” Dooley confessed after Judith had ushered the two boys into the kitchen and offered them pop. “I should have asked O.P. right away if he'd seen anything at the Goodriches'. But I didn't get home until that afternoon, after the murder had happened. O.P. should have told me sooner about what he saw.” Dooley gave his brother a chiding look.

“It didn't seem like a big deal,” O.P. mumbled. “I mean, what's so great about people going in and out of Mrs. Badbitch's back door? They do it all the time, especially that one guy and the lady.”

Judith assumed O.P. referred to Art and Glenda. “So how was Tuesday night different?” she inquired.

O.P. took a deep breath and furrowed his forehead in concentration. Judith assumed he had already been coached by Dooley to render a full and accurate account. “There was all this yelling,” O.P. began, “just before dinner. I looked through the telescope. Nothing. I waited, and the yelling stopped. Then that guy…” Hesitating, he turned to Dooley. “Is that Art?” Dooley nodded. “Art comes running out the front door and up to his car. It looked like he dropped something, but I couldn't be sure because it was dark. He got in and drove off. Then the lady left through the back door, kind of running, too. She jumped in her car and took off. Mom called that dinner was ready, so I went downstairs.” O.P. gave a little shrug.

Judith thought back to Tuesday evening. Art had arrived while she and Renie were still in the front yard, probably around four. Glenda had stopped by Hillside Manor at six. Sweetums had gotten into the crab dip shortly thereafter, causing the first scream. The second had occurred at least ten minutes later, probably around six-fifteen.

“What time did you go down to eat?” Judith asked.

It was Dooley who answered. “Six-thirty on the dot. I was starved. They only had peanuts on the plane.”

Judith mulled over the information that the Dooley boys had given her thus far. “Art left through the front door. How very odd. But Glenda went out the usual way a few minutes later. Okay, what next?”

O.P. looked sheepish. “I don't know. With Dooley home, we sort of horsed around and talked and stuff. But finally Dad told me I had to finish my homework, so I went upstairs. I did my math and some of my Native American paper, but I got tired. So I took a look through the telescope before I got ready for bed. It was around nine. I have to be in bed by nine on school nights.” O.P. made a face. “Anyway, there was a van in front of Mrs. Badbitch's house and a guy going around to the back. I've seen him a couple of times before. Usually, he's with another dude about his age.”

“The grandsons,” Dooley put in helpfully.

“Yeah, right, whatever,” said O.P. “So he went in and that was that. I got ready for bed and did a little more on my Native American paper. Did you know the white man gave the Native Americans blankets full of smallpox germs?”

“I'm afraid so,” Judith said with a rueful expression.

“Maybe they didn't know much about germs in the olden days,” O.P. said hopefully. “Anyway, I took one last look before I went to sleep—I do that almost every night, just to check on everything—and the van was gone, but an old beater was parked out front. I didn't see anybody, so I went to bed. That's it.”

“Was the young man with the van bald?” Judith asked.

O.P. shook his head. “I couldn't tell. He was wearing a hood.”

“That would be Greg,” Judith said, recalling the older Goodrich grandson's duffle coat. “Okay, very good. More pop? Cookies?”

The Dooleys declined the pop but accepted the cookies. Judith had tried a new sugar cookie recipe the previous day, using Santa- and star-shaped cutters. Her icing decorations were inartistic, but tasted good.

“Now what about Wednesday morning?” she asked, waiting for O.P. to finish his second Santa.

O.P. grew doleful. “Nothing, except what I told you at the lot. I saw this guy I don't know go to the back door.”

“He went in?” Judith asked.

O.P. started to nod, then grimaced. “I'm not sure. Once somebody gets on the porch, there's a kind of wall so you can't see the door. Anyways, I had to eat breakfast.”

Judith recalled the latticework partition that sheltered the Goodrich back porch. “Was he wearing a red jacket?”

“I'm not sure. It was pretty dark, like I told you.” O.P. was gazing at the cookie jar.

Judith lifted the lid, offering another round to both boys. “This may sound strange, O.P., but did this man stop on his way to the porch? Like, by the garbage cans?”

O.P. bit off the point of a star. Again, his forehead wrinkled. “Gee—no, I don't think so. He acted kind of jumpy, though.”

“Do you remember seeing a red truck parked around the corner by the side of Mrs. Swanson's house?”

“Yeah, I thought it was a Coca-Cola truck.”

Judith sat back in her chair. “Your memory for detail is excellent,” she said with a smile. “It's wonderful to be observant. And aware. Most people aren't, you know.”

O.P. didn't seem particularly pleased by the praise. “But I missed all the good stuff. The police, the firemen, the medics. I was in school.”

Gently, Dooley shook his brother by the arm. “Hey, O.P., so what? School's cool, at least when you get to college.”

