A Cold Christmas (16 page)

Even at the best of times, love and pain were right up there vying for first place.

20

On Thursday morning Susan was working through two poached eggs, a sausage patty, and an English muffin at the Coffee Cup Cafe when Fran Weyland, her friend who owned the travel agency, slid into the booth across from her. “Have you packed yet?” Fran croaked.

“Ha, very funny. Did you tell me a month ago these tickets were nonrefundable? You sound terrible. What are you doing out of bed?”

“I'm better now. I said nonrefundable and it's still true.”

“You don't sound better.”

“Wait until you hear me tomorrow.” Fran had wild dark hair, large hoop earrings, and in honor of the season, had on a bright red sweater with white reindeer. She wore her usual bunch of silver bracelets that jangled when she moved. “You think there's a chance you'll make it?”

“I have ten more days. Miracles have happened in less.”

“I'm sorry. Have you told your parents?”

“Does that mean you don't believe in miracles?”

“Correct.”

“I haven't told them yet. Did Tim Holiday ever get any tickets from you?”

Fran shook her head, making the hoop earrings swing.

“I don't suppose he repaired your furnace.”

“No. But I did see him one day. At least I think it's the person you're talking about. Looked a little like your average serial killer.”

“That's the one.”

“I was slogging through the campus the other day getting my exercise and he and another guy were arguing. I probably only noticed because he looked spooky and the other guy was gorgeous.”

“Description of gorgeous,” Susan said, taking out her notebook.

“Blond curls, strong determined chin, straight nose, and a lush mouth with clear-cut, sensuous lips.”

“Eye color?” Susan said dryly.

Fran grinned. “I only glanced at him.”

“Ever seen him before? Since?”

“No. And I surely would have noticed.”

“Do you think he was a college student?”

“Maybe, but he was a little older than your ordinary student.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“That I don't know, but Gorgeous was mad. ‘Half of it's mine and I need it. If you don't give it to me you'll be sorry!'”

Susan raised an eyebrow.

Fran laughed. “Well, that was the gist of it anyway.”

“Give it to me again. Without the histrionics.”

“That is what he said. ‘Half of it's mine. I need it.' Or maybe ‘I want it.' Then, ‘We worked on it together.' The spooky guy said, ‘I paid for it.'” Fran looked at her watch. “I have to go. I'll talk to you later.” She dashed off in a flurry of scarves and a jangle of bracelets.

Susan took a sip of coffee. Okay. It was Christmas vacation. Half the students were off and half the remaining ones were female. That left only twenty-five hundred or so to examine for blond curls and sensuous lips. She finished her cholesterol, paid, and left.

Hazel was already back at work, she noted. Going ever farther afield, Susan plunked a stack of phone books on her desk and started calling banks for a safe-deposit box in Tim Holiday's name. There wasn't even any assurance Holiday had used that name. Who knows what name he might have used? And the bank might be in Hong Kong. She yawned, took a sip of coffee. Would she ever get peons back on the job to do this kind of thing? Work was piling up to high-rise proportions.

Before she could get started, her phone buzzed and Hazel told her that Beth had called to say she was back to work at the library though she still sounded hoarse.

Susan punched in the library number. “Chief Wren, Beth. I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Well, at least I'm on my feet. Abby said you were here the other day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Tim Holiday,” Susan said. “The dead man, yes, do you remember him?”

“Sure, he came in to read newspapers. Not local papers, but Dallas, Texas.”

“What interested him about Dallas, I wonder?”

“He wanted papers from twelve years back.”

That surprised her. Twelve years? “Do you remember the dates he wanted?”

“Sure do. Starting with December twenty-fifth and for some days after that. I don't remember how many exactly.”

“Can you get me the same ones?”

“Well sure. Microfilm, actually, but it took a while before it got here.”

“Do the best you can.”

“I'll give you a call when I've got it, okay?”

“Yes. Thanks, Beth.”

After a thought for twelve-year-old Dallas newspapers, she got back to the business at hand and made five calls.

