Major Vices (10 page)

“It's impossible, you know,” Judith said suddenly.

“M-mmmf,” Renie murmured.

“Everybody else, including Buck Doerflinger, must realize it, but no one has said so out loud,” Judith declared, propping herself up on one elbow. “Why not? Are the Lotts too stupid? Can the Rushes be so obtuse? Is Buck purposely avoiding the crux of the case?”

“Uhnnnn,” Renie mumbled.

“Buck's reputation is for fixating on the obvious and running with it, no matter where it leads him,” Judith went on, her voice gaining momentum. “But he's not even mentioning the obvious with this case. The most important fact to establish is
how Uncle Boo was killed
. Only when that's been determined can you figure out who did it.”

Renie said nothing.

“The room was locked from the inside,” Judith continued, her tone now musing. “There is the possibility that the master key and the ring it's on aren't really lost. But we have to take Mrs. Wakefield's word for it that they are. Plus, even if that key had been used, how did the door get locked again from the inside? And the windows—they
were also latched from the inside, though I doubt that most of the people involved could have gotten in or out that way. The casements are too small. Jill and Zoe and maybe Holly are the only ones who could get through. Buck laughed at my idea about a hidden passage, but I can't help but wonder if there isn't one. It's the kind of thing an old romantic like Dunlop Major might have thought of.”

Still Renie said nothing.

“It would have to lead from the little hallway that goes past the telephone alcove and the main-floor bathroom, then into the garage. Unless”—she paused, sounding dubious yet excited—“it came out of the cupboard or the coat closet on either side of the recessed doorway. I should make a diagram.”

After fumbling for the switch on the lamp next to the bed, Judith reached for her handbag. Renie whimpered. Using the back of the paper on which she'd written her catering list for the party, Judith began to draw a crude floor plan of Major Manor. Renie groaned.

“There's one exterior wall behind the desk, with the windows,” Judith said, more to herself than to Renie, which was just as well because her cousin had put the pillow over her head. “Then there's the south wall, which is also an exterior, because the den juts out from the house on that side. We have to rule out those two as possibilities. We're left with the north wall, which is off the garage, and the west wall, which faces the entry hall but is actually fronted on one side of the den doorway by the coat closet and on the other by the cupboard. I haven't seen the cupboard, but I'll bet it's got shelves. I'd opt for the coat closet.” Her voice had risen, and she sounded exhilarated.

With a mighty lunge, Renie leaped up and pounded Judith with the pillow. “Will you shut up?” she yelled. “I was asleep and you kept talking like a damned Congress-man going for a filibuster!”

Rubbing her head, Judith gave Renie a sheepish look. “Sorry, coz. How can you go right to sleep with an unsolved murder under our roof?”

Renie replaced the pillow and punched it back into shape. “Easy,” she retorted. “One, it's not our roof. Two,
why would you want to help your husband's archrival solve a murder investigation? Three, Boo's not your uncle. Good night.” She hunkered down under the covers, turning her back on Judith.

Feeling her headache returning, Judith stared at the drawing she'd made. “This would be a good time to check out the den,” she said in almost a whisper.

“This,” Renie said in a muffled voice, “would be a good time to turn out the light.”

Judith got up and shrugged into the quilted maroon robe. “I'm going downstairs.” She started for the door.

“Damn!” The word exploded out of Renie.

With her hands poised to push the nightstand out of the way, Judith waited. She could hear Renie scrambling around, swearing, and apparently trying to find her paisley robe. A moment later, she was at Judith's side, helping to give the nightstand a hefty shove.

“Oh,” Judith said, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice, “you're coming, too?”

“I could use a snack,” Renie muttered. “There was some leftover pickled herring.”

Noiselessly, the cousins descended the main staircase. A light had been left on in the entry hall, but there was no sign of life. Still holding onto the wrought-iron balustrade, Judith reached the main floor. She could hear the sound of heavy snoring emanating from the living room.

“Buck?” she mouthed at Renie, who gave a shrug.

To Judith's relief, no policeman stood on guard outside the den door. A strip of yellow-and-black crime-scene tape stretched on the diagonal from lintel to threshold. Judith tried the knob; the door was locked.