“Get real,” O.P. shot back. “School's dumb. I want to be a pilot.”

Dooley seemed to realize this wasn't the place for a sibling argument. “Hey, Mrs. Flynn,” he said, emphasizing Judith's last name, “when does Mr. Flynn get home? Shouldn't he hear about all this?”

Judith noted that the hands on the schoolhouse clock pointed to almost five. “Well,” she said rather uncertainly, “it's not his case. But I can pass it on to him so he can tell Morgan and Rael. They ought to be interested, especially the
part about…the man who came in the morning.” Judith purposely avoided mentioning Gary Meyers by name.

Dooley stood up, then put his hands on his brother's thin shoulders. “You see? You've done your duty, O.P. God and country—that's what scouting's all about, right?”

The phone rang before O.P. could reply. Judith grabbed the receiver with one hand, motioning at the cookie jar with the other. But the brothers Dooley had decided to take their leave. Thanking Judith, they headed for the back door.

Judith couldn't make out the voice on the phone. “Excuse me,” she said in an unnaturally loud voice. “Would you repeat that?”

The voice came through the second time around. It was husky and faintly slurred. “Yes,” said the person on the other end as Judith tapped her foot. She was accustomed to hesitant would-be guests, wrong numbers, and the occasional crank caller. Judith waited, trying to be patient. “Yes,” the voice resumed, gathering strength. “Is this Mrs. Flynn?”

“It is,” Judith replied, as the wind whipped up outside and pummeled the kitchen window with rain. “How can I help you?”

“You can't,” said the voice with a jagged laugh. “I'm Mrs. Flynn, too. The
first
Mrs. Flynn. This is Vivian, calling from Florida. I wanted to let you know I'm coming to see you and Joe and Caitlin for Christmas.”

Judith dropped the phone.

“S
CREW
F
ORENSICS
,” J
OE
growled as he came in the back door shortly after six o'clock. “Screw all those nitpicking nerds who sit around the lab all day on their fat butts and squint through microscopes. Now they tell me the guy who got whacked couldn't have fired the gun that killed the Shazris. Okay, I can buy that, but why did it take them two days to figure it out? My weekend just fell into a big, black hole.” Joe slammed his fist into the wall by the refrigerator.

Judith swallowed hard. She hoped that her assembled guests in the living room hadn't heard her husband's rantings. She hoped he would recover quickly from his work-related pique. She hoped she had the nerve to tell him about his ex-wife's Christmas plans. She began to hope that she could find Joe's big, black hole and crawl into it.

“I got a tree today,” Judith said in an unusually meek voice. “Did you see it out back?”

“What?” Joe was removing his shoulder holster. “A tree? No, I didn't see it. It's raining too damned hard. You know what really drives me nuts? We bring these foreign goons in for questioning and suddenly they can't speak English. Not one frigging word. Woody and I spent four hours today trying to get a couple of these bozos with rap sheets as long as your arm to admit they'd ever seen the inside of a station house. Then we let them call their lawyers and
damned if they can't be reached. Out on the golf course, I'll bet, with some poor paralegal holding an umbrella over their heads. I hate voice mail, I hate e-mail, I think I hate the U.S. mail!” Joe paused long enough in his tirade to glance at the kitchen counter by the phone. “Did we get anything today?”

“No,” Judith replied, still meek. “It's Sunday, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Joe began to simmer down. “I guess I'll have a drink. What's for dinner?”

“Lamb chops,” Judith replied, not daring to look up from the cornmeal muffins she'd just finished mixing. “I already warned Mother we'd be eating a bit late. I had no idea what time you'd be home.”

Pouring out a hefty measure of scotch, Joe snorted. “Neither did I. By the way, Woody and Sondra are looking forward to dinner here next Saturday. If we're not working until midnight, of course.”

Involuntarily, Judith glanced at the calendar that hung next to the phone. “Renie and Bill can come, too.” Her eyes were drawn back to the month of December. This was the fifth, and Judith had to put the wooden shoes on the front porch for the sixth, St. Nicholas's Day. But it was the twenty-third that loomed larger than the other numbers. That was the day Vivian Flynn planned to arrive in town. She would land at the airport in the early evening; Caitlin was due in from Switzerland that morning at eleven-thirty. Judith hadn't yet written down Herself's arrival time. She was still hoping it was all a hallucination.

“Joe,” she began, after putting the muffins in the oven, “I've got some strange news.”

Joe was at the kitchen table, sorting through the bulky Sunday paper. “Oh, what?”

A very wet Sweetums strolled into the kitchen, obviously having deigned to use his cat's door. Ordinarily, he preferred flinging himself against the screen and screeching. Sidling up to Judith, he rubbed his dripping fur on her slacks.