On her sixth call, the voice on the other end said, one moment, please, and came back slightly longer than one moment later. “Who did you say this was?”

“Chief Wren in Hampstead.”

Muffled voices in the background, then, “Yes, ma'am, we have a box under that name.”

She was so startled she choked on a gulp of coffee. After a moment for recovery, she said, “I'll be there this afternoon.”

The phone rang as soon as she put it down.

“Bad news,” Hazel said. “Another tragedy.”

21

Paramedics, patient strapped to the gurney, raced down the driveway, one squeezing an air bag. Susan was relieved to see that it wasn't another death. At least not yet. She stepped aside to let them get past and joined Demarco, standing by the garage, waiting for Gunny to finish taking pictures.

“What's going on?”

Demarco, uniform coat collar turned up, stood with his fingertips in his back pockets, looking impervious to the cold. A solid oak in a strong wind. “White female, aged eighty-three. Found lying on the cement walkway below the stairs. Railing down as though she'd put her weight on it and it gave.”

“You think it was something different?”

“It gave, all right, but the brackets anchoring it were loosened. You can see the scratches. She fell, was unable to get help, and lay there all night.”

Shivering, Susan jammed her gloved hands into her pockets.

“Her son tried to call twice last night, and when he still got no answer this morning, he came to check on her. He took one look at her lying on the cement and thought she was dead. The paramedics thought different.”

Gunny, who was getting a lot of experience this cold winter, didn't look green this morning. Porch railings were a lot less messy than a corpse with the face burned away. “Where's her son?”

“His name's Roy. He's inside, waiting for you.”

Roy Dandermadden, slumped on the Victorian sofa in the living room, stared down at the carpet as though memorizing the pattern of roses and leaves.

“Mr. Dandermadden?”

He started to get up.

“Please, sit.”

He sat straight, hands clenched on his knees.

She tried an easy chair and found it so comfortable she had to slide to the edge to keep from falling asleep. “What times did you call your mother last night?”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “Uh—I'm not sure—eight and eight-thirty, maybe. Yeah. I think so. I didn't call again because it was getting late and I thought she'd be in bed. It's hard for her to get up and down anymore, you know? I want her to get a phone by the bed, but she feels it's an unnecessary expense. This morning when she didn't answer, I got to worrying, you know? She isn't as young as she used to be. Though she'd be all over me if she heard me say that.” He gave Susan a thin smile.

“Did she have any physical problems? High blood pressure? Dizziness?”

“Well, high blood pressure, for sure. It runs in the family.” He slightly loosened his clenched fists.

“Some arthritis,” he said. “Makes it a little hard for her to get around, but nothing that keeps her in or anything like that. Can't this wait? I need to get to the hospital.”

“Why did you call last night?”

“Uh, well, uh—I thought I'd better check and see if everything was all right. Why the hell didn't I come last night? She lay there all night.” His eyes got watery. “If I'd checked up on her more—come over and—”

“Are you the only son?”

“Yeah. Only one period.” He stared at the Christmas tree by the large front window. “Jo put it up. So she'd—” He stopped.

“Jo?”

“My daughter. Eleven. Smart as a whip and loves her grandmother. Mom didn't want a tree this year. Too much bother. So Jo— That's the way she is. Always doing for her grandmother and—” He broke off as though he'd forgotten what he was going to say.

“Do you have other children?”

“Mandy. She's seventeen. Going away to college in the fall. She loves Mom too, but she has so many things going, she doesn't get here as often as Jo.”

“How well does Ida Ruth get along with your wife?”

“Lillian loves her,” he said, quickly and a shade defensively.

“They had their frictions,” he admitted. “I guess all mothers do with daughters-in-law. It's just they didn't see eye-to-eye on everything.”

“Like what?”

“Oh—” He suddenly focused, worried she'd get to—what? Susan wished she knew. Something about his wife and Ida Ruth. Had they had a fight?

