Nutty As a Fruitcake (18 page)

Renie checked her watch. “Because it's only five to ten and I'm still crabby. Let's have coffee at Moonbeam's. Then I'll be my usual charming self.”

Judith sighed, peering up into the relentless rain. “We can't. We're supposed to get our mothers' trees. Come on. Let's see what they've got in our very own parish. We know there are small ones, because that's all we could find on Sunday.”

The cousins did indeed find two suitable trees that would fit into Gertrude's toolshed and Aunt Deb's apartment. Naturally, they cost considerably more than the two-fifty maximum Gertrude had given her daughter. Renie had been allotted a slightly more generous five-dollar figure, and ended up paying four times as much. By the time the cousins had put the trees in their respective trunks, Renie still wanted coffee.

On a drizzly Wednesday morning, Moonbeam's was predictably crowded. Judith and Renie waited more than five minutes in line but were lucky to find two stools just being vacated by the window that looked out onto Heraldsgate Avenue.

Judith was telling Renie about her dinner with Joe when JoAnne Goodrich came through the door. She appeared frazzled and seemed daunted by the long line.

“She's up early,” Renie remarked in a low voice. “Maybe she didn't work last night.”

A faint memory clicked in Judith's brain. “She worked last Tuesday night. I know, because Rochelle Porter saw Greg has
sling his mother while she was checking customers.” Judith kept her gaze fixed on JoAnne, who apparently hadn't noticed the cousins at their counter perch.

Renie sipped her mocha, oblivious to the whipped cream that adorned her upper lip. “I should stop at Falstaff's on my way home. I promised Bill babyback pork ribs for tonight, but they were out yesterday. Harold, the butcher, was having a fit because he said they only got half their order Tuesday morning.”

Briefly, Judith gazed at Renie. “Really? I should figure out what we'll have Saturday night when you and Bill and the Prices come for dinner. How about a standing rib roast?”

Renie licked her lips, inadvertently wiping away half of the whipped cream. “Sounds great. But you'd better order ahead. Harold claims they're getting screwed over by their meat supplier.”

Judith frowned into her latte. “How can that be? Falstaff's does a huge business. You wouldn't think their wholesalers would dare cheat them. The store ought to…” She stopped abruptly.

“What?” Renie asked. “Change wholesalers? Raise their own cows? Let live pigs wander up and down the aisles?”

But Judith gave a sharp shake of her head. “Skip it. Here comes JoAnne.”

Art Goodrich's wife had ordered her coffee to go. She spotted the cousins as she headed for the exit. They weren't easy to miss, since Judith was waving wildly.

“How's everybody doing since the funeral?” Judith inquired, lowering her voice along with her arm.

JoAnne rubbed her temple with her free hand. New lines seemed to have crept around her eyes in the past week. “Oh—okay, I guess. It's hard having Gramps live with us. I wish the police would let him go home.”

“Have they scheduled the arraignment yet?” Though Judith's voice was barely above a whisper, several customers were casting curious glances in JoAnne's direction. Heraldsgate Hill was in the heart of a big city, but its relative isolation
lent it the air of a small town. People often knew, or at least recognized, each other.

“No,” JoAnne gulped, apparently aware of the prying eyes. “Really, I should go. I had last night off because of the funeral yesterday, but tonight I have to…”

Judith had gotten to her feet, escorting JoAnne to the door. “If there's anything I can do, just ask,” she said with sincerity. “I know what it's like to have an elderly parent under the same roof. Or almost. Old folks can be a real trial, even more so sometimes than kids.” The two women were now out on the sidewalk under the coffeehouse's canopy. Judith could glimpse a vexed Renie through the window. “It's a relief to have our boys raised, isn't it?”

“It's a relief not to have them living at home,” JoAnne replied, grimacing slightly. “Greg and Dave have had their apartment for almost two years, but rents are so high on the Hill. It wouldn't surprise Art and me if they had to move home eventually.”

The conversation had almost taken the turn that Judith wanted. She allowed herself a small detour. “But they've both got good jobs, don't they? Plus their Alaskan fishing season.”

