Nutty As a Fruitcake (22 page)

“I stopped by Mama's house just now,” she said, accepting the coffee mug with an unsteady hand. “You've done a good job cleaning. So far.” Glenda closed her eyes as she swallowed. “Do you think it will be ready for the real estate agent by Wednesday?”

Judith was surprised. “So you're going to sell it? Isn't this a bad time of year?”

“We can list it before Christmas,” Glenda replied, her eyes darting around the room but not seeming to take in the minor chaos of empty boxes, extension cords, and a trail of silver tinsel that hung from the very top of the tree. “Then, after New Year's, buyers start looking again. Art and JoAnne have agreed to keep Pappy. At least until…” Her voice died away.

Judith didn't want to ask. But she did anyway. “Until he's arraigned? Or someone else is arrested?”

A spot of color flared on each of Glenda's cheeks. “What takes the police so long? Why can't they decide whether Pappy did it or he didn't?”

“Procedure,” Judith answered calmly. “They have to jump through all kinds of hoops. Sometimes, another case comes along that takes priority.” She paused, regarding Glenda with a sympathetic expression. “Does your father still deny his guilt?”

“Yes.” Glenda snapped off the word. “I don't blame him
for saying that. In fact, I think he believes it. He probably blanked out. His memory has been failing lately. He admits it. I guess the rest of us just haven't paid attention to how he's been going downhill.”

“That can happen,” Judith allowed, thinking of Gertrude. “It's gradual, especially when you see the person all the time.”

Glenda emitted a jagged little laugh. “He didn't remember much about coming to my place for Thanksgiving. He swore Leigh never came to see him and Mama at all while she was in town. She wouldn't have, either, if Mama hadn't ordered her to come.” Bitterness dripped from Glenda's voice.

“Oh?” Judith's dark eyes widened. “Why was that necessary?”

Glenda's lips clamped shut. She eyed Judith warily. Then she gazed off into the far reaches of the living room, above the plate rail, where the pine boughs hung with their golden pearls and gauzy ribbons.

“Leigh has no morals. What's wrong with young people these days?” Glenda demanded.

“Revenge.” The word leaped from Judith's lips and astonished both women. “I'm sorry,” Judith said quickly, putting a hand out as if she could retrieve the reply. “It's none of my business, but your daughter still seems resentful about your breakup with her father. Isn't that why she made a play for Gary Meyers?”

Glenda went white to the lips. “How did you know?” she asked in a trembling voice.

There was no point in evasion. “George took Enid to the doctor the Friday after Thanksgiving. You had to work that day—you told me so yourself. But your car was at your parents' house, so it was natural to assume you were driving it. Nobody saw Leigh, but Gary was spotted when he left. Leigh borrowed your car, just as she did Monday when your mother asked to see her. I don't know if your folks came home and caught Leigh and Gary, but it's a good guess. Your mother read Leigh the riot act Monday night, and then told you about the rendezvous on Tuesday. That's what all the screaming was
about. Naturally, you broke up with Gary and told Leigh she wasn't welcome anymore. Gary came back the next morning to see your parents. Did you know that?”

Glenda looked as if she would faint. Judith jumped off the sofa, snatched up the coffee mug, and hurried out to the kitchen. A moment later, she returned, after adding a measure of brandy.

“Drink this,” she said to her guest, who seemed to be in a state of semi-collapse. “I'm sorry to be so blunt, but this is a murder case, after all. Secrets are outlawed.”

Slowly, Glenda opened her eyes. Her expression was malevolent. “You're an awful person, Judith. All these years, I'd never have guessed it.”

“Think what you like. But I'm right.” Judith paused for an answer. She didn't get one. “Well?”

Glenda drank from the brandy-laced mug, then choked, sputtered, and tried to sit up straight. “Yes. But I didn't know about Gary coming by Wednesday morning. I don't believe it.”

“He was seen by at least three people.” The statement was only a slight exaggeration.

Glenda took another swig. Her temper rose. “This neighborhood! It's always been full of snoops and meddlers!”

“They're people who care about other people. It's better than locking yourself away like your mother did and never giving a flying fig about anybody else.” Judith's tone was stern. “If I were you, I'd talk to Gary. The police probably have done that already.”

