Nutty As a Fruitcake (2 page)

“Enid's arthritis is bothering her,” Joe said with a trace of asperity. “She doesn't want to come out at night. And poor old George doesn't like leaving her alone.”

“Enid's a pain in the butt,” Judith said bluntly. “She's always been a hypochondriac. Even when I was a kid, Mrs. Goodrich was always ailing. I felt sorry for her children. And for George.”

Shrugging, Joe got up from the table. “You've known them forever. I haven't. Maybe you can talk them into stringing some lights on their rhododendron bushes. The bottom line is that they're not coming to the meeting.” He paused, opening the refrigerator door. “I'm doing dinner tonight. How about chicken kiev?”

Judith brightened. “Sounds good. Make two for Mother.”

Joe shot his wife an ironic glance. “If I make it, will she eat it?”

“We won't tell her. We never do.”

“Okay.” Joe rummaged in the freezer section.

Judith put the milk glasses in the dishwasher. She was accustomed to the hostility between her husband and her mother. Gertrude Grover had never forgiven Joe Flynn for dumping her daughter more than a quarter of a century earlier. Judith and Joe had been engaged, but another woman had intervened. Never mind that Joe had been drunk at the time and that the other woman had taken advantage of his state to whisk him off to Las Vegas. Never mind, either, that Joe's inebriation had been caused by his first encounter with teenaged drug-related deaths: Others might forgive a rookie policeman's revulsion, but not Gertrude. Nor, for many years, did Judith understand what had happened to her erstwhile fiancé. She had been left almost literally at the altar. Retaliation had come in the four-hundred-pound shape of Dan McMonigle. Never
had revenge proved so sour. Judith had lived as Dan's wife for eighteen years, until he had—as she so unscientifically but aptly put it—blown up at the age of forty-nine. It had only been by chance that Judith and Joe had met again, when a fortune teller had been poisoned at Hillside Manor's dinner table. Joe Flynn had shown up as the homicide detective of record. Judith had tried to hide her shock, her dismay—and her feelings. Joe was still married to Vivian Flynn. But Vivian—or Herself, as Judith called her archrival—had long since buried the marriage under a pile of bourbon-on-the-rocks.

Now, almost five years later, Judith and Joe were together. They had been married for three and a half years, while Herself had gone into voluntary exile in Florida. Though the Flynns had spent the past three Christmases together, this would be the first year that Joe's daughter, Caitlin, would join them. Caitlin lived and worked in Switzerland. Judith was excited at the prospect of spending some time with her stepdaughter. The two women had met only once before, at Joe and Judith's wedding.

But Caitlin Flynn wouldn't arrive until two days before Christmas. Judith's son, Mike, and his girlfriend, Kristin, would get into town a day earlier. Judith's black eyes danced.

“You look pretty happy for somebody who's about to be sabotaged,” Joe remarked as he put four chicken breasts in the microwave and poked the defroster command. “I take it you figure you can use your legendary charm to coax the Goodriches to go along with your little plan?”

Judith wrenched her mind away from the family holiday gathering. “Well—maybe.” Judith's greatest asset in running the B&B was her ability to get along with virtually every type of personality. Her compassion and openness not only established rapport but also invited confidences. Perhaps she could work her wiles on the Goodriches. “I think I'll wander down the street before I make that coffee cake.”

Putting on her heavy green jacket, Judith exited through the front door. Usually, the main entrance was reserved for guests. At present, Hillside Manor had only two rooms occupied. The
B&B had been full since before Thanksgiving, but the visitors who had come to spend the holiday with relatives or get a jump start on Christmas shopping had all headed home by Sunday morning. The two new sets of guests were both married couples who were passing through on their way to California and Arizona. Neither couple had yet checked in.

It was not quite four o'clock, but the pale globe of sun that fought its way through the gray cloud cover was already sinking over the mountains to the west. Standing halfway down Heraldsgate Hill, Judith could also see the concrete, steel, and glass high-rises that formed the downtown skyline. She never tired of the view, which juxtaposed modern civilization with the natural wonders of sea, forest, and mountains. Judith knew she was blessed with not only the powers of observation but of appreciation. The holidays always heightened her senses. Maybe it was the colorful decorations or the sounds of familiar carols or the aroma of seasonal delicacies. She hoped it was all of those things, and more. Amid the frenzy of Christmas preparations, Advent still brought Judith a sense of inner peace.

