Nutty As a Fruitcake (6 page)

“Maybe,” Renie said, looking unusually grim, “she doesn't want to admit she sensed death. At her age, that could be scary.”

“It's scary at any age,” Judith noted, taking comfort from the warmth of her coffee mug. “But she's definitely being herself otherwise. Mother decided to torment
your
mother by calling her and
not
telling her what happened.”

Renie gave a shake of her chestnut curls. “Oh, jeez. I don't know what's more appalling—your mother using the telephone or being so perverse.”

“Using the telephone,” Judith replied calmly. Gertrude despised the phone, and since Judith had bought her a cordless style, the older woman persisted in losing it. As recently as the previous Saturday, Judith had found it in the birdbath on the patio.

“So that's all you know?” Renie asked, removing the lid of the sheep-shaped cookie jar.

“I'm afraid so. There isn't much else to find out, except if George pulls through. I'll try to call the house after the police leave.”

The ambulance had departed while Judith was coming back from visiting her mother in the toolshed. She had seen it slowly pull out of the cul-de-sac, moving at a hearselike speed.

“Art and Glenda are still there with the police,” Judith went on, ignoring the face Renie made after discovering that the cookie jar was empty. “Gosh, coz, I feel awful. I can't spare a tear for Enid, but I could weep buckets over George. Mother's right—she drove him to it. A man can only take so much. The really terrible thing is that I'm afraid this Christmas decorating project may have driven him over the edge.”

Renie tried to look sympathetic. The expression somehow seemed foreign to her, even though the emotion was real. “After almost sixty years of marriage, it's a miracle George didn't kill her sooner. Don't blame yourself. Whatever set him off must have been an accumulation of abuse and misery. He finally snapped. It happens.”

While Judith appreciated her cousin's commiseration, she remained glum. “This certainly puts a damper on the holidays.”

“Why?” Renie asked in her typically pragmatic style. “Enid hated Christmas. Look at it this way—with her gone from the neighborhood, there's nobody around to snipe at the season. If they let George out of the funny farm, he'll probably give you permission to put up your sign.”

Judith was aghast. “Coz—you're callous.”

“No, I'm not. I'm realistic. Lots of people will croak before New Year's. As long as I'm not one of them, I'll try not to let that fact spoil my holidays.”

Phyliss Rackley dropped a wicker clothes basket onto the floor with a loud thud. “Blasphemy, Mrs. Jones! How can you say such things? Besides, the Good Lord wanted Mrs. Goodrich to come home for Christmas. He'll see that she has a good time in spite of herself.”

“The good Lord had nothing to do with it,” Renie said flatly. “That was all up to George and his…” She paused, gazing inquisitively at Judith. “His what? An ax?”

But Judith could only shrug. “I don't know. The term Art used was…‘hacked.'” Judith gulped on the word.

Phyliss shrieked. “‘
Hacked'
? You mean he didn't just up and shoot her like husbands usually do? Why didn't you say so?”

“I guess I forgot.” Judith was sounding even more dismal.

Renie was on her feet, heading for the front door. Judith assumed she was trying to escape from Phyliss. But even as the cleaning woman began a homily on the afterlife featuring joy-filled codgers in flowing white robes welcoming Enid to her mansion in the sky, Renie returned.

“The cops are gone,” she announced just as Phyliss got to the part about Enid's brow being adorned with a pearly crown, “but Art and Glenda's cars are still there.” She arched her eyebrows questioningly at Judith.

Judith stood up, her energy renewed by the call to action. “I should go over and see if we can do anything for the family,” she said, avoiding Renie's fixed gaze. “Maybe I could make them some lunch.”

“Hold on,” Phyliss said crossly. “I didn't get to the angels playing tunes of glory on their harps.”

“Praise the Lord,” murmured Renie.

“What did that heathen say?” Phyliss demanded.

Judith gave her cleaning woman a weak smile. “Ah—raise the Ford. Glenda Goodrich drives a Ford, and my cousin wants to…er…um…” Judith was still searching for words as she followed Renie through the entry hall.

“I'm not a heathen,” Renie declared. “I'm a Catholic.”

“Same thing to Phyliss,” Judith retorted, then came to a dead halt in front of the Ericson house. “Shoot—they've put up crime scene tape. Do we dare jump over it?”