Glenda drained her mug, then shot Judith a venomous look. “I'll do that. I certainly don't want to talk to you again—not ever.” Clumsily, she got up from the sofa and stormed out of the house.

If Glenda had looked back, she would have seen Judith smiling. Grimly.

 

Joe thought the tree looked gorgeous. Judith silently agreed with him, but when she finished just before five o'clock, she was too tired to be enthusiastic—or angry. In fact, she had
been worried for the past hour: The game should have ended by three, and the drive from the coliseum at the bottom of the Hill took less than ten minutes, even in heavy traffic.

“Triple overtime,” Joe informed Judith. “Plus, they take all those extra commercial time-outs when the games are nationally televised. Is that top a little crooked? I could straighten it.”

Judith was too weary to care if the top took a left-hand turn. “I was just going to get Mother so she could take a look. You can stick her up there. I don't give a damn.” Staggering to the French doors, Judith felt a blast of cold air. She flipped on the porch light and gasped. “It's snowing!”

“Right,” Joe said equably. “That's another reason we were late getting home. Driving up Heraldsgate Hill was kind of tricky. Bill did all right in that big Chev, but a lot of other cars were spinning out.”

“Good grief,” Judith muttered, closing the French doors. “I had no idea…I was so busy putting up the tree. It must have clouded over this afternoon.”

“Let's walk up to Athens Pizza after your guests are served,” Joe suggested. “Your mother can eat a TV dinner.”

Judith started to protest, then stopped. Gertrude actually liked TV dinners. The pizza parlor was only five blocks, albeit uphill. “Okay,” Judith said. “I'll start the hors d'oeuvres.”

“I'll fix them,” Joe volunteered. “I found a recipe in a magazine the other day for sole and calamari with ginger.”

Judith gaped. “We don't have any sole or calamari.”

“Yes, we do,” Joe replied. “Bill and I parked in the lot by the coliseum that's next to TLC Grocery. He picked up a bunch of deli stuff for their dinner so Renie wouldn't have to cook. How about a scotch?”

Feeling weak, Judith toppled onto the sofa. “Sure,” she said in a thin voice. “Why not?”

Five minutes later, Judith was reclining with a drink in her hand, the Oberkirchen Children's Choir on the CD player, and 240 multicolored lights glowing on the Christmas tree. In the kitchen, she could hear Joe singing along with the Austrian choir.

Renie was right. Sometimes it was better to receive than to give.

 

“Don't you dare laugh at me,” Judith warned Renie as the cousins joined forces in making spritz cookies, “but this Goodrich case is beginning to make sense.”

Renie twisted the cookie press, spewing snowflake-shaped dough onto a pan. The kitchen windows were covered with steam, and the aroma of baking cookies filled the house. Monday afternoon had turned warm, bringing rain, which had almost washed away the scant two inches of snow. But Phyliss Rackley had begged off coming to work: She didn't trust the barometer and was afraid of getting stranded on Heraldsgate Hill. In consequence, Judith had been forced to postpone the Goodrich cleaning project. She was philosophical, however, since the time could be used making spritz and preparing the food for the Lutheran buffet.

“I've got a pretty fair picture of the events that led up to Enid's murder,” Judith continued, removing a cookie sheet filled with small decorated wreaths. “Between the known facts and the personalities involved, we can make certain logical assumptions.”

“Uh-huh,” Renie said, exchanging the snowflake design for a camel. “Is there room in the oven for this batch?”

“No,” Judith retorted, a bit impatiently. “Listen, coz. Take each of the suspects. Start with Glenda. Her boyfriend cheated on her with her daughter. Enid finds out and gives Leigh hell, then rats on her to Glenda. Three generations are now mad at each other. But would Glenda or Leigh kill Enid?”

Renie held up another cookie press disk. “Is this a squirrel or a gopher?”

“I don't think so. They'd kill each other first. As for Gary,” Judith went on, removing a sheet of small snowmen from the oven, “I'm sticking to my guns. No motive, not after Enid let the cat out of the bag the previous night.”

Violating the premise of her eggnog diet, Renie stuffed a chunk of cookie dough in her mouth. “Are you sure this is Auntie Vance's recipe? Did you add salt? She doesn't.”

