Just Desserts : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery (7 page)

Judith gave Joe a commiserating look. “Harvey Carver, Norway General. His wife’s the Duchess of Do-Good. The Brodie daughter writes romance novels under the name of Guinevere Arthur. And Mrs. Brodie used to be an opera singer.”

Joe drummed his fingers on the oak and let out a low whistle. “Why couldn’t I get stuck with one wino bashing another over the head with an empty bottle of rubbing alcohol?” He turned to Price. “If the medics are done, get the body out of here. I want the medical examiner’s report as soon as possible. And,” he added as Price headed out of the little parlor, “tell the guests they can go wherever they want—as long as they don’t leave the house.”

Renie was running a hand through her short brown curls.

“I don’t get it. The fortune-teller is supposed to be a minor celebrity on the Hill. But this crew didn’t know her. Not even Oriana, right?” She appealed to her cousin for confirmation.

Judith nodded. “There was supposed to be some big announcement—by Otto, I guess—about how he was going to divvy up his estate. I don’t think they ever got that far, though.”

“Money, the eternal motive,” said Joe in an undertone, getting to his feet. “But that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with your fortune-teller. First, we find out who she was. Did she bring a purse?”

“Purse.” Judith momentarily went blank. “Oh, it wasn’t a purse, it was sort of a satchel thing. It’s in the flour bin.”

“And your guests’ coats are in the cat box,” Joe dead-panned. “It all makes perfect sense.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, let’s go find this satchel. She ought to have some I.D. in it.”

Judith led the way, but Renie lingered behind, ostensi-JUST DESSERTS / 47

bly studying the yellow and black tape which now cordoned off the dining room set. The body had been removed, along with many of the items that had been on the table. A glance into the living room revealed Otto and Oriana, still in front of the fireplace, arguing. Harvey was browsing among the crammed bookshelves while Ellie leafed nervously through a gardening magazine. The rest were nowhere to be seen.

In the kitchen, two firemen were poking about, though whether they were checking for evidence or inspecting the wiring, Judith couldn’t tell. She nodded politely as she showed Joe into the pantry. It was the classic well-stocked larder, right down to the old-fashioned cooler where she kept extra butter and other semi-perishables. The room was small and cramped. Judith resisted the urge to turn around and confront Joe Flynn in relative privacy.

“Here,” she said, pulling out the door to the flour bin. “It’s in this grocery bag.”

Except that it wasn’t. The bag floated free in her hand, and Judith let out a little cry. “It’s gone!” She stared at Joe, reminding herself not to let those green eyes mesmerize her.

“Did your men find it first?”

Joe looked grim. “I doubt it.” He whirled out of the pantry, surprisingly nimble of foot.

But none of the emergency personnel knew anything about a satchel in a flour bin. After a brief discussion with Kinsella and one of the firemen, Joe surveyed the kitchen and pantry area. He bent down to study the dusty white patches that Renie had left behind her. “I take it somebody spilled flour when you ditched the satchel?”

“It was Renie. She got it all over herself. As you may recall, she’s a bit awkward.”

Joe looked up and grinned at Judith. “She sure couldn’t dance like you could, Jude-girl. You could make sparks fly with your feet.”

And with other things, Judith thought with a pang. At least with Joe. She turned away, speaking briskly: “Can you get footprints out of those flour patches?”

48 / Mary Daheim

Joe considered, still kneeling and rubbing at his round chin. “Maybe. The stuff’s pretty well scattered around, though.” He straightened up, but not before he’d carefully dusted a few white specks off his well-polished loafers. “Who else knew Madame Gushenka had a satchel?”

“Nobody.” Judith’s nervousness returned, though not for precisely the same reasons. “Except Renie, of course.” She saw Joe’s jaw tighten, and suddenly realized that she and her cousin might be under as much suspicion as their guests.

The idea was as incredible as it was unsettling.

“What about access?” Joe was already studying the kitchen door, the back stairs, and the steps that led to the basement.

“The back porch runs the width of the house,” Judith explained, “with French doors leading into the rear of the living room. Anybody could get to the pantry from any direction, including by going up to the second floor via the main stairway off the entry hall and then coming down again by the back stairs.”

“You don’t keep your doors locked?” Joe asked with raised eyebrows.

“Not until everybody goes to bed,” Judith replied, aware that she sounded faintly defensive. “Guests are free to go outside or anywhere else, except for the family quarters on the third floor.”