“At our age, can we?” But the cousins were still sufficiently nimble to try. They chose to invade the Goodrich property through the shared driveway. Judith noticed that Ted Ericson had finally left for work. The handsome noble fir was now behind the split-rail fence, reposing in a shiny new galvanized bucket.

“We'll defer to the deceased's wishes and use the back door,” Judith said, leading the way to the rear of the house.

Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “What's so big about that? We usually use the back door at your place.”

“That's different. It's easier, for one thing. Our garage is in back. If you pull into the drive to leave on-street parking
for guests, the back door is closer. Plus, I try to reserve the front for the paying customers. It adds tone.”

The latter remark evoked a dubious expression from Renie. “But Mrs. Goodrich didn't run a B&B. What was her excuse?”

“She didn't want to get her living room dirty,” Judith answered as she started up the four steps that led to the back porch. Her foot struck something hard that crunched beneath her weight. Judith looked down at the cement walkway. “Glass,” she said. “Be careful.” Gingerly, she picked up the offending shard and put it in the garbage can that stood next to the walk. “Somebody broke a glass. The rest of it's in the can, but be careful. They must have dropped some of the pieces.”

On the porch, the cousins listened for footsteps inside the house. After almost a full minute, they heard them, ponderous and dragging.

Warily, Glenda opened the door. She was still looking stunned. “Oh!” The presence of the cousins seemed to dismay her. “Art and I were just leaving. We want to be with Pappy when he comes to—
if
he comes to.”

Judith quickly introduced Renie, though the women had met years ago, in their youth. Renie and Glenda were the same age, and had gone to high school together. However, neither seemed to recognize the other. Judith knew that Renie had a poor memory for faces. As for Glenda, shock and grief probably had hampered her powers of recollection.

Judith shifted awkwardly on the small back porch. “We won't keep you, then. Is there anything we can do while you're gone?”

Glenda started to shake her head, but her brother appeared behind her. Art seemed to have gotten himself under control, though he was pale and drawn.

“There is,” he said, his voice startling Glenda who hadn't heard him approach. “JoAnne and maybe the boys are coming by in a little while. It might be easier if someone were here to let them in.”

Judith brightened. “Sure, we'd be glad to. Unless,” she
added, growing uncertain, “the police would object. I mean, they've put up that tape….”

But Art dismissed the crime scene tape with a throwaway gesture. “I take it that's routine. Besides, you're married to a detective. I'm sure Morgan and Rael won't mind. They probably know Mr. Flynn.”

Judith quickly sorted through her memory for Morgan and Rael. Rael meant nothing, but Morgan rang a bell. He was the male detective, and, she recalled, was known as Patches. Recalling the eyepatch, Judith realized the reason for the nickname.

Once the cousins were inside the house, Art and Glenda seemed anxious to leave. Not three minutes passed before the pair drove off in their separate cars. Judith and Renie were left in the kitchen, staring at each other.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Renie declared. “I've never been inside before.”

Judith's gaze traveled to the table, which was bare except for a pair of salt and pepper shakers cast in the images of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and a plastic holder containing paper napkins. The only evidence of a breakfast meal was two coffee mugs, sitting empty in the sink.

“I wonder if Joe knows about this,” Judith said, leading Renie into the living room. The drapes were closed and the furnishings were protected by heavy plastic. Only the lamps, a couple of end tables and a Queen Anne breakfront with a built-in desk were exposed to the elements. Judith felt a sense of oppression; even the air smelled slightly stale. “I suppose it depends on what Joe's working on,” she commented with a sudden longing for the constant chaos and motion of Hillside Manor. “As of yesterday, he and Woody were still investigating the Shazri murders.”

Renie was frowning at the beige rug which was partially covered by a plastic runner. “Execution style, right? I read about it in the paper. How's Woody?”

Judith smiled at the mention of her husband's long time partner, Woodrow Wilson Price. “Great. He and Sondra have the two kids now, and they're all thriving. Ever since Woody
got promoted, Joe swears he'll make chief someday. We're having them to dinner Saturday after next. Do you and Bill want to come?”

“I'll have to check the calendar,” Renie replied, obviously wondering if she dared sit down on the cloistered furniture. “It's such a busy time of year, but I'd love to. Bill's never met Woody and Sondra.”

Judith was also wondering, but not about sitting down. Her eyes had strayed to the carpet, where she noticed a track of evergreen needles. They zigzagged across the living room, going almost to the front door. Judith got down on her knees for a closer examination.

“Coz—do these look like a Noble to you?”