“Nothing specific,” he said. “Just where things should go in the kitchen. Over the counter, under the counter. Things like that.” He took in a breath with a soft sob. “Is there anything else? I need to go tell Lillian. She's at work, but—”

“Where does she work?”

“At Sanders and Son. The attorneys. She's a secretary. Been there for years.”

“Do you know what your mother did yesterday?”

“I don't know. I'm sorry. I should— Why?”

“I wondered if she'd felt ill yesterday, maybe coming down with the flu that's going around.”

He shook his head. “Pauline might know. They've been friends forever. Have their quilting bee every Wednesday afternoon. Both born in Hampstead, went away for years, then came back to stay. It's a good place. Mother loves it. She has her cronies and she's important in the church. Always doing things. I need to go,” he said.

“Has she had any arguments with anyone lately? Irritated anyone?”

A weary smile. “I wouldn't be surprised. She isn't the easiest person to get along with. She likes things her way, and no changing her mind once she's decided. Firm as a rock.” He said this as though it were an endearing quality.

His eyes watered and he moved toward the door.

Susan let him leave, saying she'd talk with him again. Indeed she would. Something was going on under the surface that she intended to get to.

After making a few notes, she went outside through the kitchen door. Demarco was poking through the frozen stretch of ground along the side of the garage.

“Find anything?”

“Probably nothing pertinent.” He held up plastic bags with cigarette butts, an old comb, and a pencil stub.

“Let's get going on the house-to-house,” she said. “You take this block. I'll do the one behind.”

Many neighbors were already out watching the activities. Demarco got names. Head down against the wind, she walked around the block. The lots were large and the houses well insulated. Which explained why Ida Ruth had been unable to make herself heard when she fell.

At the house directly behind she pressed the doorbell and identified herself to the middle-aged woman who answered.

“Oh, my goodness. My name's Rita Short. Please come in. What is it? Who's been hurt?”

“Your neighbor, Ida Ruth.”

“Oh no, oh no. Please come in.” Rita fussed around, straightening the afghan on the couch and lining up the magazines on the coffee table.

“Here,” Rita said. “This chair is comfortable. Can I get you some coffee?”

“Thank you, no.”

“It's already made, no trouble at all.”

“Really,” Susan persisted. “No.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Rita sounded disappointed. “Is she all right? Oh, my. It's been so cold, I try not to go out unless I absolutely have to.”

Rita sat on the bench of the old upright piano that had pictures covering the top. On the wall beside it was a piece of stitchery that read,

Hail, Guardian angels of the house,

Come to our aid,

Share with us our work and play.

“What happened?”

“She fell on the rear porch stairs.”

“Oh, no. How badly is she hurt?”

“She's been taken to the hospital.”

“I should have been checking on her. Oh, no. I'm not a good neighbor. She's not as young as she used to be and with this weather we should all be keeping an eye on each other.”

“Is she a friend?” Susan asked.

“Well, not exactly, but we've lived here for twenty-five years, and she's been here all that time and then some. She isn't exactly a person you get close to. Although a perfectly good woman, I have to say. But she does have her own opinions, if you know what I mean.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, she gets very upset when my grandchildren play in my yard and make noise. Children do, you know. And she doesn't like it at all that the new organist at the church is divorced. She plays beautifully. When my husband's mother passed away, the young woman played at the funeral. Ida Ruth is—well, she's sort of old-fashioned, I guess you might say. A divorce is really a sad thing, but I have to admit my own daughter is divorced. Does that mean she can't go to church?”

“Have you ever seen Caley James at Ida Ruth's house?”

“Well now, let me see. You know, I don't believe I have. But you can't really see much for the trees.”

“Did you see anything last night?”

“No, that I didn't.”

“Hear anything?”

“Oh dear, did she call for help? I'm just the least littlest bit deaf, and if I have the television on sometimes I don't hear anything else. I didn't even know all the commotion was going on over there until Dora called just now. She's right next door. She said there was an ambulance and police and everything.”