“Great.” Joe let out a long sigh, then went to the swinging door to formally dismiss the medics and the firemen. When the phone rang, Judith jumped, then dove across the room to answer. To her consternation as well as relief, it was Gertrude.

“What’s going on over there?” she rasped. “I’ve tried to call three times, but the line was busy. It looks like all hell’s broke loose. You kill somebody off with your god-awful lumpy gravy?”

“No,” snapped Judith. “It was your soggy cream puffs.

Luckily, only one death has occurred so far.” Before Gertrude could pepper the phone line with invective, Judith tried to explain what had happened in the past hour. A
JUST DESSERTS / 49

subdued Gertrude listened with relative restraint, and even agreed to Judith’s suggestion that she spend the night with the Rankers.

“It’s almost eleven o’clock now,” Judith said in her most appeasing manner. “It’s going to be a zoo around here for a while, and if Arlene and Carl don’t mind, I can send over your night things.”

Gertrude went off the line, presumably to confer with her host and hostess. A moment later, she was back, sounding older and wearier than usual. “Hell of a note. Dead bodies at the Grover dinner table! Wouldn’t have happened in
my
day.” She expelled a grunt of disdain. “Don’t forget my Tums, I ran out. And my hairnet. Oh, yeah, some bed socks, but not those silly things with the pom-poms.” She paused, os-tensibly running through her mental checklist. But when she spoke again, Gertrude’s voice was back to its normal aggressive rasp: “Am I getting daffy or did I see Joe Flynn going into the house?”

Judith took a deep breath. “Yes. And yes.”

“The bastard,” said Gertrude, and hung up.

SIX

JOE WAS GOING over the sequence of events with Judith and Renie when the phone rang again. This time, Renie raced out of the little parlor to answer it on the table in the living room. Only Otto remained, brooding into his Drambuie.

The fire was now blazing cheerfully, the flames giving his bald head an extra sheen.

“Sorry,” said Renie to an unknown male voice, “there’s no Wanda Rakesh here.” She shot Otto a surreptitious glance as she put the receiver down and headed back to the front parlor. Before she reached the door, the phone rang again.

Otto looked up with beady-eyed annoyance while Renie went into reverse.

“No, there’s nobody here by the name of Wanda Rakesh,”

insisted Renie. “What number are you calling?”

The voice at the other end was just as persistent. “Wanda’s my sister. She gave me this number herself. Are you sure she’s not around? She’s doing some corn-ball fortune-teller routine.”

Renie’s hand froze on the receiver. “Oh,
that
Wanda 50

JUST DESSERTS / 51

Rakesh.” She felt Otto’s little eyes boring into her. “Well.

Uh, what’s your name?”

The faraway voice was growing impatient. “Lester Busbee.

Hey, what’s going on? Is Wanda there or not?”

“Not,” gulped Renie. “Mr. Busbee, there’s been some trouble. Did your sister use the name of Madame Gushenka?”

“She could call herself the Wizard of Oz for all I know,”

snapped Lester. “What’s this about trouble?”

Trying to ignore Otto, who had now risen out of the chair and was trotting toward her with a menacing air, Renie struggled for the right words. As always, she wished she could resort to pictures; self-expression for Renie came much easier visually than verbally. “A woman calling herself Madame Gushenka showed up tonight as a fortune-teller.” She paused, turning away from Otto, who was hovering at her elbow. “Unfortunately, she, ah, passed away during the seance. Or whatever. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry! Jeez Louise! Listen, you nitwit,” roared Lester Busbee, “my sister is strong as an ox! It couldn’t have been her! Where are you? Where is Wanda?”

Renie gave Judith’s address, but was considerably more vague about Wanda. “Well, I’m not sure…I think there was an ambulance…The morgue?” The word echoed obscenely.

Otto blew his nose like a trumpet. “Where are
you
, Mr.

Busbee?” asked Renie, cringing.

Lester Busbee’s temper seemed to be deflating as he faced grim reality. “I’m in a town called—what?—Cedar River.

I’ve driven up from L.A. and my car broke down.” His voice quavered slightly. “It won’t be ready until noon tomorrow.

How many hours away am I?”

Renie calculated. “About three, if the freeway’s not too crowded. Get off at the Heraldsgate exit, then turn left at the first light. Drive safely,” she added. If Lester Busbee was indeed the brother of Madame Gushenka, Renie realized he needed a lot more sympathy than she had shown thus far.

