Nutty As a Fruitcake (5 page)

On the way back to the kitchen, Judith remembered her original errand. She flipped the switch in the entry hall, then couldn't resist going outside to admire the lights in the New England village.

The rain was steady, but not daunting to a native Pacific Northwesterner. Judith stood on the parking strip, smiling with pleasure. The white clapboard church, the mill with its water-wheel, the quaint old inn, the snug little houses, and the cluster of cheerful shops looked delightful. The half-dozen residents seemed bursting with high spirits as they were caught in the middle of their holiday bustle. Judith couldn't stop smiling.

Until she heard another scream.

 

Galloping back into the living room, Judith was astonished when she found her guests laughing and gobbling up the latest hors d'oeuvres. Only the couple from Idaho seemed to notice their hostess's puzzled expression. Somewhat sheepishly, Judith skulked off to the kitchen.

“It was probably Arlene,” Joe said calmly after Judith told him about the scream. “Your mother's steak is done. If I cooked it any longer, we could make it into a pair of boxing mitts.”

After Judith returned from the toolshed, where she had listened to her mother's diatribe about supper being late, the Flynns sat down to dinner. Joe had kept their steaks on a warming plate. Judith, however, ate without her usual appetite.

“Stop fussing,” Joe urged. “You're kind of nervy tonight. Forget the Goodriches. Think about the sable coat I'm giving you for Christmas.”

Judith gasped. Then she saw the gold flecks in the magic green eyes. “You're kidding, right?”

“Of course.” Joe added more pepper to his mashed potatoes and pan gravy. “In fact, I'm stumped. Choosing gifts is another holiday hassle. What do you want?”

Ignoring Joe's carping, Judith grew dreamy-eyed. Out in the living room, the guests began to drift away, getting ready for their own dinner engagements. Silence filled the kitchen, warm and comfortable, heightened by the aroma of hearty food.

“I don't know,” Judith said at last. She reached across the table and took Joe's hand. “I've got everything I want.”

Joe's smile was sheepish. “Scratch the sable coat.” With his free hand, he put down his fork. “Your guests have departed. Shall we?”

Judith giggled. “Why not?” Then she remembered. “Oh! You're going to see the Goodriches.”

Joe stroked her hand. “So? Aren't warriors heading into battle allowed one last moment of erotic delight?”

Judith started to protest, considered Enid Goodrich, and squeezed Joe's fingers. Visions of Enid in armor, chain mail, war paint, and fatigues marched through Judith's mind. Attila, Genghis Khan, Charlemagne, Napoleon—all paled beside Enid Goodrich. Judith got to her feet.

“Come, soldier mine. Sheath your weapon.”

With surprising grace, Joe jumped out of his chair. “Oh, no, sweet concubine. Quite the contrary.” He wrapped an arm around Judith, pulling her close. “I intend to unsheath my weapon whilst you shed your inhibitions. Thus shall we find earthly pleasures ere I face the dreaded enemy.”

Laughing softly, they went up the back stairs. Neither one noticed Sweetums, swishing his tail and eating the last of the smoked oysters off the kitchen floor.

 

Joe returned from the wars battle-scarred. He was still swearing when he came in through the back door, dripping rain and red of face.

“And I thought your mother was contrary!” Angrily, he took off his wet jacket and gave it a good shake. “The old bat wouldn't even see me! George said she was worn out from the visit with her children! Bull, they come around all the time! Enid Goodrich is stubborn, selfish, and just plain mean!”

Judith let out a big sigh. “That's it, then. We'll have to tell Ted to forget the sign. Or,” she went on, trying to find a bright
spot in the dark scenario, “we could put it at this end of the cul-de-sac. If visitors think it's odd that the Goodrich house is dark, that's not our fault. Should anyone ask, I'm going to tell them what a pill Enid is.”

“Merry Christmas,” Joe muttered as he poured out the last cup of coffee. “Jeez, with people like her around, no wonder the rest of us lose the holiday spirit.”

Judith was at the phone, dialing the Ericson house. “You can't have that attitude. Think about the decent people we know, instead of wishing she'd drop dead.”

Jeanne Ericson answered on the second ring. “Drop dead? Who is this?”

Embarrassed, Judith laughed lamely. “It's me, Jeanne. Judith. I was talking about Enid Goodrich.”

“Oh.” Jeanne's voice tightened. “That's understandable. She might as well drop dead. She seems to make everybody's life miserable. Did you hear all that screaming at their house tonight around dinnertime?”

Judith stiffened. “I did, as a matter of fact. But I didn't know where it was coming from.”