“How…?” Renie said in a puzzled whisper.

“Toadie's key,” Judith murmured. “Or actually, the one that belonged to Uncle Boo. Toadie must have given it to the police.”

Moving stealthily, the cousins came out of the small, recessed passageway. Judith tried the cupboard first. As she'd guessed, there were shelves, six in all, filled with various household items, from floor wax to carpet cleaner. The construction was solid and first-rate, like the rest of
the house. Angling an arm inside, Judith tried to judge the depth of the shelves. They seemed to reach the wall. She could see no way there could be a secret entrance into the den from the cupboard.

To her disappointment, the closet seemed even less likely to hide a concealed passage. It was wider, but no deeper. At present it held the guests' wraps, including Trixie's chic trench coat, Aunt Vivvie's good blue wool, and a beaver-trimmed Chesterfield that Judith recognized as belonging to Toadie.

Judith rapped; she measured; she poked and pried and pushed. There was, she realized, no space for a hidden entrance. Disconsolately, she made one last attempt, around the corner in the short hallway which led to the second garage entrance.

The six-foot expanse seemed quite innocent. At least half of the other side housed the cupboard. A Canaletto print of Venice was the only adornment. Judith looked under the picture. She found nothing suspicious.

“Doesn't the den jut out from the house?” Renie whispered. “I mean, it has to, because on one side it's next to the garage.”

Judith didn't have much hope that the garage door would be unlocked. But it was. An ancient Rolls-Royce in mint condition sat next to a newer but equally well-maintained Cadillac. The third car was a battered Ford, which probably belonged to the Wakefields.

Again Judith and Renie could find no sign of a passage out of the garage. The brick wall common to the den was exposed. Indeed, it appeared that this was a part of the house where the masons had left off when they were dismissed. On the far wall, Judith saw sporting gear ranging from ancient skis to bamboo fly rods. There was also a big calendar featuring Pacific Northwest scenery. Judith moved down the row of cars for a closer look. The calendar was dated 1964, the year Dunlop Major had died. His son hadn't bothered to change much of anything, including the calendar.

“It was a thought,” Judith said in defeat as the cousins
made a cautious return to the hallway. “Now I'm really stymied.”

The phone rang just as they passed the main-floor bath. Judith jumped and Renie squeaked. On the second ring, Judith dove for the telephone alcove.

She expected the caller to be from the police, the under-taker's, or possibly even the hospital where Mason Meade had been taken. She was surprised to hear instead the voice of her cousin, Marty Grover. He, in turn, sounded disturbed.

“What's going on over there?” he asked, his usually boyish tones deepened by apparent concern. “I thought the birthday party was going to break up early. Mum and Trixie aren't back yet.”

Judith paused, clutching the two sections of the phone in each hand. She mouthed Marty's name at Renie, who nodded and gave a shake of her head. Though in his forties and twice married, the muddleheaded Marty still lived at home. “They're here, they're fine,” Judith said at last in a rush. “I thought Trixie called you earlier.”

A sense of relief filled Marty's voice. “Oh, good, they're safe. No, Trixie hasn't called this evening. That's why I was worried. I didn't move from the phone after nine o'clock. Then I heard on the news that the weather had gotten pretty rotten over on your side of the lake. I thought they might have been in a wreck on the way home.”

Marty, like the rest of the Lotts, lived in the sprawling suburbs across the lake. Though less then ten miles separated them from Heraldsgate Hill and The Bluff, the weather could differ as if the two places were in different climate zones.

Judith leaned into the alcove. Now that she had satisfied her curiosity about the secret passageway, exhaustion was setting in. “Look, Marty, there's been a disaster.” Carefully, she explained what had happened to Uncle Boo. The complicating factor of the weather. Mason Meade's accident with Trixie's car. The arrival of the police. The locked room.

“Wild,” Marty breathed when Judith had finished. “I've
never heard anything like it! Wait'll Dad gets back from Tanzania!” He paused, as if to collect himself. “He warned Trixie never to let anybody else drive that Lexus! I'll bet she's teed off big-time!”