JoAnne's face seemed to crumple around the edges. “I don't know what kids do with their money these days. Art and I've always been so careful about spending. Since Art lost his job, the boys don't have us to fall back on. I'm hoping it'll make them see they have to cut down.”

A fleeting remark made by one of the Goodrich sons struck Judith. “What do they spend it on? I recall them saying they didn't have much furniture. And that van isn't new. Do they share it?”

Once again, JoAnne seemed anxious to be off. Her glance darted around the intersection, to Holiday's Pharmacy, Begelman's Bakery, and the state-owned liquor store. “Sometimes. Dave wants to trade in his beater for a Jeep of some kind. Greg wants a motorcycle. That's the problem—there's always something.” The lines around JoAnne's eyes deepened.

“Oh, isn't that the truth?” Judith put a hand on JoAnne's arm, as much to detain her as to offer comfort. “And their
timing is usually off! They're like two-year-olds, pestering you when you're on the phone or in the bathtub! They never seem to outgrow that nasty habit. Rochelle Porter told me how you had to deal with Greg the other night while you were checking. Believe me, I felt for you!”

There was no sign that Judith's overblown sympathy raised JoAnne's suspicions. “It was so embarrassing,” she said in her usual abject manner. “And all because Greg left his wallet at Mama and Pappy's house. These kids are so careless. Forgetful, too. Really, Greg's almost thirty. Do they ever grow up?”

Helplessly, Judith shook her head. “I wouldn't know. Mike's only twenty-six. In fact, he must be the same age as Dave.”

“Dave's a year older.” JoAnne was looking rueful. “I wish now I hadn't told him where to find that key.”

Judith tensed. She felt as if she had missed something. But JoAnne had spoken more to herself than to Judith. Now she was starting around the corner, presumably to where her car was parked.

Braving the rain, Judith was right beside her. “Why did he need the key?” She made her voice sound innocently confused. “I mean, his grandparents were home, weren't they?”

JoAnne had reached the Goodrich Toyota, which was pulled into a slot by the laundromat. “Oh, yes,” she answered distractedly. “But they were in bed. At least Greg had the good sense not to disturb them. That's why he needed the key. And of course he didn't want to drive without his license. It was in his wallet. I shouldn't blame him, I guess. He and Dave already have too many traffic tickets.” The thought must have triggered a reaction in JoAnne. She looked up at the sign on the utility pole indicating that parking was limited to an hour. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “I've plenty of time left. To park, I mean. Good-bye, Judith.” JoAnne got into the car with a vague sense of triumph. Any victory, however small, seemed to satisfy JoAnne Goodrich these days. Feeling sad, Judith returned to Moonbeam's.

Renie was drinking a second mocha. Judith's latte had
grown cold. “Well?” Renie inquired, apparently mollified by her caffeine intake. “Did you nail that poor woman to the telephone pole?”

Judith held her head. “Sometimes I hate myself. I deep-six good manners for the sake of tact, and it all comes out wrong. Does that make sense?”

“No.” Renie shook an extra packet of sugar into her mocha. “Life doesn't make sense. So what else is new?”

Judith thought about it for a while. “I guess that's why we went to church this morning.”

Renie nodded. “Get another latte. Between Father Hoyle and Moonbeam's, we might make it to New Year's.” Sipping at her mocha, Renie acquired another white mustache. “Then again, we might not.”

Judith didn't argue.

J
UDITH BRACED HERSELF
for the confrontation over her mother's Christmas tree. It would be too tall, too short, too wide, too thin, too ugly. Judith would be a dope, an idiot, a moron, and an inconsiderate daughter. She knew in advance how Gertrude would receive the jaunty little fir from the SOTs' lot.

Or so she thought. But Naomi Stein was the first to inform Judith otherwise. Racing over to Judith's Nissan, Naomi pointed to the unmarked city car that was parked in front of the Goodrich house.

“They're questioning the neighbors,” Naomi said in a breathless voice. “First, Mrs. Swanson, then the Rankerses, and finally, me. Nobody else is home—except your mother.”

