Nutty As a Fruitcake (23 page)

Ross leaned forward, bony hands gripping his knees. He wore faded jeans and a not-quite-matching denim jacket lined with imitation sheepskin. Up close, Judith saw a slight resemblance to the young man in the wedding photo with Glenda. But twenty-odd years had eroded Ross Cisrak's features. At fifty-plus, he looked as if futility was his best friend.

“You're Leigh's father,” Judith answered in her usual friendly manner. “Why would that make you nuts?”

A faint light that might have been hope shone in Ross's gray eyes. “I remembered some Grovers living in this house when Glenda and me were married. You're not…?” The question dwindled away as the light in his eyes went out.

“I am,” Judith said. “My maiden name is Grover. Now I'm Mrs. Flynn.”

Ross looked relieved. “I hoped somebody from the old neighborhood was still around. I'm trying to find Leigh. I didn't feel right asking any of Glenda's family. They think I'm a creep. You know where Leigh is?”

Judith nodded. “She went back to New York. She wants you to call her there. Do you have her number?”

“No. I got her address, though.” The lines deepened in Ross's thin face. “Is she in trouble?”

“Not exactly,” Judith replied carefully. “She and her mother had a falling-out.”

“Ha!” Ross almost smiled. Judith wondered if he'd for
gotten how. “Glenda! She's a nagger, like her ma. I bet she got on Leigh's case.”

“Sort of,” Judith said vaguely.

Ross hunched over in the chair, inspecting his scuffed cowboy boots. “I shoulda called Leigh. But I was afraid Glenda'd answer. Damn.” He raised regretful eyes to Judith. “I really need to get hold of my kid. Her old man's kinda tapped out.” Ross's laugh was pathetic.

“Call her in New York,” Judith said, with an anxious glance at the Venetian clock on the mantel. It was after three, and Judith still had much to do. “It's six on the East Coast. Use the phone in the living room. One more long distance charge won't make much difference—it's a business expense. By the way, did you talk to the police?”

The question made Ross jump. “The police? What for?”

Judith made a self-deprecating gesture. “My husband's a policeman. I asked his colleagues to find you so that Leigh could get in touch with you. I didn't know where you were staying.”

“Oh.” Relief washed over Ross's gaunt face. “Thanks, that's nice of you.” Somehow, he managed to laugh without smiling. “You had me going there for a minute. I thought the police wanted to ask me about the poison.”

Judith stared. “
What
poison?”

Ross grew sheepish. “It wasn't real poison; it was a book. I don't know where it came from, but I found it in the back of my pickup a couple of weeks ago. It seemed kinda weird. Creepy, too.”

Judith felt her spine tingle. “Where was your truck parked?”

Shutting his eyes, Ross considered. “I don't know the street names around here. Four, five blocks away—west. I know directions. Most nights, I been sleeping in the pickup. Motels ain't cheap.”

“When? Do you remember which day?” Judith's voice had taken on an edge.

But Ross wasn't sure. “I kinda lost track of time after I got to town. I'm used to the country. The city's different. I never
did like it much. You know, pressure. Like Glenda, always nagging me about a job. What's so big about a job? It just ties a man down.”

It seemed to Judith that Ross had paid a high price for freedom. But she kept to her previous question: “Did you find the book before or after your ex-mother-in-law was killed?”

Ross's startled expression couldn't possibly have been feigned. “Mrs. Goodrich? Killed? You're putting me on!”

Solemnly, Judith shook her head. “She was murdered, the first day of December.”

By turns, Ross looked stunned, incredulous, and bemused. “I'll be damned! I never did hear of such a thing! Well, now!”

For the first time, Ross Cisrak smiled.

“S
O WHAT DID
he do with this so-called poison book?” Renie demanded after Ross had made his call to New York and Judith had enlightened her cousin.

“He tossed it,” Judith replied grimly. “It was ‘creepy,' as he put it.”

“Why do you care?” Renie had finished baking the spritz in Judith's absence. She was now placing her share in a plastic container.