“Goodriches', that's where. It sounded to Ted and me as if they were having a world-class brawl. The next thing we knew, Glenda ran out of the house and drove away. She tore out of the cul-de-sac so fast that she almost hit a truck that was parked on the other side of the street.” Jeanne made a disapproving noise. “Honestly, wouldn't you think that when people get older they'd want to live in peace?”

Wearily, Judith leaned against the door frame. “Not really. Fighting and arguing may prove that they're still alive.”

Jeanne snorted. “It might be better if Mrs. Goodrich wasn't. Alive, that is. You were right the first time. Everybody would be better off if Enid would drop dead.”

Everybody, including Judith, was about to find out if Jeanne Ericson was right.

P
HYLISS
R
ACKLEY WAS
singing a hymn at the top of her lungs, but the vacuum cleaner mercifully muffled the noise. Judith had just finished spotting the living room rug, and left her cleaning woman to her tasks. Phyliss had arrived promptly at eight-thirty, filled with Christian zeal, the Protestant work ethic, and a lot of phlegm.

Or so she claimed. But inasmuch as Phyliss enjoyed poor health to the hilt, Judith dismissed the latest in a long line of complaints. An hour after her arrival, Phyliss had changed the guest beds, started a load of laundry, cleaned the second-floor bathrooms, and was now attacking the living room. Judith sat down at the kitchen table to drink a fourth cup of coffee and pay bills. She always wrote checks on the first of the month, and this December was no exception.

Judith was trying to ignore both Phyliss's singing and the vacuum's roar when she heard a knock at the back door. The sound was loud and persistent. Judith had the feeling she might not have heard it the first time.

Arlene Rankers's pretty face was flushed with excitement. “What's going on?” she asked, her voice unusually high-pitched. “Such a commotion! I'm dying of curiosity!”

Judith stepped aside to let Arlene into the narrow hall
way. “It's just Phyliss. She's singing. Sort of.”

Arlene gaped at Judith. “Not that! I mean in the cul-de-sac! Firemen, medics, police! I think they're at the Goodriches'. Do you suppose George had a heart attack?”

“Goodness!” At a near run, Judith led the way into the kitchen, through the dining room and the entry hall, and out onto the front porch. Sure enough, the emergency vehicles filled the cul-de-sac, their red-and-blue lights flashing in the morning drizzle. The two women slowed their step as they started around the curving sidewalk. Three firemen came out of the Goodrich house and headed for their truck. Judith could hear a voice coming over a radio band but couldn't make out the words.

“Look,” Judith said, lowering her voice for no apparent reason other than the sense of tragedy that the scene conveyed, “there's Art's Toyota parked in front of the Ericsons'.”

Arlene gave a brief nod, but her attention was elsewhere. “Oh, my! This must be something really terrible! The front door is open!”

Judith grimaced. “You're right. Enid doesn't let people come in that way.” She moved closer to the police car, noting its number. Judith knew the officers who came on duty after eleven
A
.
M
. But the vehicle that was parked in the middle of the cul-de-sac didn't belong to Corazón Pérez and Ted Doyle who were assigned to the afternoon beat on the south side of Heraldsgate Hill. This was the morning shift, and while Joe knew the pair by sight, Judith did not.

With some tricky steering, the fire truck pulled out into the intersection. Judith frowned. “It's serious if the firefighters weren't needed. When did you notice all this?”

Arlene glanced at her watch. “About fifteen minutes ago. The firemen came first, then the medics. The police were just pulling up when I ran over to your house. I can't believe you didn't hear the sirens.”

Judith started to explain about Phyliss and the vacuum, but at that moment, the medics exited the Goodrich house. Somewhat to her dismay, she recognized one of them. Ray Kinsella
had come to Hillside Manor some five years earlier, when Madame Gushenka was poisoned.

“Ray!” Judith called, waving her arms. She trotted past the Ericson gate with Arlene at her heels. The medic stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, peering at Judith through the rain.

“Do I know you?” he inquired, as his partner opened the van's back doors.

Judith gestured over her shoulder at Hillside Manor. “Yes, certainly. The fortune-teller? January of…”

Kinsella nodded abruptly. “Mrs. McSomething, right?” He shook his head. “This is a hard-luck neighborhood, I'm afraid.” Moving quickly, he helped his partner roll a gurney into the Goodrich house.

“I'm Mrs. Flynn now,” Judith shouted. “Mrs.
Joe
Flynn.” But Ray Kinsella and the other medic had disappeared inside the house. “Rats,” breathed Judith.