“
My mother?
” Judith gaped at Naomi, then jumped out of the car to look down the driveway. She saw nothing unusual, except Sweetums, who was stalking an unseen prey in the shrubbery.

“They're questioning her now,” Naomi added, backpedaling to her own property. “Don't worry, Judith. I'm sure she'll be treated with respect.”

That wasn't what concerned Judith. With a halfhearted wave for Naomi, she all but ran to the toolshed. There wasn't time to think about the awful things Gertrude could
say to the police, especially about Joe Flynn. Judith yanked the door open.

Patches Morgan was standing by the tiny window that looked out onto the backyard and the Dooleys' house. With arms folded, Sancha Rael leaned against a side chair that had originally belonged to Judith and Dan. Gertrude was sitting on her sofa, smoking fiercely, and wearing a tiger-print housecoat under a lime-and-black cardigan. She glared as her daughter came into the small sitting room.

“Well! Just in time, you stool pigeon! What are you trying to do, get me sent up the river?”

Judith's mouth dropped open. “What? Of course not! What's happening?”

With his good left eye, Morgan winked at Judith. “Now, now, me hearties, this is just routine. But,” he continued, growing serious, “it seems that certain threats against Mrs. Goodrich were made by Mrs. Grover. You don't deny that, do you, ma'am?” His expression was deceptively benign as he turned back to Gertrude.

Gertrude hid behind a haze of blue smoke. “I make a lot of threats,” she mumbled. “It's my way. I can't remember them all.”

Judith stepped between Gertrude and Morgan. “Excuse me—who told you that my mother threatened Enid?”

Morgan's good eye avoided Judith. “Now, I can't be revealing my sources, eh? You know that anything we might regard as a threat has to be investigated when there's a homicide involved.”

“It was years ago,” Judith said, then bit her tongue. “I mean, it must have been—
I
don't remember it. Either,” she added lamely, with a commiserating glance for Gertrude.

Sancha Rael stepped forward, a smirk on her beautiful face. “This threat involved a family pet. It had something to do with”—she grimaced slightly—“sauerkraut.”

Gertrude stubbed her cigarette out. She shot Morgan and Rael a defiant look. “I forget. I'm old. Senile, too. Maybe I've got Alzheimer's. Who are all you dopey people anyway?” Her small eyes rested on Judith. “You, for instance—I've never
seen you before in my life. Are you the maid? You know, the French girl who comes in with a short black skirt and a white doily on her head and dusts with one of those feather things.”

Judith didn't know whether to grin or groan. She did neither. “Look,” she said to Morgan, “this is silly. I can't believe you're wasting the city's time interrogating my mother. Does she look like the sort of person who'd take a hatchet to somebody?”

Morgan eyed Gertrude closely. “In truth, she does,” he said. “Where were you Wednesday morning, December first, between seven and eight-thirty
A M
?”

The menacing expression on Gertrude's face did nothing to dispel the unfortunate image she'd given Patches Morgan. “Here—where else would I be? Do you think my lamebrained daughter ever takes me any place? As for that worthless son-in-law of mine, he'd like to put this cardboard box of an apartment on wheels and send me right down Heraldsgate Hill into the bay. The only time they'll let me out of this dump is when I go sticks up.”

Judith was now getting angry. “Mother, you know that's not true! You play bridge, you go to bingo, you get out to dinner with Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince…”

Gertrude's face went blank. “Bridge? Bingo? Who are Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince? Where am I? What happened?” She began to hum, a tuneless rendition of “Mademoiselle from Armentieres.”

In exasperation, Judith threw up her hands. “Do you mind?” she said to Morgan. “Leave her alone. She's…difficult.”

Gertrude took out her dentures. She smiled, a fearsome sight.

Morgan surrendered. “We can come back,” he said under his breath, motioning to Rael. “Let's talk to Ms. Flynn inside the big house.”