Judith was getting out the ingredients for a chicken casserole. She planned to make enough for the catered buffet and her own dinner. Two other hot dishes were required by the Lutherans, along with condiments. Arlene was preparing the salads and desserts.

“I'm not sure I do care,” Judith admitted. “But it's odd. George is poisoned, and a book on poison is discarded four blocks away. Now that's a coincidence that makes me wonder.”

Renie, however, wasn't inclined to speculate about the book. “I'm glad he got hold of Leigh. Ross must be pretty stupid. How could anyone who deperately needed money just hang around for over two weeks without making an attempt at contact?”

“He was trusting to luck,” Judith said distractedly. She was still mulling over the poison book. “Ross said he was
afraid to keep watch by Glenda's because he and his ex aren't on good terms. He figured that eventually Leigh would visit her grandparents. She did, of course, but he missed her—both times. Then, he not only didn't realize she'd left town, but he didn't know Enid was dead.”

Renie put on her purple hooded jacket. “As I said, he's stupid.”

“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “Mostly, he's unconscious, one of those vague souls who stumble through life, walking into walls and wondering why the impact hurts.”

“Let's hope Leigh sends him a plane ticket.” Renie picked up the container of cookies and her big black handbag.

“He'd hate New York,” Judith said. “Maybe Leigh will send him the money. Hey,” she exclaimed, “I never finished telling you about my deductions!”

In the rear entryway, Renie turned to grin at Judith. “Yes, you did. I know the rest, because I know you. Mrs. Swanson is too dainty to kill anyone, the grandsons are too dumb, and JoAnne's too tired to lift a hatchet when she comes off work at five
A
.
M
. That leaves George. See you, coz.” Renie was out the back door.

Judith was working on her third entrée when she decided to call Gary Meyers. Surely the police had questioned him by now. His guard would have to be down. Unfortunately, the phone book had several listings for people named Gary Meyers. Judith didn't get the right one until the fifth try.

“I know you think I'm a nosy pest,” Judith said after identifying herself, “but have you talked to the police?”

Gary had, the previous Friday. “The girl was great,” he said over a background of TV noise. “That weird guy with the eye patch let her ask most of the questions.”

Sancha Rael had her uses, Judith thought with a touch of annoyance. “So you've nothing to worry about.” Her voice conveyed a comfortable statement rather than a prying question.

Gary laughed weakly. “I never did, but who'd believe me? At least that's what I figured until this girl cop talked to me. After all, I was at the house before the murder.”

Judith's hand froze on the receiver. “
Before
the murder? What do you mean?”

Gary laughed again, though on the other hand, he might have been choking. “It had to be before. Mrs. Goodrich came to the door.”

“She did?” Judith was flabbergasted. “She never did that. She hardly ever got out of bed.”

“Well, she did that morning,” Gary insisted. “Glenda and I'd had kind of a…misunderstanding. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodrich to tell Glenda how bad I felt and that I wanted her back.” His voice dropped a notch. “I really care about Glenda. But Mrs. Goodrich told me to go away.”

At the moment, Judith wasn't interested in Gary and Glenda's muddled love life. “How odd. About Mrs. Goodrich answering the…” Judith interrupted herself. “Where was George?”

“I don't know,” Gary replied. “I didn't get to see him. He must have been in bed. Mrs. Goodrich made some crack about him sleeping his life away.”

Judith paused, her mind busily fitting pieces together. “That was what—? Around seven-thirty?”

“I guess. I was headed for my delivery stops on the top of the Hill,” Gary replied. “I usually hit Athens Pizza first, right around that time.”

“How did Mrs. Goodrich seem?”

Gary snorted. “Like she always does. Crabby.”

With a couple of perfunctory comments, Judith rang off. Putting the chicken casserole in the oven, she checked her reservations book. To her dismay, she noticed that she had overbooked for Tuesday night. Written in her own hand were six sets of guests for five rooms. Frantically, she grabbed the phone to call the state B&B association for nearby availability.

Ingrid Heffleman sounded surprisingly pleased to hear Judith's voice. “Let me check, Judith. It's a Tuesday night, so there's probably something…What did you do, press the wrong key on your computer?”

