Nutty As a Fruitcake (8 page)

Art put a hand on his sister's shoulder. “Don't get riled up. He doesn't care what happens. That's why he tried to kill himself.”

Glenda seemed near tears. “But what about
us
? Do we have to spend the rest of
our
lives visiting him every Sunday in some loony bin? My God, after all these years of waiting on Mama hand and foot!”

“Now just a minute, sis!” Art gave Glenda a sharp shake. “It wasn't you who called every morning and went over there almost every day. I've done more than my share of looking after them!”

Anger held Glenda's tears in check. “That's because you're out of work! You don't have anything better to do! I've still got a job!”

The nurse at the desk was looking alarmed. She rose and called to Glenda. “Ms. Goodrich, you may see your father now.” A smile for Art followed. “You can go in next, Mr. Goodrich.”

With obvious reluctance, Glenda quit the field. She squared her shoulders before following the nurse into the ICU. Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances as Art paced the floor and muttered to himself.

“Why don't we get a cup of coffee?” Judith finally suggested to break the awkward silence.

Art didn't respond at first. Judith started to repeat the question, but Art gave an impatient shake of his head.

“Glenda and I just had coffee. In fact, I've had so much coffee today, I'll never sleep tonight. I should take the rest of those sleeping pills home with me.”

The reference to “home” made Judith think of JoAnne and the boys. “Where's the rest of the family?” she asked, trying to steer Art to a chair.

Wearily, Art sat down. The cousins settled in on each side
of him. “They were here for a while and then they left. There wasn't anything they could do. Greg and Dave don't like hospitals.”

“And Leigh?” Judith tried to keep her voice casual, hoping to calm Art.

The attempt failed badly. Art's pudgy face reddened; his ears actually looked hot. “Leigh! Do you think Glenda'd let her anywhere near this place? For all I know, Leigh's high-tailed it back to New York!”

Judith was mystified. “Why? I thought she was staying over until New Year's.”

Rubbing at his high forehead, Art shot Judith a look that was half embarrassed, half pitying. “Not after last night, she isn't.”

Judith remembered the screams and Jeanne Ericson's report of a row at the Goodrich house. “What happened last night?”

But Art shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter now. In fact,” he went on, raising his head and resting it against the wall behind the chair, “it's small potatoes by comparison. I guess.”

Judith decided not to press Art about his niece. Instead, she asked who had found his parents. She was almost certain it had been Art, and the sudden drain of color from his face proved the point before he spoke a single word.

“Every morning, even when I was working”—he paused to glare at the door where his sister had so recently passed—“I call my folks around eight o'clock. They always go to bed by nine-thirty, so they wake up early. If they don't answer, I'm right over there. Or JoAnne is. But that hasn't happened more than twice—until this morning.” Again, Art hung his head. “I called first about eight-fifteen. No answer. I called a couple more times, thinking maybe the phone was out of order, like it was before. Around quarter to nine, I decided to check on them. It's only ten minutes from our house above the railroad yard.”

Judith knew the neighborhood well. It was on the west slope of Heraldsgate Hill, which commanded a view of the round-
house, the train tracks, grain elevators, and a large docking area that was usually filled with new cars awaiting transport. While there were glimpses of the bay and the mountains, the environs' more commercial nature made the price of real estate considerably less than in other parts of the Hill. Although Art and JoAnne were probably less than two miles from the cul-de-sac on the south slope, the streets that zigzagged to the senior Goodrich house took time to traverse.

“I stopped at the MasterFaster Mart on top of the Hill to cash in a scratch ticket,” Art continued, briefly looking sheepish. “It was only a dollar, but…” He raised his beefy hands in a helpless gesture. “Anyway, it was a little after nine when I got to the folks' place. I couldn't raise them, so I got the key from the phony rock and let myself in.”

Renie wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. “Phony rock? What do you mean?”

Again, Art looked sheepish, his gaze fixed on the jovial Santa cutout. “Mama didn't like us having keys of our own. But we—Glenda and I—insisted we should have some way to open the door in case of an emergency. So Pappy got one of those phony rocks that you put in the garden and hide an extra key inside. I'd never had to use it before.”

Judith nodded encouragement. “I've seen them. Cousin Sue has one she keeps by the goat pen.”