Arlene regarded Judith with disillusionment. “I thought you were going to find out what happened. Should we bar their way when they come out?”

Judith looked askance. “Hardly. Whoever they're hauling off must be in bad shape.” Aimlessly, Judith began pacing the sidewalk. Despite the holiday decor, the cul-de-sac wore a mournful look. Bare branches of maple, hawthorn, horse chestnut, and plane trees reached up into the dead, gray sky. The air smelled damp, decay mingling with the rain and a hint of the salt water in the nearby bay. Judith felt depressed and helpless. Or maybe, she reasoned, she felt depressed because she was helpless. It wasn't her style to stand aside and let others take charge. Life had demanded much of her, and she had been forced to meet the challenges in order to survive.

Kinsella and the other medic emerged from the house with the gurney. One of the policemen, a young man with blunt features and almost no neck, ordered Judith and Arlene to step back. They obeyed, though Arlene shot the policeman a disgruntled look.

It was impossible to tell who was on the gurney. The body was covered with blankets, and there was an oxygen mask over the face. Judith peered through the rain as the victim was
placed in the back of the van. Kinsella disappeared inside. Judith shook her head as his partner closed the doors and rushed to the passenger side.

“Ridiculous,” grumbled Arlene. “The least they could do is tell us who they're taking away. How else will we know who to pray for?”

“Try everybody,” Judith retorted, then gave Arlene a rueful look. “Sorry. I guess I'm upset.”

“Who isn't?” Arlene demanded with a toss of her red-gold curls. “To have something like this happen right in front of us and not know what's going on is an absolute outrage!”

The siren's wail had almost faded when Glenda Goodrich parked her Ford Taurus in the spot vacated by the medics. Judith grabbed Arlene by the wrist. “Let's calm ourselves. Glenda will know.”

Glenda, however, wore a stunned expression. She didn't bother to close the car door behind her but stumbled towards her parents' house as if in a trance.

“What's happened?” Judith asked, hurrying to Glenda's side.

Glenda's mouth was open, her breath coming in small gasps. By reflex, she started down the driveway, to the back door. “I can't believe it,” she said in a stricken voice. “I can't believe it!”

“Believe what?” Arlene had sidestepped Judith to confront Glenda. She grabbed the dazed woman by the lapels of her raincoat and gave her a sharp shake. “Talk, Glenda! This is me, Arlene Rankers! There are no secrets—do you understand?”

With difficulty, Glenda's eyes focused. “Arlene! Oh! Please…I must go inside.” She swallowed hard as she tried to free herself from Arlene's firm grasp. “It's Mama. There's been an…accident.”

Arlene refused to let go. “What kind of accident?”

“
Please!
” Glenda wrenched free, then flew down the drive, clumsily sidestepping a freshly cut Christmas tree that lay between the houses.

Arlene was fuming. “She's impossible! The first time I met
her, she wouldn't tell me how much she weighed! Can you imagine being so secretive?”

Judith scarcely heard Arlene. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out what kind of accident had befallen Mrs. Goodrich. Just as Judith turned to head back to the front of the house, Ted Ericson pulled up in his black BMW.

“What's all this?” he inquired, looking perplexed but keeping his usual calm. “Did somebody have a wreck? We really should have at least a ‘Yield' sign at the head of the cul-de-sac.”

“It wasn't a wreck,” Judith replied as she and Ted and Arlene reached the sidewalk. Now only the squad car remained parked in front of the Goodrich house. “Something's happened to Enid, but we don't know what.”

Ted's almost white eyebrows lifted. “Really? I was home until just before eight. Then I went to get our tree. Jeanne had spotted a perfect noble fir at Falstaff's. After I brought it home, I realized we didn't have a bucket or any tools, so I went to the hardware store. They don't open until nine-thirty. I stopped for coffee at Moonbeam's.”

So wrapped up in his meticulous explanation was Ted that he seemed to have forgotten his point. Judith gave him an encouraging look, but it was Arlene who pounced:

“So what did you see at the Goodriches'? Or hear? Were there cries for help or loud noises? What was it? Well?”

Ted, however, looked bewildered. “I didn't see or hear anything. That's what I meant. Everything seemed peaceful this morning.”

An uneasy quiet now engulfed the neighborhood. Judith considered going back inside to get a jacket. The morning was cool and her sweats were growing damp. She was still mulling when another police car turned into the cul-de-sac, followed by an ambulance. Neither vehicle flashed its lights or sounded its siren.

“Good God,” Judith gasped. She knew from harsh experience what the unheralded arrival meant.