Awash with communal feeling, Judith strolled along the cul-de-sac. Idly, she noticed that the old pick-up truck was gone from across the street. She passed the Ericsons' ultramodern makeover, then the first of two modest brick Tudors. The Goodriches lived between the Ericsons and Mrs. Swanson at the corner. Jeanne and Ted Ericson were in their thirties, so far childless, and held responsible jobs downtown. Ted was an architect who had redesigned the original 1920s nondescript bungalow. Jeanne was a stockbroker with a large investment firm. Mrs. Swanson had been a Japanese war bride whose husband, Andrew, had died shortly after Judith moved back to the family home. While Miko Swanson was of another culture and a different generation, she and Judith had found common ground in the loss of their husbands within the same six-month period. The greatest difference had been that Mrs. Swanson had been overcome by her loss. Judith, in all honesty, was not: Her initial reaction had been relief. Sorrow had
come later, and even then, it was more for Dan than for herself.

The Swanson and the Goodrich houses were mirror images of each other. While the Goodrich home faced the cul-de-sac, the Swanson residence looked out onto the cross street. Judith started along the stepping stones that led through a carefully tended, if now fallow, garden. There was no sign of visitors, so Judith assumed that the grandsons had left. It was only when she reached the front porch that she remembered the Goodriches' preference for using the back door. Sighing, Judith retraced her steps and followed the driveway that the Goodriches shared with the Ericsons.

A wooden gate led onto the Goodrich property. The latch opened easily. Even in late autumn, the small backyard was immaculately tended. Judith knew that George did all of the work himself, either out of love for gardening, or as an excuse to escape Enid.

Passing the garbage can and recycling bins, Judith noticed a neatly stacked woodpile and a chopping block. Sheltered under the porch were several empty clay pots of varying sizes, a couple of trowels, a shovel, a rake, and an edger. Just beyond the wooden fence stood the Goodriches' single garage. Its doors were closed, but Judith knew that George's aging but well-maintained Dodge sedan sat protected from the elements.

She stepped onto the lattice-enclosed porch. The single chime of the doorbell finally summoned George Goodrich. Judith hadn't seen George up close for some time, and was surprised at how wrinkled his long face had grown. But of course he must be close to eighty, Judith realized. The two Goodrich children were a few years older than Judith.

“Judith,” George said in mild surprise as he adjusted his glasses on his thin nose. “What can we do for you?”

Judith shuffled a bit on the doormat. “I have to ask a favor.” She smiled. “May I come in?”

George Goodrich's expression was uncertain. He pushed his glasses up on his thin nose, then turned to call over his shoulder: “Enid—it's Judith Grover. She wants to ask us something. Is it all right for her to come in?”

Judith was used to still being called by her maiden name among the oldsters on Heraldsgate Hill. But George's deference to his wife was jarring. Nor did Enid Goodrich reply immediately. When she did, her voice was petulant.

“Very well. But she must know I'm in poor health. I can't be putting myself out for much of anything these days.”

With a diffident smile, George stepped aside. Judith entered the immaculate kitchen. It had been a long time since she'd actually stood inside the Goodrich house. Strangely, nothing seemed changed. The white counter tiles probably had come with the house some seventy years earlier. They were faintly yellowed and cracked, but scrubbed to perfection. The Formica was of a later vintage, but it, too, shone in the late afternoon light. Crocheted pot holders hung pristinely from magnets on the unblemished refrigerator. There wasn't a sign of anyone ever having consumed so much as a crumb in the Goodrich kitchen.

George led Judith through a small hallway off the equally tidy dining room. Mrs. Goodrich was in the master bedroom, reclining on one of the twin beds. She had been watching a big color TV console, but condescended to have George turn the program off. The furniture was old and solid but unremarkable in design except for the fluted mirror on the dressing table. A medicinal smell hung over the room, which wasn't surprising, given the collection of bottles and jars and drinking glasses that crowded Enid's nightstand. Its mate, which Judith assumed belonged to George, held a single etched glass, a bottle of liquid antacid, a clock-radio, and a spectacles case. A brass reading lamp hung over Enid's bed; the space above George's headboard was bare. The bureau and dressing table held cosmetics and cologne and jewelry cases and a set of quilted satin organizers. Even the clothes that Judith could see in the half-opened closet all appeared to belong to Mrs. Goodrich.