Renie bent over, peering at the floor. “Sure. They're blue and stiff. What else could they be?”

Judith stood up and walked back out to the kitchen. Sure enough, there were more needles, all the way to the door. Cautiously, she started for the short hallway that led to the bath and bedrooms.

“Look, coz. These needles go this way, too. In fact,” she said, focusing on the sporadic trail, “they lead right into…the master bedroom.”

Judith stood up and gazed into the room where she had been an unwelcome guest the previous Sunday. The bed, the floor, and the wall were splattered with blood. Judith groaned; Renie shrieked. At that moment, they both realized the enormity of what had happened in the Goodrich house.

Enid had indeed been hacked to death. In life, she had possessed an ugly streak; her death had not been pretty, either.

J
O
A
NNE
G
OODRICH GAVE
the impression of never having been young. Yet Judith knew better, because she had been a year behind Art's future wife at Heraldsgate High School. A redhead who relied on artificial means to stay that way, JoAnne was too thin, too nervous, and too lacking in self-esteem.

Or so Judith appraised her former schoolmate as JoAnne hovered on the back porch with two hulking young men below her on the steps. Anxiously, she introduced her sons, Greg and Dave.

“I'm sick to my stomach,” JoAnne asserted, apprehensively entering the kitchen. “Can you believe this?”

“Yeah,” said the taller of the two young men.

“No kidding,” said the other, who was already beginning to bald.

The trio fell silent, their eyes furtively scanning the kitchen as if they expected the appliances to attack them. It was obvious that neither JoAnne nor her sons felt at home in the Goodrich house.

“What should we do?” JoAnne asked in a hushed voice.

Judith wasn't certain what JoAnne meant. “About your father-in-law? Or the…house?”

Trembling, JoAnne sat on the edge of a kitchen chair.
“That's it—I don't know. Maybe we should call a lawyer.”

“Do you have one?” Renie inquired, brazenly sitting on the kitchen table.

“No.” JoAnne eyed Renie with minor horror. “My in-laws did, though. It's a woman in the BABU Tower. Glenda used her for the divorce.”

Judith knew the Bank of Burma's location downtown in the financial district. It was a handsome structure, some fifty stories high. Judith guessed that office space must command exorbitant rents. She was surprised that any of the Goodriches could afford such a high-priced attorney. Judith started to say something to that effect, thought better of it, and merely nodded.

“You'll need someone for probate, no matter what happens,” put in Renie, whose mother had been a legal secretary. “If criminal charges are filed, you'll need a lawyer who specializes in that type of defense.”

JoAnne shuddered. “That's awful! You don't mean that Gramps would be treated like a…
murderer
?”

Renie grimaced. “The law doesn't always make sense. But he probably wouldn't go to jail. They'll send him to a…hospital of some sort.”

“Weird,” breathed the taller Goodrich grandson.

“No kidding,” murmured his balding brother.

“But he may die, too,” JoAnne said, almost brightening at the thought. “Then it would be okay. I mean,” she went on, flushing slightly, “he wouldn't have to go through a trial and all that.”

Renie, who was still sitting on the table, managed to knock over the salt and pepper shakers. “It'd be a hearing, not a trial,” she explained, righting the shakers and tossing salt from Ginger Rogers over her shoulder in an unconscious superstitious gesture. Judith was reminded of Fred Astaire, flipping his partner in a graceful arc. Renie wasn't nearly as agile.

“They'd determine if George is fit to stand trial,” Renie continued, brushing salt from her sleeve, “which is probably dubious, given his age and apparent unstable mental condition.
Media coverage would be minimal, so the family wouldn't suffer much embarrassment.”

Cautiously, JoAnne edged farther back on the chair. She seemed visibly relieved and glanced from one son to the other. “Maybe we should go to the hospital to see how Gramps is doing. Then…whatever happens, we could swing downtown and find that lawyer. Glenda will know her name.”

“Right,” said the taller son.

“No kidding,” said the balding Goodrich.

With obvious relief, the trio headed for the back door. JoAnne hesitated on the threshold, giving the cousins a tremulous smile. “Are you sure you don't mind staying here? I mean, it's kind of…gruesome.”

“We do gruesome real well,” Renie replied with a sly glance at Judith. “Don't fuss over us.”

JoAnne sighed with relief. “Gee, thanks! I appreciate it. I'm so glad we don't have to sit around in this pathetic old house. It was bad enough to visit when Enid was alive, but now…” JoAnne lifted her thin hands in an expressive gesture.