“I don't have a computer,” Judith replied, trying not to sound testy. “If I did, this might not have happened.”

“That's true,” Ingrid agreed. “You had a similar problem in September, as I recall. And twice in August…Ah, here we are, Rogers House, over on the other side of the Hill. They had a cancellation just half an hour ago. They're tied directly into our network, you know.” Ingrid's voice was smug.

“Thanks, Ingrid,” Judith said with relief. “I'll give you the registration information. If they arrive by cab, I'll pay their way to Rogers House.”

“Of course.” Ingrid efficiently took down the information. “By the way, Judith, an opening on the state board is coming up in January. Would you be interested in serving a two-year term?”

Judith had been dodging the request for the past three years. But Ingrid had just done another favor for Judith. “Ah…Can I think about it?” Judith hedged.

“Certainly,” Ingrid answered cheerfully. “And while you're at it, think about a computer. It would save everybody a lot of trouble.” A touch of steel rang in Ingrid's voice.

The last thing Judith needed was more things to think about. Luckily, Arlene volunteered to deliver the food for the St. Lucy's buffet. Judith didn't argue. It was too late in the day to start the candy-making and too early to make hors d'oeuvres. She had mailed off her cards that morning, but there were still presents to wrap. In fact, there were still a few to buy, including that special elusive something for Joe.

At five-thirty, Judith was wrapping Gertrude's microwave. She put a big red bow on the bulky red-green-and-white-striped package, then picked up the cordless phone and dialed Renie's number.

“I'm still working, you twit,” Renie complained. “You know I don't quit until five-thirty.”

“It
is
five-thirty,” Judith countered. “And you'd better get dinner together by six to ward off Bill's ulcers. Wait until you hear what Gary Meyers told me.”

“Rats,” muttered Renie. “Okay, I'll take the phone upstairs to the kitchen and start peeling potatoes.”

“Good.” Judith cradled the phone against her shoulder, recounting her conversation with Gary. “What do you make of
that? Enid told Gary that George was quote, ‘sleeping his life away.'”

“So he was already knocked out from the Dalmane?” asked Renie, who was making a considerable amount of noise at her end of the line. Judith guessed that her cousin was closing up the design shop for the day.

“It could be,” Judith said, choosing an elegant gold foil in which to wrap a pair of earrings for Mike's girlfriend, Kristin. “George must have been out of it, or Enid would never have roused herself to go to the door. That was around seven-thirty. Ted Ericson drove off to get his tree shortly before eight. He noticed nothing unusual. He came back around eight-fifteen, give or take five minutes. Then he left again. Art started calling his folks about that same time. I think we can pinpoint the murder to eight-twenty.”

Renie could be heard thumping up her basement stairs. “That's closer than the police will ever come,” she said dubiously. “What are you basing that on—those fir needles that were tracked into the Goodrich house?”

“Exactly,” said Judith, searching for a tag to match the small gold package. “If George was already unconscious, he couldn't have gone outside after Ted brought his tree home. It couldn't have been Enid, because she wouldn't have dirtied her precious carpet. Thus, it had to be the killer, who obviously doped George's antacid the previous night.”

Renie sighed. “So we're back to Art, Glenda, Greg, and Dave, because we know they were all at the house.” Cutlery rattled in the background. “Of course, there's always the possibility that someone else who wasn't spotted came by.”

“I know,” Judith agreed, fitting Uncle Al's driving gloves into a box. “O.P. missed a couple of hours while he was eating and visiting with Dooley. Even Arlene can't see everything that goes on in the cul-de-sac. When the Rankerses eat in the dinette, all they can see is us.”

“Whoever it was, they got into the bedroom,” Renie pointed out over the grating noise of her potato peeler. “They had to, in order to put the Dalmane in George's glass.”

“True,” Judith agreed, cutting a sheet of blue wrapping
paper off a long roll. “I'm still fretting over the hatchet. If Arlene's right, that thing changed hands the afternoon before the murder. The question is, did George give it back to Mrs. Swanson, or did he borrow it again?”