Judith cleared her throat. “I got a phone call this afternoon from…” Sweetums had entwined himself between Judith's
legs as she moved to the table. Tripping over the cat, she caught herself on a chair. Judith swore. “Dammit, Sweetums, you do that on purpose! Get out of here, you mangy little creep!”

Looking offended, Sweetums wandered off down the hallway. Judith watched to see if he'd go back outside. He didn't. With a flick of his plumelike tail, he headed up the back stairs.

“Oh, no you don't!” Judith gave chase. The cat wasn't allowed on the second floor, where the guest rooms were located.

By the time Judith had lured Sweetums out from under a wicker settee in the upstairs hall, Joe was halfway through his drink. His round face had recovered its usually amiable mien, and Judith was reluctant to upset him. Feeling like a coward, she told him instead of the Dooley brothers' sightings at the Goodrich house.

Joe shrugged off the report. “Hey, remember I was at the Goodrich house after all this alleged screaming and fighting and running out of doors. What time was it? Seven-thirty, eight? I didn't see Enid, but George seemed the same—nervous, but no more than usual.”

While Judith respected her husband's powers of perception, she still wasn't convinced that O.P.'s account was meaningless. “You weren't gone more than ten minutes. Didn't you notice
anything
odd?”

Joe made a face. “I told you, I didn't get any further than the back porch. George was all apologies, but he said Enid was feeling puny. So when didn't she enjoy poor health? Forget it, Jude-girl. It's sad, but stuff like this happens. Enid pulled George's chain once too often. God knows I can't stand the stink of abusive men, but some of those guys are driven to violence because they have no other way of coping. Way back when, George must have let Enid get the upper hand. He probably didn't even know it was happening. When it finally dawned on him that she had him under her heel, he was too downtrodden to counter. I figure George's self-esteem went out the window forty years ago.”

Judith checked the muffins, which were just beginning to
brown. “He had a good job. It takes brains to be an accountant. They must have thought a great deal of him at Pacific Meats. Look how they still had him—oh!” She stopped abruptly, a finger at her lips. “That's odd.”

Joe folded the front section of the newspaper and put it aside. “What?”

Judith had begun to dish up her mother's dinner. “George still did some of the meat packing company's accounts at home, especially at year's end. But I never saw any sign of his work when we were…um…looking around the house. Of course, we didn't go in the back bedroom. Maybe he used it as an office.”

Joe, however, shook his head. “Are you kidding? I don't think Enid let him out of her sight even to do his job. I've always been amazed that she'd allow him to work in the garden.”

Removing the muffins from the oven, Judith nodded. “Hiring someone would cost money. Enid was cheap. I'm surprised she used to have a cleaning woman. But I suppose that was mostly before George retired. It must be terrible to live in each other's pocket and yet not be close. I doubt that George and Enid shared any real intimacy. Or trust.”
Just as we won't if I keep putting off the news about Herself
, Judith thought with a guilty twinge. The tip of a wedge started out very small. “I'll be right back.” She gave Joe an unusually warm smile as she carried Gertrude's meal out of the kitchen.

Half an hour later, the Flynns were finishing their own dinner. This was usually the time of day when Judith unloaded domestic problems on her husband. Tonight, however, it was obvious that Joe was very tired. He had worked seven straight days, with no end in sight. At several intervals during dinner, he had yawned. As they drank their coffee, Judith noted that the yawns had turned from expressions of fatigue to signs of relaxation. She couldn't bear to bring up Herself's bombshell.

Thus, when Joe left for work the next morning, he still didn't know that his ex-wife was coming for Christmas. Judith had offered her a room in Hillside Manor, though she fully expected that Vivian would stay in a hotel. But to Judith's
horror, Herself had accepted. Now faced with the problem of a full house, Judith wondered if Herself would agree to share a bedroom with Caitlin. Mother and daughter should be able to get along for the five nights that Vivian would be with them. But the pair had not always been on good terms. That was one of the reasons Caitlin had taken the job in Switzerland: Joe's daughter wanted to put as many miles as she could between herself and Herself.

“What the hell am I going to do?” Judith asked of a bemused Renie as the cousins drove down to the bottom of the hill in an attempt to find Gary Meyers.

“Dress her up as Santa so Joe won't know who it is?” Renie took the steep hill known as the Counterbalance with an alarming disregard for gravity. “Put her in Santa's bag and let her jump out from under the tree? She's usually in the bag anyway.”

“Very funny,” Judith muttered as the big Chev came to a stop at the bottom of the hill. “You don't have to worry about having her around.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Renie countered as the traffic light changed to green. It was still raining, though not as hard as Sunday's downpour. “She'll be there Christmas Eve when the whole family gathers at your house. Then we'll have to invite her to our place for Christmas dinner. I can't wait to tell Bill. He'll want to meet her. All he knows about her are the stories of the skirts slit up to there and the necklines plunging down to here.”