Art paid no heed to Cousin Sue or her goats. “So I went in and called out and didn't get any answer. I thought maybe Pappy had had to take Mama to the doctor. I mean, I couldn't see what could happen to both of them, right?” Art gazed first at Judith, then at Renie, as if the cousins could deny the terrible truth.

They couldn't, of course. Art swallowed hard. “I went into the bedroom. And…there…they…were.” He covered his face with his hands. “I thought they were both dead. There was so much blood…I went into the kitchen and called 911. I was so shook up that I let everybody in through the front door. I didn't realize Pappy was still alive until after the firemen came…” Art broke down and sobbed.

The three people who were also waiting tried not to stare. Judith and Renie looked at each other across Art's bowed back. The receptionist and the nurse gazed off into space.

The Santa cutout was still waving.

A
T LAST
, J
UDITH
put a hand on Art's shoulder. She didn't say anything, but waited for him to regain control. He finally did, taking out a crumpled blue-and-white handkerchief, and blowing his nose.

“Sorry. It was just awful.”

“Of course it was,” Judith said, her voice filled with sympathy. A sudden thought occurred to her. “If your father was unconscious, how do you know he…ah…attacked your mother?”

Art sat up straight, taking another swipe at his nose. “The medics made him throw up. He came around just long enough to…admit what he'd done.”

“Oh.” Judith sat back in her chair. “Have you talked to him since?”

Art nodded. “Just once, about an hour ago, after they said he was going to pull through.”

“What did he say?” Judith asked, still full of sympathy.

Art gave a nervous shrug. “Not much. I mean, he was all spaced out.”

Glenda reappeared. The visit with her father apparently had dissipated her anger. She gave her brother a feeble smile.

“They're going to move Pappy to a ward. Will you come?”

Art stuffed the handkerchief back in his pants pocket. “Sure. How's he doing?”

Glenda started to say something, seemingly reconsidered, and shook her head. “He's muddled.” She laughed lamely, then leaned down to whisper to her brother. “He says he didn't do it. In fact, he insists he's never owned a hatchet.”

Art's head shot up. “What?”

“A hatchet?” Judith echoed, unable to suppress the comment. “Was that the weapon?”

Glenda and Art both regarded her with what Judith interpreted as resentment. “It seems so,” Glenda said, then quickly turned back to her brother. The tenuous smile played again at her pale lips. “I said Pappy's muddled. The nurse told me that's natural. The sleeping pills make people a little strange when they come to.”

“Oh.” Art seemed appeased. “That figures.” He struggled to get out of the chair. “We'd better go. Where are they putting him?”

It seemed that Art and Glenda had forgotten about the cousins. Brother and sister exited, their heads together in deep conversation. Renie gave Judith a wry look.

“I take it this is our cue to beat a hasty retreat?”

But Judith was chewing on her lower lip. “A retreat, yes. Hasty, no. I'm perturbed.”

Renie swung round in the chair, wagging a finger. “Now wait a minute—have you got one of your harebrained ideas?”

The onlookers were once again watching surreptitiously. Apparently, they were expecting another family feud.

Judith and Renie disappointed them. “Not harebrained,” Judith replied reasonably as she got to her feet. “Let's go.”

They went, but once in the corridor, Judith studied the hospital directory and floor plan. “We're here,” she said, pointing to a red dot. “ICU is over there.” She indicated the area behind the reception room. “There's an elevator marked ‘Service.'” Her finger stopped at a spot in the corridor just off the Intensive Care section. “If George is being hauled to one of the wards, it must be the sixth floor. Everything else is for surgery, cardiac, oncology, pediatrics, and maternity.”

Renie had to run to keep up with her cousin's long-legged stride. “Okay, so you're an expert on reading hospital floor plans. I'm impressed. But when I said ‘harebrained,' I meant it. What the hell are we doing now?”

The immediate answer was obvious. The doors to one of the eight public elevators glided open. Judith got in. So did a vexed Renie. Along with an orderly, a mother, and two fidgety children, they ascended to the sixth floor.

Judith paused in the corridor to get her bearings. Renie started to carp, but Judith waved her into silence. A moment later, the cousins had slipped inside a swinging door that led down another hallway and around a corner.

“There,” said Judith in satisfaction, as she pointed to a service elevator. “They'll bring George up in that. Glenda and Art are probably already in the room. They would have used one of the public elevators like we just did.”