Lester hung up without another word. Having disposed
52 / Mary Daheim

of one obstacle, Renie was now forced to confront another.

Otto was wiping at his nose and scowling. “Who’s Wanda Rakesh?”

“I don’t know,” Renie answered evenly. “Do you?”

“Never heard of her.” He spoke decisively, but avoided Renie’s scrutiny as he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Where’s my inhaler? I left it on the dining room table, but it’s gone. That blasted cat hair is getting to me again.”

Renie went as far as the yellow and black tape would permit, but saw no inhaler. “The police took some of the stuff from the table. They must have made off with the inhaler, too.” She offered Otto a genuine look of apology. “I have some Diphenhydramine in my purse. Would that help?”

But Otto clearly preferred to suffer, though not in silence.

“Hell, no, I don’t take secondhand stuff. I suppose that lamebrained nephew of mine doesn’t have anything with him except a scalpel and a saw.” He was winding up for a full-fledged diatribe, but was interrupted by Officer Price, who asked Otto to bring his wife in for questioning.

“My wife?” bristled Otto. “That moron doesn’t know anything! What about me?”

Price remained implacable. “You’re next, sir. But Mrs.

Brodie hired the deceased, correct?”

Otto sputtered and grumbled, but trotted off upstairs to fetch Oriana. Renie returned to the parlor, where Judith and Joe were going over a plan of the house. It was not clear whether Joe was studying the layout for purposes of the investigation or to admire Judith’s accomplishments.

“Four bathrooms,” he was saying, a blunt finger pressed against the crude drawing Judith had made. “The plumbing bills alone must have set you back a bundle.”

Noting their absorption, Renie hesitated. The last time she’d seen her cousin and Joe with their heads bent together, it was over a map of Mexico for the vacation they’d been planning for six months. Renie had hoped they’d get married first, but even in those days, she wasn’t about to
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criticize. Two weeks before the trip, Joe did get married. But not to Judith.

With an apologetic clearing of her throat, Renie presented the news bulletin from Lester Busbee. Joe made notes, and Judith went for the phone book. “There’s no Rakesh listed,”

she said, scanning the page. “Of course this directory is almost a year old now.”

“I didn’t know her as anything but Madame Gushenka,”

declared Oriana, standing on the threshold with Officer Price in tow like an Egyptian attendant waiting on Princess Amner-is. “Here,” she said, her high heels rapping their way across the hardwood floor, “this is the note I got from her confirming our date.” She tapped at the saffron envelope. “Crabtree Street, where all those apartments are toward the bottom of the Hill.”

“I’ll send someone down there to check that place out,”

said Joe, who promptly dispatched Officer Price to get a couple of men with a search warrant. Waving the note and envelope at Judith and Renie, Joe asked if they knew the address.

“The 800 block,” mused Judith. “I think so, it’s an older building, four, five stories, maybe. Uncle Al’s barber used to live there.”

Joe put a hand to his own high forehead. “Uncle Al still got his hair?”

“Most of it,” replied Judith, “but not all his marbles. He’s taken up martial arts.”

Joe didn’t seem surprised, but Judith was used to people showing a lack of astonishment when it came to the Grover clan. She was, however, taken aback by his abrupt dismissal.

“You and Renie get lost for a while,” he said, pocketing Madame Gushenka’s letter. “I have to talk to Mrs. Brodie and the others in private.”

“Just a moment,” interjected Oriana with a flounce of pearls. “Do I need an attorney present?”

“No, no,” soothed Joe, revving up the Irish charm. “We’re just on a fact-finding mission. Now the way I un-54 / Mary Daheim

derstand it, you heard about this fortune-teller from a friend of yours who hired her to…”

His voice died behind the closed door. In the dining room, a uniformed policeman was using a hand vacuum to gather up possible evidence in the vicinity of the fortune-teller’s chair. Judith and Renie looked at each other, then marched in step to the kitchen. “I wonder if he does windows,” Judith mused, suddenly aware that she was very tired.

Renie’s needs ran in a different direction. “Murder or not,”

she declared, “I’m still hungry.”

Judith glanced around the counters. “There’s a bit of roast left in the pan. I’ll turn on the oven to heat it up. See if there’s any salad in the fridge. I’m going to clear away the coffee table.”