The Nantucket Diet Murders (7 page)

“Her death will be a terrible loss to him, I imagine,” Mrs. Potter said. “Didn’t she really run the office? And, just between the three of us, has Ozzie been completely on the ball as a lawyer for years?”

“Oh, yes, he’s sharp enough, and we still all go to him,” Gussie said. “He handles Mittie’s affairs as a trustee, and Leah’s. I don’t know about Mary Lynne, since Bo’s estate is still in probate in Tennessee. Dee goes to him for real estate contracts, and even Helen has him make out her tax returns, although she seems to be an absolute whiz at managing her own investments. I sometimes wonder if she wishes she were still running the company back in Chicago—she did for a while, you remember, after Lester’s death. She’s the only one of us, I guess, besides me, who doesn’t have everything all neatly tucked away in a trust.”

“My son Laurence takes care of everything for me,” Beth said. “Such a help, and a saving, too. We try to keep everything in the family.”

This seemed reasonable, since Beth’s was a large tribe, most of them living within close range, in and around Providence. Among them they maintained several big Nantucket summer houses on Hurlbut Avenue, their sandy beaches adjoining. There all the Higginson grandchildren spent the summer, seemingly distributed impartially among whichever of the aunts and uncles Were currently in residence. They all sailed, they all played tennis, the Yacht Club was their second home, and they all won prizes at everything they did, following the lead of their energetic and athletic grandmother.

The talk reverted to widowhood (as it often did, Mrs. Potter reflected) and to whether it was a comfort to have had one’s husband arrange for a supposedly all-wise, permanent,
fatherly trust department—a law firm or a bank—to be in charge of one’s worldly goods.

“I always thought it was the slightest bit presumptuous of Lew,” Mrs. Potter confessed. “I suppose it’s good not to have to think about investments and the like, not that I have nearly as much to think about as Helen does, or as you do, Gussie. Still, it did irk me a little, and I asked him once, after reading some new wills he’d had drawn up for us, why there was a trust for me if he died first, but not for him if I did. He muttered something about ‘women sometimes get carried away by their emotions, especially as they get older.’ That, from Lew! And about
me!
I told him I thought he was just as likely to get wacky in his old age as I was.”

“There have been times when I wished Theo and Jules had done that,” Gussie confided. “Leave things for me in a trust, that is. But Theo and I were so young when he died, and he’d made so much money in a hurry with that invention of his, and then he was killed so suddenly . . . ”

Mrs. Potter had a sharp recollection of the day she heard the news of the hunting accident in the Vermont woods. How awful it must have been for Gussie, she thought, as she had so many times since then. Each of them hunting alone—the four of them—Theo, Gussie, and another couple, the husband a friend with whom Theo had gone deer hunting since the two men’s college days together. The stray shot from somewhere, never determined. Theo’s body, bloody and already lifeless on the brown carpet of the woods floor before any of them had found him.

Gussie went on, after her brief pause. “You’d think that of all people Jules Berner would have set up a trust, wouldn’t you? After handling other people’s money all his life, and always having all we possibly needed ourselves? Jules was a wonderful husband, as you two both remember, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being that much older than me. Remember how he always had to outplay everybody at tennis and outdance everybody on the floor and outswim everybody at the beach club? His lawyers told me after his death that he’d been putting them off, saying he’d get around to a
proper trust in good time, that sort of tiling. Through his partners I’ve always had wonderful people to advise me, and I usually do what they suggest, but actually I’m quite free to do as I like. I could set up a home for cross-eyed cats, if I wanted to.”

Again, Gussie paused. “I guess everybody knew what was happening with Gordon. He lived on my money, and it was a good thing there was enough, considering his medical bills. There certainly wasn’t anything for
him
to leave, or to set up any trust with.”

“We all thought the Van Vleecks had oceans of money,” Beth said, surprised. “He and his mother had come to the island starting with the year one, and they seemed very well off, I always thought.”

“Mama Van Vleeck had it,” Gussie said flatly, “but she certainly didn’t part with any of it for Gordon when we got married. She was furious about that—do you remember?”

Mrs. Potter did indeed remember. “She was a holy terror, no doubt about it,” she said. “And she’d counted on Gordon for so many years to be a darling and dutiful son that she probably felt deserted. Or maybe she just thought he didn’t need it when he married you. After all, Gussie, no one ever thought that you had to worry about money, and she knew he’d be well taken care of.”

