Nutty As a Fruitcake (25 page)

“But you found his money,” Judith said quietly.

The statement jarred Art. “What? Oh—yes!” The hint of a smile played around his mouth. “
You
found it, I hear. That was a shock.”

“So what happened to it?” Judith stood up as the teakettle whistled.

“JoAnne insisted we put it in the bank.” Art was looking dazed, apparently still overcome by the discovery. “Pappy said Mama thought banks were dishonest. He knows better—but she always had to have her way. So JoAnne opened an account yesterday for Pappy. Did you know there was thirty-six thousand dollars under that rug?”

Judith laughed. “No. But I'm not surprised.” She stirred the Tom and Jerry ingredients, then handed Art a steaming mug. “Did your father realize how much was there?”

“I don't think so.” Art was looking downcast again. “I don't think he cares. He said Glenda and JoAnne and I could have it as far as he was concerned. Money doesn't mean anything to him.”

“It will if he decides to go into a retirement home,” Judith pointed out. She had sat down again, cradling her mug in both
hands. “Art, what did you find in the desk after you pried it open Tuesday evening?”

If Art had been startled by Judith's question about the money, he now went completely still as the color drained from his face. “How…?” He couldn't go beyond the single syllable.

Judith retained her matter-of-fact air. “It wasn't that hard to figure out—the part about the desk being pried open, I mean. The fresh marks were there, the steak knife that matched your parents' set was in the gutter by where you'd parked your car—and something was missing from the desk. It wasn't money or your father's account book, which were my earlier guesses. So what was it?” Judith's black eyes were fixed on Art's ashen face.

“Oh, Judith!” Art gripped the seat of the chair and swung away, his head down. “It was a book.” The words were barely audible. “About poison.” Art hesitated, then finally looked at Judith. “I think Pappy wanted to kill himself.”

Judith nodded once. “I see. He was that unhappy?”

“Unhappy?” Art seemed to be savoring the word, as if it were an exotic delicacy. “He was never what you call happy. But lately…maybe around the time I lost my job…he seemed to go downhill. He says now that was when his memory began to slip. My problems affected him, I guess.” Art laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “They sure never bothered Mama.”

“She wouldn't lend you money.” The statement was simply put.

Art nodded slowly, then drank from his mug. “She was tightfisted. Oh, hell, that's putting it mildly! She wouldn't have given us a dime if we were starving! And here was Christmas coming up, and I didn't have any money for presents…Poor JoAnne works her butt off at Falstaff's, and those boys of ours are always wanting something…I felt like such a dud. Isn't a man supposed to provide for his family?” Art seemed close to tears.

“You always have, until lately. That's not your fault.” Judith tried to cheer Art with a compassionate smile. “I worked
two jobs to support my family when I was married the first time.” She didn't add that her efforts hadn't seemed to trouble Dan McMonigle. But the truth was, she didn't really know.

A touch of color returned to Art's drawn face. “Anyway, it seemed to bother Pappy. But he couldn't offer help—Enid would have killed him.” The irony of his words made Art grimace. “You know what I mean. I knew there must have been money around the house because Mama hated banks. I thought it might be in the desk—why else lock it up? That Tuesday evening, Mama and Glenda and Pappy were in the bedroom. Mama was carrying on something fierce with Glenda about Leigh and Glenda's boyfriend, Gary. I couldn't stand listening to them, so I was going to leave. But then I thought about that desk and maybe there was money in it and Mama had told me I'd burn in hell before she'd loan me a lead nickel—well, I took the knife and forced the desk open. There wasn't any money, but there was this book right in the middle compartment, and it was all about poisons. I knew then that Pappy was going to commit suicide.” Art raised a stricken face to Judith. “I grabbed that book and ran out of the house and got into my car and drove away and pitched that goddamned book out into the street! Do you blame me?”

Judith was caught in midswallow. “No,” she said, putting her mug down on the table. “Of course not. That's what I figured.”

 

At precisely noon on Saturday, it started to snow. Renie had just arrived at Hillside Manor, carrying a loaf of her mother's fruitcake wrapped in aluminum foil. She took one look out of the kitchen window and screamed.

“I can't drive in snow! I'll be killed! I'm out of here!” And she was.