“Bummer,” said the tall son.

“No kidding,” said the bald son.

The three Goodriches beat a hasty retreat.

“You're going to have a sign on this property after all,” Renie predicted as the cousins wandered back into the living room. “It'll be put up by a real estate company. The heirs can't wait to unload this place, and I don't blame them.”

Judith nodded as she dared to leave the carpet runner and inspect the Queen Anne breakfront. “I doubt that it's ever felt like home to any of them, George included.” She sighed. “Poor George. I wonder if he's pulled through?”

“We could call the hospital,” Renie suggested. Her eyes had strayed to one of the end tables. Its only adornments were a brass lamp and a framed photograph of Enid. The picture had been taken a long time ago, when she was still young and pretty. “Her eyes don't smile,” Renie remarked, studying the curiously unappealing face. “And why is she wearing a pie on her head?”

Judith was momentarily diverted from studying the break-
front desk. “That's a hat, dopey. The style always looked more like upside-down soup bowls to me. Our mothers wore them in the Depression.”

“No wonder they were depressed,” Renie remarked, setting the photograph back on the end table. “But it's kind of nice the way young women dressed up in those days. Enid couldn't be more than sixteen in this picture. Yet there's still something hard in that face. I wonder what George saw in her?”

“Who knows? What did I see in Dan?” Judith couldn't refrain from trying to open the desk. At first she thought it was locked, but after jiggling the front panel a bit, it fell forward on its hinges. “That's odd,” she said, staring at the lock itself. “It looks as if it's been forced. Look, there are a bunch of scratches in the wood.”

Renie had joined Judith at the breakfront. “Those scratches look fresh. Enid wouldn't like having her furniture defaced.”

The cousins were exchanging curious glances when someone pounded at the front door. They could see only a blur through the amber bottle-glass panes. Cautiously, Judith turned the knob.

“Yo-ho-ho,” exclaimed the man Judith knew as Patches Morgan. The black raincoat was lined in crimson, and the suit under it was a flamboyant shade of green. “Who have we here?” The brown eye that wasn't covered by the patch held a hint of menace.

Swiftly, Judith put out her hand. “I'm Judith Flynn, Joe's wife. We met last spring at a department retirement party.”

Morgan's bushy black brows rose. “Ah! And what might you be doing here, Ms. Flynn?”

Judith explained that she was a neighbor who had come with her cousin to help the bereaved family. “We were just leaving,” Judith fibbed.

“A good thing,” Morgan replied, his right eye twinkling. “This
is
a crime scene. Detective Rael and I have work to do. Then we'll put someone on site to keep trespassers out. We're a bit short-handed this morning.” The eye still twinkled, but the deep voice conveyed a warning.

“I guess we'll be going then,” Judith said, her smile frozen
in place. “Is it true that the weapon was…an ax?”

The mouth under Morgan's mustache turned stern. “Now, Ms. Flynn, you know we can't make statements like that until we've checked everything through our forensics people.”

“A knife?” Judith hazarded.

Morgan was trying to conceal his impatience. “Not a knife,” he said. “Now run along, so we can do our job, eh?”

Docilely, Judith and Renie trooped through the front door, down the three steps, and along the walk.

Detective Rael was just getting out of the city car. The rain was coming down harder, and she brushed back her raven hair with a graceful hand.

“Excuse me?” she called. “Are you witnesses?”

Renie pretended not to hear, but Judith dutifully turned around. Once again, she went through her connection, both to Joe Flynn and the Goodriches.

Detective Rael's startlingly blue eyes widened. “So you're Joe's wife,” she said, almost in awe. “He's a terrific cop. I'd love to work under him someday.” Her perfect oval face betrayed just the slightest leer. Or so Judith thought.

“Joe's very…conscientious,” Judith allowed, wishing Detective Rael weren't so young, so beautiful, and so insinuating. “I don't think I caught your first name.”

“It's Sancha,” the other woman replied with a toss of her raven hair. “It means ‘sacred.'”

“It means trouble,” Renie muttered after the cousins had completed the exchange of pleasantries and were heading back to Hillside Manor. “Has Joe ever mentioned her?”

“I don't think so,” Judith replied, somewhat distractedly. “She must be new.”

“New but used,” Renie said as she paused to admire the New England village. “No, I shouldn't say that. I'm sure she's a perfectly nice young woman.”