All three women then agreed that, no matter how their financial futures were arranged, or even how apparently secure, inflation had made changes in their lives.

“That’s one of the things different on the island,” Beth told her. “Everybody feels the pinch a little if they live on a fixed income, even if it’s quite a decent one, I suppose. None of us really lives extravagantly.”

“I think Mittie may be a little pressed these days,” Gussie said, “although she’s too proud to admit it. And Dee, of course—it’s crazy, but she always seems to be living on the brink of total poverty in spite of all her big real estate commissions and special discounts.”

“Another change—we all lock our doors,” Beth said. “We never used to. And I even have a big dog. Samson would
make a terrible watchdog, but I hope nobody but me knows that. He’s big, anyway, and he barks a lot. I left him at home to guard things now, even though I’m sure I left the door locked, too. I even went back to check when I was halfway down the block. Is
anybody
as forgetful as I am, I wonder?”

The other two assured her they were, out of politeness and also perhaps from awareness of the occasional blank drawn in place of a familiar word or name.

“So we all lock our doors, and Helen even has a security system that rings at the police building,” Gussie said. “She wouldn’t have a gun in the house, of course, after what happened to Les, but I think the rest of us all have one stuck away somewhere that we refuse to admit and would be afraid to shoot.”

“Ozzie doesn’t lock
his
doors,” Beth remarked. “I told you I was there late yesterday afternoon? When he didn’t come to the door, I just shouted upstairs to him from the kitchen and left the comfrey.”

The telephone rang. “Answer it, will you, Genia?” Gussie asked. “I want to get this round of muffins out of the oven for you and Beth.”

Helen Latham’s voice was calm and controlled. “Oh, yes,
Genia
. Yes, I can speak with you just as well. You both must know by now about poor little Edie Rosborough, and I wanted you to know they were wonderful at the hospital. Arnold was called in at once, and he tells me the girl apparently had a violent allergic reaction to some sort of vegetable matter, possibly one of the herbs at the salad bar.”

Mrs. Potter expressed dismay, but Helen cut her short. “What I really called about is that I’m here at the hospital again now for an early conference with the administrator, and there’s even more shocking news. At least shocking to all of
us
. Ozzie deBevereaux died last night. At home. Apparently a sudden heart attack. Arnold stopped by his house about nine to tell him about their not being able to do anything for Edie. Of course, he thought Ozzie knew about her dying, and I expect he did, although I tried to phone him earlier and the line was always busy—phone probably off the
hook. Anyway, Arnold found the lights on, went upstairs, and there he was, in his big chair in front of the fireplace. I suppose it wasn’t entirely unexpected, in Ozzie’s state of health, although the heart trouble hadn’t shown up before. Terrible, isn’t it?”

Beth declined a third muffin as soon as Mrs. Potter relayed the news to the two at the breakfast table. She rose decisively, retrieved her fur-collared storm coat and her bright wool hat from the coatrack in the back hallway, and pulled on her warm gloves.

“Maybe I was there when he was having the attack, maybe even when he was dying,” she said sadly. “I wonder if he ever found my comfrey. I think I’ll go by his house now and see if there’s anything I can do.”

“But Ozzie doesn’t have any family,” Gussie protested. “You know his wife died years ago, when they still lived on Long Island, and their daughter even before that—when she was in her early teens, I think. There won’t be anything you can do, Bethie, or anybody in the house now. Have another cup of coffee.”

Beth’s firm round chin was resolute. “I’ll just see,” she said. “Maybe there’s
something
I can do.”

“I wonder if Beth remembers it’s our day for Meals on Wheels?” Gussie said after she had left. “Too late to catch her—she’ll be halfway to Ozzie’s by now. If she forgets, you can do the rounds with me, Genia—it’s a lot easier with two. Sometimes parking is almost impossible on some of the narrow little one-way streets, so we take turns, one to drive and the other to carry in.”

“Love to,” Mrs. Potter assured her. “Even if Beth shows up, as I’m sure she will—I don’t think she’s half as forgetful as she pretends to be—I’d like to go along for the ride, and maybe see some old friends. Is Jimmy Mattoon on your list? He used to be our old handyman, and I think he still lives alone, down on one of those little streets off Orange.”