“What makes you think George isn't in the room, too?” Renie demanded.

“Keep it down,” Judith murmured. “Because they had to get him ready. You know, IVs and transfer and all that stuff. You've been in the hospital with your stupid kidney stones. You know how long it takes for the staff to do anything.”

“True,” Renie allowed, remembering to lower her voice. “But I'd like to know why we're here instead of in my car going home to fix dinner for our loving families. Frankly, I'm starving.”

“You're always starving. Humor me,” Judith urged as the doors to the service elevator began to open. “Act confident. Important. Officious.” Judith poised herself, ready for the emergence of George.

But instead, two staff members pushed heated carts filled with covered trays. They glanced curiously at the cousins but said nothing. Judging from the unpronounceable names on their I.D. tags, Judith and Renie wouldn't have understood them if they had spoken.

“That smells good,” Renie mumbled. “I wonder what they're serving?”

“Weasel,” Judith retorted. “Didn't you say hospital meals were inedible?”

“I didn't say they were inedible,” Renie responded, still gazing wistfully after the food carts. “I said they weren't very good. There's a difference, especially when you're hungry.”

The cousins fell silent, though Judith kept her eye on the floor indicator that marked the elevator's progress. Sure enough, the car was rising again. It stopped on six.

At first, Judith wasn't sure that the patient on the gurney was George Goodrich. The bare, flaccid arms, the pale, drawn face, the sparse, matted hair, and the absence of glasses were all in contrast to George's usual neat, well-groomed appearance. But the elongated features and the thin nose were still recognizable.

“George!” Judith's greeting was effusive. “I'm so relieved! We've been waiting for ages. How are you feeling?”

The two orderlies who were bringing George into the ward stared at Judith and then at each other. “Missus…” said one of them who appeared to be Cambodian.

Judith gave him a friendly wave. “Never mind. I'm George's old friend.” The orderlies kept moving, and Judith trotted along at the head of the gurney. “I can't wait to tell everybody at home that you're much better,” she said, vaguely aware of Renie shuffling behind her. “The whole neighborhood has been upset.”

“Señora,”
said the other orderly.
“Por favor, no es posible…”

“Look!” Judith cried, pointing to George, whose eyes seemed glazed. “He's smiling!” He wasn't. “George,” she went on, her voice now more urgent, “what happened this morning?”

George closed his eyes. Both orderlies were growing impatient as they approached the door that led into the ward. Judith lowered her head and her voice as she repeated the question.

“Missus…” pleaded the Cambodian.

“Señora…”
begged the Hispanic.

George's eyes flickered open. For just a fleeting moment,
he seemed to acknowledge Judith. His head lifted almost imperceptibly from the pillow.

“I…didn't…I wouldn't…I couldn't…” He fell back, exhausted.

“What?” Judith frowned as a grim-faced nurse marched into her path. The gurney moved on.
“Who?”
she called after the little group which was fast disappearing into a room on her left.

George turned his head just a fraction. A single word slipped between his lips. Judith couldn't be sure, but she thought it was “key.” Then George was out of sight.

The nurse was scowling at Judith. “Where did
you
come from?” she demanded, making it sound as if the expected answer might be a dark and dismal swamp.

Judith tried to look innocent. “We're just neighbors.
Good
neighbors,” she added hastily. “Close.”

The nurse arched thin, black brows. “‘We'? Are there more of you?”

Puzzled, Judith turned. Renie was no longer right behind her. Judith gazed down to the other end of the corridor. One of the food carts was standing about twenty yards away. Renie was next to it.

Ignoring the nurse's last query, Judith rushed away. This time she was determined not to cause trouble but to prevent it. She caught Renie just as her cousin was about to sample a dish that did indeed look a lot like weasel.

 

Joe Flynn was swearing, sweating, and swinging from the ceiling. Or doing a good imitation, since he had refused to use the stepladder in order to hang the pine garlands. When Judith hurried into the living room shortly before eight o'clock that evening, she found her husband with one foot on a side chair and the other braced against a bookcase.

“You're going to kill yourself,” Judith warned. “I almost fell out of the pine tree last Sunday. Let me get the ladder.”