“Why would he borrow it a second time?” Renie asked, now to the sound of running tap water. “Didn't you gather that he'd gotten that load of wood a while ago?”

Judith had already considered that question. “Chopping wood is like doing yard work. It got him outside, away from Enid. What other excuse did George have this time of year?”

“Good point. Hey, coz, got to go. Bill's bus was late, and he just came home.” Renie hung up.

Adding Uncle Al's gift to the colorful stack of presents, Judith considered taking some of them downstairs to put under the tree. But it was too soon. She didn't want guests accidentally trampling the packages or, worse yet, Sweetums shredding the wrappings.

But it was the hatchet that preyed on Judith's mind as she prepared the guests' hors d'oeuvres, delivered her mother's dinner, and took the call from Joe saying he'd be at least an hour late. Just before six-thirty, Judith put on her jacket and headed out into the rain.

Fleetingly, she noticed that the three Wise Men were now in full view. The Porters had added cutouts of busy elves, fittingly positioned above their double garage. On the other side of the street, Judith could see the tip of the Ericsons' noble fir through the front window. From what she could tell, Ted and Jeanne had used only small white lights.

Just before Judith reached the shared driveway, Jeanne Ericson pulled up in her Volvo. Judith waited for her to get out of the car.

“Hi, Judith!” Jeanne called, coming down the drive. Her trim figure was burdened with shopping bags, briefcase, and purse. “Traffic downtown is getting awful! It took me half an hour to get from my office to the bottom of the Hill.”

“Your tree looks pretty,” Judith remarked, brushing raindrops from her cheeks. “At least what I can see of it. Ted must have turned it on.”

But Jeanne gave a shake of her damp blond hair. “Ted's not home. He has a meeting. The lights are on a timer.” Jeanne juggled her various items, then opened the gate that led to the walk. “Come in. I'll show you the tree.”

Judith hesitated, then agreed. But when Jeanne got to the wide front porch, she turned in a jerky motion. “Oh!” Jeanne uttered a nervous laugh. “I forgot! I have to make a couple of phone calls right away! Come by tomorrow night, okay?”

Puzzled, Judith retraced her steps back to the sidewalk. “Sure, that's fine.” She had gotten as far as the first stair to the porch, which was far enough to notice a large cardboard box sitting by the front door.

Judith didn't believe Jeanne's excuse for a minute. She couldn't help but wonder why one was needed.

 

Two doors down, Mrs. Swanson seemed pleased to see Judith. “You must take something—tea, sake, gin, scotch?”

“Scotch sounds great,” Judith said. “Just a tiny bit.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Swanson replied, going to a lacquered liquor cabinet. The Swanson living room was a harmonious blend of East and West. Sitting on a blue sofa with tasteful ivory-and-brown stripes, Judith felt a sense of peace overcome her. Ironically, she also felt as if she were on a fool's errand.

“I mix myself a small martini,” Mrs. Swanson said with a self-effacing air. “I never drink alone. After my husband died, I wished to. Often. But I would not permit it.”

Judith felt like saying that she had wanted to drink—often—while her first husband was still alive. But instead, she merely smiled and commended her hostess on her self-control.

Mrs. Swanson graciously accepted the compliment. Sipping her martini, the black eyes turned shrewd. “You are troubled, Mrs. Flynn. Why else do you come?”

Judith winced. She wished she could say it was merely a neighborly visit to a lonely widow. “It's about the hatchet,” she blurted. “Did Mr. Goodrich ever return it?”

Plucking the olive out of her glass, Mrs. Swanson gazed across the room at a Japanese hanging scroll depicting a wa
terfall. “Why, yes.” She popped the olive in her mouth, chewing slowly. “How odd that I'd forgotten!”

“But…” Judith frowned into her scotch. “You told me that the weapon was yours. I assumed Mr. Goodrich still had it.”

Mrs. Swanson looked chagrined. “I thought he had. Then I remembered he'd returned it.” She shook her head in apparent dismay. “We old people tend to forget.”