“Consider Art. We only have his word for it that he came
after
Enid was dead. Early Wednesday morning, JoAnne would still have been at work or asleep, depending upon the actual time of the murder. Art would never kill his father, but he might knock him out with sleeping pills. He could have put them in the glass by the bed Tuesday evening. Why murder Enid? I can think of a couple of reasons—Art couldn't stand seeing his father suffer Enid's abuse any longer. That's one. Two is that Art has…”

“Silver balls,” Renie said. “Where are they? I want to decorate these gophers with them instead of the red-and-green sprinkles.”

Snatching up the pan of snowflakes, Judith glared at Renie. “Dammit, coz, are you listening? This is important!”

“So are spritz cookies. They're Bill's favorites.” Renie dug out more dough with an index finger, popped it in her mouth, and sighed. “I
am
listening. Excuse the expression, but I think you're beating a dead horse.”

“No, I'm not!” Judith insisted. “I've already eliminated three suspects—Glenda, Leigh, and Gary. I'm working my way through Art. I think he wanted money.”

“Who doesn't?” Renie sprinkled silver balls with a lavish hand.

“Art's out of work; it's Christmas; he's desperate; he's humiliated. Who pried that desk open? The marks were fresh; the steak knife was at the curb where we saw Art's car on Tuesday.”

“The key was there, too,” Renie pointed out.

“I know. But I'm sure Greg dropped the key. Nobody saw Art come back that evening. It's a coincidence that the key and the knife should be in the same area, but it happens. Parking is limited in the cul-de-sac. Art was still at the house when Enid told Glenda about Leigh and Gary. We know that because of what O.P. saw and the screams I heard. So where was Art while that exchange was going on? Not in the bedroom, I'll bet. Art wouldn't want any part of a quarrel between his stepmother and his sister. Maybe Enid had already turned down his request for money. What does Art do? He goes into
the living room, figuring there's money stashed in the desk. He gets a knife from the kitchen and pries the desk open. Then Enid figures out he's in the forbidden living room—or maybe George finds him—and Art panics. He runs out the front door, drops the knife, and drives away.” Judith paused, waiting for Renie's reaction.

“Logical.” Renie tipped her head at Judith in approval. “But did Art get the money?”

Judith checked the oven. “I don't know. We certainly didn't find any. If he did, one of my motives for Art is shot down.”

“True,” Renie agreed, now creating tree-shaped cookies. “It all becomes strictly psychological. Abused husband, abused stepson, son sees himself becoming his father. The mother figure is the destroyer, in complete control. Bill says it's like spiders, where the…”

The front doorbell rang. Judith was spared another echo of Bill's opinions. “Guests,” she said, going to the door.

Judith was right—up to a point. A pair of widowed sisters from Port Royal who had reservations stood on the porch with their tartan suitcases. But behind them, down on the walk, was Ross Cisrak. He stood in the rain looking uneasy and forlorn.

“I'm Mrs. MacLeish,” the taller of the two women announced.

“I'm Mrs. Somersby,” the broader of the two women asserted.

“We were here last year,” they said together, and then laughed.

“We're sisters,” Mrs. MacLeish said, as if to explain the chorused response.

“But not twins,” Mrs. Somersby put in.

Judith couldn't help but look beyond the women to the nervous figure of Ross Cisrak. “Welcome to Hillside Manor. Let's get you registered.” The women picked up their suitcases and trotted into the entry hall. Judith smiled inquiringly at Ross Cisrak. “And you, sir? May I help you?”

“Maybe.” Ross took a tentative step forward. “It's…personal. Are you Mrs. Grover?”

“No,” Judith replied, gazing uncertainly at the two women
on the other side of the threshhold. She beckoned to Ross. “Not exactly. Come in. I'll join you shortly in the parlor.” Judith gestured to the first door off the entry hall.

It was ten minutes before Judith's guests were registered and settled in their room. After a quick word to a curious Renie, Judith finally joined Ross. He was standing in front of the small stone fireplace, staring at the pewter candlesticks that Judith had festooned with holly sprigs.

“Have a chair,” Judith offered, sitting down on the small window seat.

“My name's Ross Cisrak.” He didn't hold out a hand, but sat in an oak side chair near the hearth. “You probably think I'm nuts.”