“Judith,” Enid said in a musing voice that conveyed faint disapproval. “Do you want to borrow something? If you do, you promise to bring it back. That Swanson woman has had our lawn edger for over a month.”

“Now, dear,” George began in a soothing tone, “we've borrowed a few things from her. I still haven't returned her hatchet after we got that load of wood for the fireplace.”

“Wood!” Enid spoke scornfully. “Now that was plain foolishness! Wasteful, too. When have we built a fire in the fireplace? All it does is get ash on my nice beige carpet. Besides, no one's allowed in the living room except special company.” With a long-suffering expression, Enid turned to Judith. “Naturally, I haven't been able to entertain for a long time. I'm much too ill. George seems to forget that. Among other things.” She shot her husband a malevolent glance, then resumed speaking to her visitor. “Now exactly what is it you wanted to borrow from me?”

“No, it's not that,” Judith began, wondering if she should sit on the cedar chest at the end of Enid's bed. There were no chairs, and she doubted if Enid would tolerate anyone sharing space on the mattress. “As you know, I've asked the neighbors to…”

“Neighbors!” Enid sneered. She was a small woman who, as Judith recalled, had once been almost pretty. Time had not treated her kindly. The strawberry-blond hair had been dyed until it had lost not only its luster but its fullness, too. Despite her thin frame, the once firm jawline sagged into jowls, and the skin under the eyes was puffy. Her aquiline nose had sharpened, and the mouth, which Judith remembered being carefully outlined in bright pink, was clamped into a tight line that would have rebelled at any hint of a smile.

“Neighbors!” Enid repeated, this time almost wistfully. “What kind of neighbors have we got these days? Those Ericsons are never home, Mrs. Swanson isn't what I'd call friendly, the Porters always have a bunch of cars they're supposedly fixing, and the Steins are just plain snooty. I remember a time when everybody was pleasant. Except for that bunch of rowdies with their outdoor picnics and gallons of beer and ukeleles and singing half into the night! Now
there
was a noisy nuisance! We had to call the police at least four times.”

“That was
my
family.” Judith realized that her eyes had narrowed and her jaw had set. “I believe you're referring to
the wedding reception for Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince in 1951.”

Enid glared at Judith. “Did they get married
four
times? What about your uncle? The one who put the cherry bomb in the barbecue on Independence Day? Every year, I cringe when July rolls around. His antics are completely unnerving.”

Judith had stopped wondering about sitting down. Now she only wanted to figure out how she could leave without harsh words. “That was Uncle Cliff,” she said stiffly, recalling the puckishness of Renie's father. “He's been dead for twenty years.”

Enid was obviously startled but quickly regained her aplomb. “I should think so!”

Judith sighed. “Look, I know you don't feel up to coming to our meeting tonight. We're going to discuss outdoor Christmas decorations. I thought it would be nice for all of us in the cul-de-sac to put up some lights or something this year. Would you like to join in?”

A contemptuous look crossed Enid's face. “Christmas? What about the Steins? They're Jewish. Mrs. Swanson is Japanese. I've never known the Ericsons to attend any church. And the Porters are Negroes! What does Christmas mean to any of those people?”

Having forgotten that Enid Goodrich was impossible, Judith surrendered. “Okay, forget it. I won't impose any longer. Good-bye, Mrs. Goodrich.” Judith gave George an apologetic little smile. “Sorry I bothered you.”

George's long face had fallen so far that it looked as if his chin could touch the top button on his worn cardigan. “Yes, well, it's no bother. Except that…”

“George!” Enid's sharp voice cut through the slightly stale air. “Get my pain medicine! It's after four! And put ice in the water this time. It was lukewarm at noon.”

“Yes, dear.” George wore his air of resignation like an albatross. Back in the kitchen, he headed straight for the cupboard. Judith glimpsed a vast array of pharmaceutical bottles. “Enid suffers so from her arthritis,” George explained as he peered at the various labels. “Headaches, too. And her stom
ach gives her fits. It's so hard to fix food that won't upset her.”