“Ozzie is one who
should
have been on our list,” Gussie said soberly. “I expect he ate miserably, although of course not for lack of money. We accept donations now, you know, from people who can afford to pay, and it’s surprising how many people are glad to pay for a good simple hot meal at noon and a cold one—sandwich and fruit, or whatever—for supper. It’s prepared at the hospital, and of course Helen has it organized like a Swiss watch.”

“I’ll bet the prospect of a little visit with you or Bethie is as cheering as the food,” Mrs. Potter remarked. “That darling round face of Beth’s, and her crazy bright hats—if I were one of your customers, I’d consider Thursdays the red-letter day in my week.”

“Oh, the whole crew all week is great for that kind of thing,” Gussie said. “Beth probably
is
the most fun as a caller, because she’s always so sunny and cheerful. Still, everybody tries to look bright and smartened up for the day of her rounds. Or
his
. We have men volunteers too, you know.”

“I hope not Ted Frobisher,” Mrs. Potter replied. “I’d hate to ride with
him
down all those little streets. As I remember, he’d be too befuddled by noon to find his way around town, or to remember who got what, if he’s still drinking as much as he used to.”

“I suppose he is,” Gussie said, without great apparent concern. “Ted’s always just a little bit stewed, but he’s never really out of line. Always the same wonderful manners he learned at his mama’s knee in Wellesley; always the same totally proper dress for every occasion—Jules used to call it ‘elderly Yacht Club attire.’ You know exactly what I mean. And he still putters around with his greenhouse. Ted hasn’t completely lost his marbles, Genia. He still keeps his office up above the Pacific Club, right next to Ozzie’s, and he has his connection with the same good Boston brokerage firm.”

The thought of Ozzie had them both shaking their heads sadly. Poor Ozzie, they both said again, let’s hope he just slipped away peacefully.

Then, brightening, Gussie crossed to the kitchen door and opened it to look out. Large, soft flakes of snow were falling, then melting in soft dark circles on the cobblestones. The neatly trimmed hedge of yew below the side porch was frosted with white, and the shrubbery beyond the garden in back was sharply outlined.

“Let’s go down Main Street and see the Christmas trees one last time before they’re taken down,” she urged, “and enjoy the snow before it all melts and gets slushy. It’s too warm for it to last.”

She closed the door reluctantly. “Oh, and I haven’t told you,” she continued. “I’ve invited some people in, mostly old friends of yours, on Saturday afternoon. And Tony Ferencz, of course. Later, after we’ve had a walk we can take a look in the specialty places for party cheeses and things.”

As they went up the wide front stairs to dress for the day, Gussie paused, one hand on the gleaming mahogany handrail. “It may seem heartless not to cancel my party because of Ozzie’s death,” she said. “Still, everyone is dying to see you.”

Resuming her quick, light ascent, she added, “And I want you to have every possible opportunity to know Tony.”

Mrs. Potter was suddenly reminded of Mary Augusta Baines, college freshman. “I’ve just met the most wonderful new man from Amherst,” the young Gussie was saying, “and I can’t wait for you to meet him.” There had been a number of wonderful new men from a number of colleges, Mrs. Potter reflected, before cousin Theo came on the scene.

The two met again, shortly, in the upper hall at the top of the staircase, wearing wool trousers and warm sweaters. A large gilt-framed mirror reflected the meeting of the similarly clad figures—one with softly cut, slightly curling hair, lightly frosted in a way not so much disguising its gray as blending it into a new and becoming color; the other gray-blond, her hair smoothly pulled back into the same knot she had worn, although with a period of various changes in between, since their college years together.

Mrs. Potter drew back in momentary dismay. “I didn’t realize I was getting
so fat!”
she exclaimed. “There must be something wrong with my scales. Every morning they tell me about the same thing, give or take a pound or two.
But look at me!
Standing beside you I look absolutely
gross.”

Gussie’s trousers and sweater, nicely fitted, as were Mrs. Potter’s own, were clearly a size—could it be two sizes?—smaller. “You’re not fat, Genia,” she said comfortingly. “In fact you look pretty good by the standards we used to apply to ourselves ten or twenty years ago. I know you may think the fashion of being quite thin is only a fad, or purely vanity, but Tony has convinced me it’s as much for health as for
looks.” As Gussie spoke, she turned to look at her full-length profile in the mirror.