Smiling, Judith picked up Aunt Deb's fruitcake. Removing the foil, she sliced off a piece and popped it into her mouth. There were no nuts. It was delicious. Judith suddenly knew who had murdered Enid Goodrich.

 

Joe Flynn didn't give a hoot about his wife's theory. He was busy in the basement. If Judith wanted to drive to Art and JoAnne's house in the snow, that was up to her. He had things to do. Like with the wiring, he added unconvincingly.

“There's nothing wrong with our wiring,” Judith protested from the head of the stairs. “It has to be up to city code because this is a B&B.”

Joe didn't answer. Frustrated, Judith went out on the back porch. There was still rain mixed with the snow; the thermometer registered thirty-three degrees. Judith's Nissan had studded tires, but there were several steep streets between the B&B and the neighborhood above the railroad yard. Heraldsgate Avenue was the most treacherous thoroughfare of all. When it snowed on Heraldsgate Hill, residents who didn't have four-wheel drive were virtually marooned from the rest of the city. Judith was thwarted.

She was also upset. Maybe calling on the younger Goodriches was foolish. Perhaps she should talk to Glenda first. Or Mrs. Swanson. Judith went back indoors, still mulling things over as she made gingerbread cookies. When the last batch was done an hour later, the ground was covered in white.

Judith put on her jacket and went outside. The aroma of gingerbread followed her to the front porch. Noting that the New England village was dusted with snow, she went back to switch on the lights. The cluster of buildings and figures seemed to spring to life. Judith couldn't help but smile.

Exactly one week before Christmas, the cul-de-sac looked beautiful. And quiet. Even though it was a Saturday, no one seemed to be stirring. Perhaps some of the inhabitants were shopping. Judith felt the snow melt against her face as she walked toward Mrs. Swanson's house.

Nearing the driveway between the Goodrich and Ericson properties, Judith saw Ted's handsome sign with its season's greeting. On the parking strip was another sign, put up by the real estate agent. Judith slowed her step, feeling sad.

Amid the other neighbors' festive facades, the Goodrich house looked particularly poignant. The darkened windows seemed to stare out hopelessly at Judith. She picked up the
pace; Mrs. Swanson's fairy lights drew her like a beacon on troubled seas.

At first, she didn't hear her name being called. Indeed, it was the footsteps padding softly in the snow that made her turn around. George Goodrich, wearing rubber boots, a heavy wool jacket, and a crumpled fisherman's hat was standing by the walkway to his house.

“George!” Judith cried in astonishment. “What are you doing out in this weather? Did you come all the way from Art and JoAnne's?”

George looked a little sheepish. “I did. It was so pretty out, I thought I'd take a walk. I ended up here.” As Judith approached him, he nodded at the real estate sign. “Isn't that something? A month ago, who would've thought it?”

Up close, Judith tried to see if the idea disturbed George. But his wrinkled face was unreadable. In fact, it was virtually blank.

“Is that what you want?” Judith asked, pointing to the sign.

George gave a minimal shrug. “It's the right thing to do, isn't it?”

“I can't answer that.” She took George by the arm. “Why don't you come over to our house and have something hot to drink? Two miles is a long walk.”

George's tired eyes strayed to Hillside Manor. The snow was coming down so hard that only the amber lights of the village could be seen from the sidewalk.

“No, thank you, Judith.” His attempt at a smile was pathetic. But as he turned toward his own house, he brightened almost imperceptibly. “Would you like to come in…here?”

Judith noted that he avoided referring to the house as his. No doubt he already felt dispossessed. But in retrospect, Judith realized that nothing had seemed to belong to George. It was Enid's house, Enid's garden, Enid's living room, Enid's furniture. George had lived at the same address for almost sixty years, but Judith guessed that after he married Enid, the house never felt like home.

“Sure,” Judith said, still holding George's arm. “It's getting really cold. I'll come in for a few minutes.” She paused
as George led the way around to the back. “Have you been inside since…we cleaned?”

“I just was.” He started up the porch steps, treading carefully. “Thank you for taking care of things, Judith. It was awfully kind.”

Judith began to say that she and Phyliss had been paid for their efforts. Maybe George knew as much. If not, Judith would let him think they had done it out of kindness. It occurred to her that she would have, if she hadn't felt it necessary to secure police sanction.