“The big house?” Gertrude echoed in a singsong voice after replacing her teeth. “Am I going to the big house? Oh, my! I'll have to wear a striped suit and one of those funny hats shaped like a custard cup and a ball and chain and…”

Judith softly closed the door on her mother's irksome rantings. “I'm sorry,” Judith said tersely. “As I told you, she can be difficult.”

“So your husband informed us,” Morgan replied. “If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, too.”

“Sure, why not?” Wearily, Judith led the way to the back door.

The schoolhouse clock told Judith that it was almost eleven-thirty. She could hear Phyliss Rackley upstairs. With any luck, the cleaning woman wouldn't come down until after the police had left.

Judith seated Morgan and Rael in the living room. She didn't offer coffee, since she wanted to keep their visit short. But even as she sat down in Grandma Grover's rocker, the reason for the detectives' call struck Judith.

“Wait a minute,” she said, her face animated. “You're carrying on with this investigation because you really don't believe George is guilty, right? Plus, the arraignment's been postponed or maybe canceled.” She waited for a reaction. Neither Morgan nor Rael responded immediately. “Well?” Judith prodded.

Rael seemed to be admiring the big gilded holly wreath over the mantel. Morgan had picked up a glass ball that contained three singing angels. He shook it, causing snow to fall inside.

“Nice,” he remarked without enthusiasm, setting the ball down on the coffee table. Accidentally, he triggered the music box mechanism. “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” pealed gently through the living room. Morgan cleared his throat. “Yes, very nice. You understand I can't tell you exactly what lines of investigation we're following, Ms. Flynn.” The detective was now very much the professional. The carol was tinkling at a speedier pace. “What we'd like to learn from you is your whereabouts last Wednesday morning. Purely routine, of course.”

“Of course.” The glass ball's music was going faster and faster, and at a higher pitch. Judith's mind went back to a week ago. Carefully, she recounted her activities, as well as she could remember. “So you see,” she concluded, as the
music reached a frenzy, “I didn't hear the sirens because of the vacuum cleaner. The first thing I knew about the tragedy was when my neighbor, Arlene Rankers, came over to tell me something had happened at the Goodrich house.” Judith jumped out of the rocker, grasped the ball, and shut off the screeching carol.

Morgan looked relieved as the music box went dumb. “You're certain you didn't see or hear anything unusual?”

“That's right.” Judith tried to remember what she'd already told the detectives. And what she hadn't: The commotion at the Goodrich house Tuesday night. The mysterious orange pickup. The odd stains in Greg and Dave's van. Greg, taking the spare key from its hiding place. Gary Meyers, calling on the Goodriches Wednesday morning. What O.P. had seen through his brother's telescope. “Have you talked to the Dooleys?” she finally asked.

Morgan frowned. “Who?”

Judith explained that while the Dooleys didn't live in the cul-de-sac, they had a good vantage point behind Hillside Manor and the Ericson house. It would be better if Morgan and Rael heard O.P.'s account firsthand. Maybe Mrs. Swanson had already mentioned the Cascade Beer truck. Ted and Jeanne Ericson had heard the row on Tuesday night; no doubt they would be questioned later, when they got home from work.

Morgan had gotten to his feet. “Your husband told me how he went over to the Goodrich house Tuesday night. It isn't often that a member of our own crew has such firsthand knowledge of the victim and the family.” The detective's face was expressionless.

It hadn't occurred to Judith that Morgan and Rael would interrogate Joe. “My husband didn't see Mrs. Goodrich Tuesday night. She was ailing. We'd been at loggerheads with her over the Christmas decorations in the cul-de-sac,” Judith said, wondering if she and Joe were actual suspects. A shiver of apprehension crept up her spine. “Joe probably mentioned that,” she added a little too casually.

Morgan nodded. “Your husband gave us a very fine per
sonality profile of the victim. He's been extremely helpful. He's also been able to tell us about the rest of the neighbors in the cul-de-sac. Having such a reliable source right in the department is unusual.” The detective's face remained impassive, but Rael snickered as she joined her colleague.

Judith's eyes widened. “Joe didn't tell me,” she blurted. “About being questioned.” A surge of anger replaced the previous fear. “You have to remember that he doesn't know these people as well as I do.” She regarded both detectives with a dark expression.