Replacing the receiver on the hook, Judith shook her head. “Every time I think that Marty's smarter than Trixie, he manages to convince me otherwise. And to think he
is
a Grover!”

“Half Grover, half Lott, they cancel each other out and leave us with a Half-Wit,” Renie replied, shivering in her oversized bathrobe. “Let's grab the rest of the pickled herring and go back to bed. I'm freezing.”

The kitchen looked immaculate. Judith guessed that Mrs. Wakefield had finished the last of the cleanup, including emptying the final load of dishes. The pickled herring, however, was gone.

“Zoe ate it, I'll bet,” Renie fumed. “That girl's a hog.” She stuck her head in the refrigerator, foraging for a snack. “Here's some ham. I'm making a sandwich. You want one?”

Judith decided she was hungry, too. Renie found some leftover Havarti cheese and a jar of dill pickles. She also poured them each a glass of milk. It was warmer in the kitchen than it was in the master bedroom, so they decided to eat downstairs.

“You're right about one thing,” Judith said as they leaned against the counter and munched their sandwiches. “It's not in Joe's best interest for me to help solve this case.”

“You're not a detective,” Renie reminded her cousin. “Oh, you've got a knack for puzzles and you're great at getting people to open up. But this isn't your job. I'd advise you to keep out of it. For one thing, you don't want Buck to know you're Mrs. Joe Flynn.”

“I sure don't,” Judith replied fervently. “If it thaws by tomorrow, we'll get out of this place and never look back.”

Renie nodded emphatically. “That's the spirit, coz. Even if Uncle Boo hadn't gotten killed, I wouldn't want to spend any extra time with this crew.”

Judith sipped her milk. “Jill isn't so bad,” she allowed,
“and I've always kind of liked Derek. I feel sorry for Holly—she's so put-upon. Still, they're not
our
sort.”

“They're not family—not
our
family,” Renie noted. “Besides, Jill has a superiority complex, I don't trust Derek, and Holly is too good to be true. She's either repressed or—” Renie stopped speaking as the basement door opened and Mrs. Wakefield popped into the kitchen. Her hair was done up in big rollers and her bulky blue bathrobe looked as if it could have been used as a cover for Uncle Boo's Rolls-Royce.

“You two still up?” she inquired without much pleasure. “I thought everybody'd be out for the count by now.”

Judith explained, somewhat truthfully, that Renie had required a snack. Mrs. Wakefield snorted as she put the teakettle on and went to the refrigerator. “So does Weed. He doesn't eat all day; then he gets starved this time of night. Hey, what happened to the ham?”

Renie pointed to what was left of her sandwich. “It was real good,” she added with a touch of malice.

The housekeeper's eyes narrowed at the cousins. “There better be some breast of turkey roll left in here,” she said in a warning tone.

“There probably is,” Renie shot back. “I hate turkey roll. It tastes like paper towels. Say,” she went on, resorting to offense as the best defense, “why aren't you using your stove in the basement?”

Mrs. Wakefield found the turkey roll and began making her husband a sandwich. “Because it's full of beets. Weed'll have to clean it up tomorrow. You got any more bright questions?” The amiable attitude that the housekeeper had displayed during dinner had fled. Given what had happened since, Judith didn't much blame Mrs. Wakefield for her change of mood.

“Actually,” Judith replied in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, “I do. How do you figure Uncle Boo got shot in a locked room?”

The teakettle began to boil. Mrs. Wakefield reached for a jar of instant decaffeinated coffee. “I don't,” she answered abruptly.

“But it happened,” Judith said doggedly. The idea
wasn't logical, yet it seemed to be true. Logic was Judith's byword, but it seemed to be failing her regarding Uncle Boo's death.

Putting the sandwich on a plate and the plate on a tray, Mrs. Wakefield plodded over to the counter and
ed two dill pickles from the jar next to Renie. She then placed a coffee mug on the tray and got four chocolate chip cookies out of a package from the cupboard.

“Did it?” she asked in an enigmatic manner. Balancing the tray on her knee, she opened the door to the servants' quarters. “Don't forget to put the pickles back in the fridge,” she said, and disappeared down the stairs.