George went straight to one of the kitchen cupboards. “I'm not sure what's on hand. Coffee, tea, maybe some juice in the refrigerator…”

“Don't bother,” Judith said, sitting at the kitchen table. “Have a seat, George. You must be tired.”

Woodenly, George obeyed. Judith was reminded of his son, also acting as if he'd lost his will.

“I am tired,” he admitted. “I suppose I was foolish, walking clear over here in this snow. Now I'll have to figure out how to get back.” Ironically, George didn't seem perturbed by the problem.

Judith, however, was perturbed by George. For a long moment, they sat in silence. The north wind was blowing hard and the snow was piling up outside on the kitchen windowsill. Judith watched the swirling flakes, then turned to George. He was watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, their small ceramic figures caught forever in an attitude of grace.

“George,” Judith began, the unsteadiness of her voice surprising her, “why now?”

George had removed his fisherman's hat when he entered the house. He picked it off the table and wrung it in his hands. “Now?”

Judith nodded. “Over the years, there must have been a hundred occasions when Enid drove you to the breaking point. What finally put you over the edge?
Why now?
”

The question didn't seem to shock George. He placed the crumpled hat on one knee and picked up Ginger Rogers. “Enid wasn't the one who was supposed to die,” he said, his
voice surprisingly strong. “I was. I'd thought about it for a long time, especially after Art got laid off. But it wasn't right.”

Judith nodded again, more slowly. “That's why you bought a book on poison?”

George raised his white eyebrows. “You knew about that? Did you take it?”

“No, of course not. Art did. He was afraid for you.”

“Ah!” George seemed both relieved and somehow pleased. “I wondered. It was gone when I looked for it that morning.” With almost reverent fingers, he turned Ginger Rogers upside down.

“What was wrong about killing yourself, George?” Judith asked quietly. “The morality of it?”

“Oh, certainly. Suicide's a terrible thing. It's so selfish. But that wasn't all. I may not be much of a man, but I always tried to serve as a buffer.” He righted Ginger, set her on the table, and moved Fred to stand in front of her. “If I died and Enid lived on she would only have made life even more miserable for the rest of the family.” Apologetically, George gazed at Judith. “Am I making sense?”

“You always did.” Judith smiled feebly. “That's why I had trouble believing that your mind was going. You couldn't have worked on those accounts if you were muddled or forgetful.”

A hint of pride shone in George's eyes. “I kept my hand in. They trusted me at Pacific Meats, for almost fifty years. I wish I could say the same for my grandson.”

“Dave?” Judith had seen George's sense of pride replaced by chagrin. But this wasn't the time or place to discuss Dave and Greg's scam. It was sufficient to acknowledge that George apparently had caught some discrepancies. “I still wonder what set you off, George. After Enid died, everybody marveled that you hadn't…acted sooner.”

Another silence filled the kitchen. At last, George stood up and walked to the window. “You and your husband asked us to put up those decorations. It was a nice idea, I thought. But Enid didn't agree—as usual. She turned you down. That bothered me—I always tried to be a good neighbor. Oh, I did my
best to make her change her mind, but she was impossible. She always was.”

He stopped speaking, then turned to beckon Judith. “Look out here. You can't see much with all this snow, I'm afraid.”

Judith joined George at the window. He was right: She couldn't see any further than the driveway. Their footprints were already obliterated.

“I'd worked late that night, trying to go over the November figures, which they'd just sent me Tuesday afternoon. It was the thirtieth, you see. I don't think I went to sleep until after four. Usually, I'm up by seven, to fix Enid's breakfast and dispense her medicine by eight. But I must have been awfully tired. Tuesday night had been very upsetting, what with Enid and Glenda fighting, and both Art and Greg asking for money. As a matter of fact, I dropped off right after nine-thirty, when we usually went to bed. But then Greg came back and let himself in—I suppose his mother told him where to find the extra key—and the noise disturbed Enid. I don't know what he wanted—looking for money, I suppose. Anyway, Enid scared him off. That woke me, and then I laid awake for a long time until I decided I might as well use the time to do the books.” He stopped, staring out into the world of white.