A hint of color spread across Morgan's broad face. “He did his best. And your husband is a very fair man.”

Fair, my butt
, Judith thought. Joe had ratted on Gertrude. Given her mother's attitude toward her son-in-law, Judith could hardly blame Joe. But she was still angry.

Judith and the detectives had reached the front door when Phyliss came panting down the stairs. She took one look at Morgan and Rael, then let out a shriek.

“Jehovah's Witnesses!” she cried, and fled back upstairs.

Judith didn't bother to correct her.

 

Judith wasn't up to another shopping expedition, not downtown, not the nearest mall, not even the top or bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. But she was frustrated. Her gifts for Joe were so pedestrian. She wished she could think of something exciting to give him.

“How about a fat lip?” Renie suggested on the phone that afternoon. “Do you really think he told Morgan and Rael about your mother threatening Enid?”

“Who else?” Judith demanded. “Mother said it happened a couple of years ago. I honestly don't recall, but if she's right, then it was after Joe and I were married. He must have remembered, and decided to wreak a little revenge on his mother-in-law. It would be mean if it worked. But, of course, Mother was outrageous.”

“Of course.” Renie was matter-of-fact. “How'd she like her tree?”

Judith sighed. Sometimes it was hard to decide if she should
be mad at Joe or her mother—or both. “She said it was scrawny and dry. She called me a knothead, which just happened to be one of the things I didn't think of while I was anticipating her tirade.”

“My mother cried. She said her tree was beautiful, and I shouldn't have bothered.” Renie emitted a low groan. “Then she told me not to decorate it, she could maneuver her wheelchair around and do it herself. Of course it would bother her arthritis and her bad knee and her back and her ankles and her eyebrows or whatever else she's got left. So I decorated the damned thing then and there. I just got home.”

Judith couldn't help but be touched by Aunt Deb's sentimental streak. It was not unlike her own, and a far cry from Gertrude's view of life. “So was she thrilled?”

“She cried again.” Renie sighed. “Then she said it was too soon to put up a tree and why didn't I leave it out in back of the apartment in a bucket of water like my dad used to do. It'll turn yellow before Christmas and all the needles will fall off and she'll have to crawl around with her chin on the rug, trying to vacuum. She swears that when I was a kid, she and my dad never put the tree up until Christmas Eve. That's true, but damn all, this is the nineties!” Renie's voice had risen to an aggravated crescendo.

“You can't win,” Judith said, trying to be philosophical. “Mothers, husbands, kids—we're always in the wrong.”

There was a pause, as the cousins mulled over their situation in life. “Herself,” Renie said at last. “Are you going to buy her a present?”

Judith let out a squawk. “Are you kidding? What would I get? A noose?”

“We-ll…” Renie was trying to sound reasonable. “You know how it is on Christmas Eve—we make sure everyone there gets at least a couple of token presents.”

Wincing, Judith thought of the many occasions when their shirttail relations and hangers-on had showed up at the last minute, empty-handed but eager-eyed. Their sometimes unexpected arrivals triggered last-minute rustling in closets, cupboards, basement, and attic for suitable, if generic, gifts.

“I'll lay in a supply of coffee from Moonbeam's and some Fandango truffles from Donner & Blitzen,” Judith said. “Which reminds me, I've got to grocery shop. I'll order the rib roast for Saturday.”

“Yum,” Renie said appreciatively. “Yorkshire pudding?”

“Sure.” Judith was now smiling into the phone. Her cousin's honest appetite was far more endearing than the presumptive greed of other people. At least certain people, such as Herself and the shirttail relations. In her own way, Renie was as generous as Judith. Or were they both put-upon? Judith had gotten so she couldn't tell the difference.

Falstaff's was busy in the noon hour. Judith had to wait at the meat counter behind three other people who were already putting in their orders for Christmas dinner. Two turkeys and one goose later, Judith was face-to-face with Harold, the butcher. She ordered a standing rib roast for seven and tried not to calculate the cost at five ninety-nine a pound.