“Right.” But Judith's voice held a note of doubt. “Shall I switch on the lights so you can see how the village looks in its full splendor?”

“No. I'll come by after dark,” Renie responded. “Let's go inside. It's really coming down.”

So it was, a pelting rain that seemed to contain a trace of snow. But as Judith and Renie stepped onto the back porch, the outdoor thermometer registered forty-two. The threat of colder weather seemed remote.

Judith immediately headed for the telephone directory. “I forgot to ask where George is being treated. I'll try Bayview Hospital first,” she said. “That's where they usually take emergencies.”

Judith was correct. The brisk voice on the other end of the line refused to give out any information except that a George Henry Goodrich had been admitted. Judith asked if his son or daughter might be available. The voice didn't know and seemingly didn't care. Judith hung up.

“Blast,” she sighed, going to the window over the sink that looked out onto the Rankerses' property. “Maybe Arlene can ferret out his condition. She and Carl aren't back yet.”

Renie was leaning against the refrigerator. “Are you going to feed me lunch, or do I have to go pick up fish and chips?”

Judith glanced at the old-fashioned schoolhouse clock. It was almost noon. “We'll both go. But let me fix a sandwich first for Mother. She hates fish and chips.”

Fifteen minutes later, the cousins were sitting on worn vinyl seats in an old but semi-respectable restaurant at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. The Christmas decor at Buster's Cafe featured red paper bells and strands of silver tinsel that had long ago lost their luster. But the food was good, and Renie had managed to find a parking place by using her big Chev and harsh language to outmaneuver a smaller imported compact.

“I'm worn out already,” Judith confessed. “Thank God Phyliss is putting in a full day. I should go Christmas shopping this afternoon. I still have to get gifts for Mike and Kristin and a little something extra for Mother.”

“How about a muzzle?” Renie suggested, digging into her cole slaw. “I'm almost done shopping, except for the kids. If they don't have twenty-five gifts apiece under the tree, they whine until Groundhog Day.”

Judith knew that Renie was exaggerating—but not by much. The three Jones offspring were spoiled, even more spoiled
than Mike Maybe. Judith was about to comment on the annual devastating expenditure of Christmas when she recognized a bearded man who was just entering the restaurant.

“That's Gary,” Judith whispered. “Glenda's boyfriend. I've seen him with her at the Goodrich house.”

Renie tried to stare discreetly over her shoulder. “Are you sure? He looks too young.”

“It's him. I recognize the jacket. He works with Glenda at Cascade Beer. I think he drives a truck.”

Swiftly, Renie checked out the emblazoned jacket and the man who wore it. “I still say he's too young. Forty, maybe? Glenda's my age.”

Judith shrugged. “Ten, fifteen years' difference isn't that much these days. Older women, younger men. I'm not sure, but I think Glenda and Gary have been going together for a couple of years.”

At the moment, Gary was going to the counter. Judith chewed on her thumb, shot Renie a conspiratorial look, and jumped out of the booth. Sidling up to the unsuspecting Gary, she filled her voice with sympathy: “I'm so sorry about the family's loss. How is Glenda doing?”

Gary practically fell off the stool. “What? Glenda? Who are you?”

Briefly, Judith thought she'd made a mistake. But she persevered. “Glenda Goodrich. Her mother was killed this morning, and her father's very ill. Surely you've heard?”

It appeared that Gary hadn't. He reeled from the stool, walking back and forth in a daze between the counter and the booths. Several customers and a waitress stared. Judith waited patiently. To her surprise, Gary came to a sudden halt and frowned at her.

“Rough luck,” he said, looking embarrassed as well as nervous. “I mean, it's too bad about Glenda's folks. But count me out. We broke up last night.”

“Oh!” Briefly, Judith was taken aback. Putting a hand on Gary's arm, she gestured at the booth where Renie was blissfully devouring chunks of fish. “I'm Judith Flynn, a neighbor.
Why don't you join my cousin and me so that we can fill you in?”

Gary seemed bewildered. The neatly trimmed beard was straw-colored, as was his curly hair. At a shade under six feet, Gary was broad-shouldered but carried an extra twenty pounds. The hooded hazel eyes were wary as he considered Judith's invitation.

“I've only got half an hour for lunch,” he began, then apparently was overcome by curiosity. He turned back to the counter, calling to a weary-looking waitress. “Hey, Angie—make that the usual. I'll be in the booth.”