“You're forgetting the false eyelashes, the wigs, and who knows how many plastic parts,” Judith said bitterly. “Right after we were married, she sent Joe a bill for her latest facelift.”

Before Renie could comment on Herself's gall, she spotted a big red Cascade Beer truck parked in a loading zone half a block from Buster's Cafe. “I'll bet that's Gary,” she said.

Finding a parking place proved even more difficult on this sixth day of December. The shopping district at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill was attracting a great many gift buyers. Renie had to drive around the block five times before a space opened
up across the street from Buster's. By the time the cousins got to the cafe, Gary was paying his bill and gnawing on a toothpick.

“Gary!” Judith cried, as if he were her long-lost prodigal son. “How nice! Say, why don't we buy you a piece of pie? That's the least we can do for interrupting your lunch the other day.”

Startled, Gary removed the toothpick. “I had pie. Thanks, but I got to finish my route. I'm due back with the truck by two.”

“But…” Judith scoured her brain for another idea. “You can't, not just yet. The most fantastic thing has happened.”

“Yeah, well, maybe so, but I'm parked in a thirty-minute…”

“It's about
you
,” Judith said, suddenly turning both grim and truthful. “In fact, I can't believe it.” Indeed, she couldn't believe her own ears. Did she actually dare accuse Gary Meyers of being at the Goodrich house within the time frame of the murder?

Now Gary was looking alarmed. His gaze flickered around the cafe, as if he expected to be accosted from another direction. “About me? Like what?”

A booth next to the door had just been vacated by a careworn young couple who looked as if they had too many regrets for their tender years. Judith all but dragged Gary over to the table. Renie grabbed a menu.

Now that Judith had Gary wedged between herself and the wall, she felt slightly embarrassed. “How about a cup of coffee? Or a Coke? Maybe a root beer float?”

Renie's eyes lighted up. “A root beer float? Wow, I haven't had one of those in months! I'm going to order a float for dessert. I hope they have hard ice cream.” She disappeared behind the plastic menu.

“Really,” Gary said, sounding a trifle anguished, “I can't stick around. They mark your tires and give you a ticket if you're thirty seconds over.”

Trying to overcome her embarrassment, Judith nodded. “Okay, I'll make it quick. Somebody saw you go into the
Goodrich house Monday morning around seven-thirty. Have you told the police that you were there?”

Gary turned pale. “Ohmigod!” He hung his head, then scratched at his bearded chin with both hands. “How…? Who…?” He swerved on the vinyl seat, and his expression was unexpectedly fierce. “That's a goddamned lie! Why are you asking me this junk? Let me out of here!” Gary bounced into Judith. She had no choice but to let him get up from the booth.

“Gary,” Judith began as he struggled to upright himself in the aisle between the counter and the booths, “you were seen. So was your truck, parked around the corner from the cul-de-sac. You ought to be honest with the police and tell them what…”

But Gary was gone.

 

Phyliss Rackley arrived Tuesday morning wearing a long black coat and a black hat with a pair of what looked like black crows sitting on the brim. “I wouldn't miss a funeral for the world,” she declared. “I wish Congregationalists had more vim.”

Judith was somewhat aghast. She hadn't expected Phyliss to attend Enid Goodrich's funeral. But, of course, Phyliss had once worked for Enid, which gave her credentials.

“Do you want to ride with Renie and me?” Judith offered weakly.

“Very kind, thank you,” Phyliss said, taking off her coat but keeping the hat in place. “I'll change the beds and do the laundry before we go.”

“Say, Phyliss,” Judith called to the cleaning woman, who was about to head up to the second floor, “when did you work for the Goodriches?”

The hat tilted as Phyliss considered. “Actually,” she replied, making the word sound like “akshilly,” “I quit the old bag—rest her tortured soul—just before I took you on. It was late winter, with my rheumatism making my joints ache like Satan sat on 'em. So what's that? Five years?”

“Almost six,” Judith answered. “Was she really difficult?”

Phyliss clapped a hand to her forehead, almost knocking off the hat. “Oh, she was that! And more! Always arguing about money, trying to shortchange me. Fussy, too. The living room—I had to clean it twice a week, no matter that it wasn't ever used. No vacuum cleaner allowed. Just a carpet sweeper, which was silly because how do you carpet sweep a plastic runner? You don't, that's how. The spare room, too—now whoever went in
there
? Nothing but a catchall. Then there was them salt and pepper shakers—every shape and size you could imagine—just collecting dust. Do you know how often I had to wipe down Martha Washington? George wasn't so bad—he didn't wear a hoop skirt. George Washington, I mean. He was salt, Martha was pepper. George Goodrich had fancies of his own—wouldn't let me change his bed. Said he liked it a certain way. Well, if I was him, I'd have liked it in another county. Living with Enid must have been enough to drive any man crazy as a bear in a beehive.”