“What's one more death around this goofy neighborhood?” Joe growled as he swung a hammer to pound in a slightly awry nail. “Damned if I don't have enough homicides at
work. I come home, and instead of my robe and slippers, there's a—ooops!”

The nail flipped out of the molding and fell onto the floor. Joe swore again. Judith searched about in the coffee can for another nail, then handed it to her husband.

“You weren't that upset when you got here,” she noted. Indeed, Joe had already learned of Enid Goodrich's death before he left headquarters.

“That,” Joe said through gritted teeth as he successfully hammered in the new nail, “was before you asked me to swing like a chimpanzee in order to put up these damned decorations. It was also before you decided George didn't do it.” Panting a bit, Joe asked Judith to hand him the pine garland. “No wonder Renie was annoyed with you. Can't you leave well enough alone?”

Judith ignored the irritation in Joe's voice. She knew it had less to do with her than it did with the garland that refused to stay put on the nail.

“It isn't well enough if George didn't do it,” Judith replied placidly. She had already explained her feelings to both Joe and Renie. Her cousin had only half listened, being intent on coping with rush-hour traffic. Joe had seemed more sympathetic. But then he'd had the advantage of hearing his wife's theory over a soothing scotch-on-the-rocks.

Now, however, he appeared to have changed his mind. Or perhaps he was merely trying to distract himself from balancing atop two phone directories piled on the bay window's cushioned seat.

“I told you,” Judith was saying in a calm voice that masked her worry for Joe's safety. “George isn't a killer. I don't care how aggravating Enid was—he doesn't strike me as the sort who'd resort to murder.”

“That's bunk,” Joe retorted, managing to strike the last nail evenly. “One thing I've learned from my job is that
everybody
—absolutely everybody—is capable of murder, given certain conditions.”

Judith took the hammer from Joe in exchange for another
length of garland. “Then why didn't George kill Enid years ago? And why does he deny doing it?”

Joe got down carefully from the window seat. “Hey, he confessed, didn't he? Patches Morgan is sharp, even if he does think he's part pirate. Did he bring his parrot?”

Judith's voice took on a dark note. “He brought Sancha Rael.”

“Rael, huh? She's new but promising.” Joe stepped back, reluctantly admiring his handiwork. “It looks good, especially with those strands of gold pearls running through it.” In apparent contrition, Joe kissed his wife's temple. “What next, having me crawl down the chimney to see if Santa can fit?”

Judith smiled fondly at her husband. “I can do the rest of the house over the next couple of days. Except the tree—we should buy it this weekend so we can let it stand in water outside for a few days.”

Joe replaced the side chair next to the card table that usually held a jigsaw puzzle in progress. “Why bother? We never did that when I was married to Herself.”

References to Joe's first wife occasionally still rankled. “What did she do, pickle the tree along with the rest of her?” Repentance immediately enveloped Judith. She put her hands on Joe's shoulders. “Sorry. Sometimes I'm kind of mean.”

Tucking his shirt inside his pants, Joe tipped his head to one side. “Jude-girl—has it ever occurred to you that you don't need to do every little thing for Christmas that your family has done since 1901? Fifteen boxes of decorations, five of them just for the tree, church activities, presents, cards, letters, books, recordings, baking, cooking, and now the cul-de-sac. Instead of cutting down on your workload, you add to it. You've got a
job
, for God's sake! Not to mention a husband, a son, a mother, and about four hundred relatives who expect you to put on an annual extravaganza. Give yourself a break.”

“But I like it,” Judith protested, then realized that Joe might not. Maybe it wasn't just that he didn't share her enthusiasm for the holidays but that he resented the time and energy she expended on preparations. “I enjoy doing things
for other people,” she said, sounding defensive. “Why else would I run a B&B?”

Joe looked as if he were trying to understand. But his words conveyed a firm if gentle warning. “All this hustle and bustle wears you down. You get cranky. Face it, Jude-girl, you're not twenty years old anymore. And you're only human.”

“We still should put the tree in water outside.” Judith wasn't giving in easily. She went over to a big carton that sat on the floor by the window seat, then began unwrapping candles of various shapes, including reindeer, bells, snowmen, igloos, and a steepled church. “The Ericsons do it. So do the Rankerses and Bill and Renie. You take a second cut after you get it home, about two inches. Don't you remember from last year?”