Arlene and Ted stared at her. Judith clamped her lips shut, gazing stonily at the Goodrich house. She was afraid to explain
the significance of the muted vehicles. If she kept silent, an improbable miracle might prove her wrong.

Two plainclothes police officers got out of the car. Detectives, Judith guessed, sinking deeper into the gloom. The woman was young, striking, and raven-haired. The man was older, tall and broad, with a luxuriant mustache and a black patch over his left eye. Judith thought she recognized him from one of the department functions she'd attended with Joe.

The pair paid no attention to the onlookers but marched swiftly up to the Goodrich front door. The ambulance attendants remained in their vehicle.

“I can't stand this!” Arlene declared, verging on an explosion. “I have to know! I need to know! I
always
know!”

It was true. Arlene Rankers had an incredible nose for news. On Heraldsgate Hill, she was famous for hearing everything first. Accuracy was another matter. But when called by Judith on some of her erroneous reporting, Arlene defended herself by insisting that she had a right to interpret what she heard, just like any network analyst.

But on this damp December morning, Judith agreed whole-heartedly with Arlene. Her own curiosity was about to burst. She was contemplating an assault on the front door when Art Goodrich staggered across the threshold. He clung to the brick porch pillar like a man holding onto the mast of a sinking ship. Judith and Arlene charged up the walk.

Art stared at them as if they were strangers. Ted approached cautiously, and out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw Mrs. Swanson virtually tiptoeing out of her yard. At that moment, Naomi Stein turned the corner in her Dodge station wagon.

“Mama's dead.” Art's voice was high and thin. He was gazing above his audience's head, with empty eyes lost in the curtain of rain. “Mama's dead,” he repeated. “She was hacked to death and Pappy did it.”

 

The awful silence that followed was broken when Art began to laugh. “Isn't that something? I can't believe it!” His head swiveled in all directions; then he tapped his feet on the front porch, like a song-and-dance-man. “Wild! It's just wild! Ma
ma's dead and I used the front door! Is that crazy or what?”

Strangely, it was Mrs. Swanson who reached Art first. She went up to the porch with a careful, steady tread, her small figure exuding courage. Judith couldn't hear what she said to the distraught man, but a moment later, Mrs. Swanson and Art went into the house.

Arlene was uncharacteristically speechless. Ted Ericson was walking in circles, holding his head. Naomi Stein had crossed the street and was standing next to Judith.

“Is it true?” she asked in a shocked voice. “Is Enid really dead?”

Judith ran a trembling hand through her wet hair. “I guess so. But the medics hauled somebody off in a hurry. I assumed it was Enid, and that she must still be alive.”

Mrs. Swanson was coming back out of the house. Now her step faltered as she made her way to the sidewalk. “The police, they want no outsiders,” she said quietly. “So I must leave. Oh, oh, this is a terrible day!”

Arlene almost controlled her rampant curiosity, putting only the gentlest of hammerlocks on Mrs. Swanson. “Is Enid really dead?”

Sadly, Mrs. Swanson nodded.

“Then why,” Judith asked, “did the medics race out of here?”

Free of Arlene's grasp, Mrs. Swanson fingered the silk scarf that was tucked inside her herringbone coat. “Mrs. Goodrich is still inside. The medical men took Mr. Goodrich away.” The black eyes filled with tears. “Poor man, he must have been overcome with remorse. He took pills to kill himself.” The tears overflowed, but Mrs. Swanson's voice didn't waver. “Wouldn't you think he'd want to live without her? I would.”

 

As a rule, Renie tried to keep her distance from Hillside Manor when Phyliss Rackley was around. The cleaning woman's chronic hypochondria and persistent evangelizing drove Judith's cousin absolutely nuts. Renie wasn't a morning person anyway, so she used the time until noon to run errands and do household tasks. Afternoons were usually devoted to her
graphic design business, which, except for occasional and much detested meetings, she did at home.

But Enid Goodrich's death brought Renie to Hillside Manor shortly before eleven. Fortunately, Phyliss was finishing the laundry and the ironing in the basement. A reluctant Arlene had gone to pick up Carl, who had left one of their cars at the repair shop. Thus, Judith was alone in the kitchen when Renie arrived.

“Have you told your mother?” Renie asked, accepting a mug of fresh coffee from Judith.

“Yes. She was horrified—for about twenty seconds.” Judith sank into one of the four captain's chairs. “Then she said it served the old bat right, she'd driven poor George to it, who could blame him, blah-blah-blah. But she insisted she hadn't had a premonition. Maybe she did forget, and won't admit it.”