This Old Souse (14 page)

“I do remember that,” Judith said with a smile. “You were so skinny that some of the readers thought you were a war refugee and sent food.”

“I was allergic to most of it,” Renie said, “which was why I was so skinny in the first place. The only thing I could eat was the two dozen Hershey bars. I polished them off in three days and got hives.”

“But you still didn't gain weight,” Judith said with an ironic expression. “I would have turned into a blimp. Of course I had my own set of allergies, but luckily—or not—to food. We were a pair of sickly—” She stopped suddenly, staring out the window. “Coz!” she cried, lowering her voice. “Look discreetly at the three men on the dock by that very large yacht. Do you see who I see?”

Casually, Renie turned in her seat. “Good Lord!” she whispered. “It's Glenn Morris and the Trashman. What are they doing here? And who's the other guy with them?”

Judith didn't answer right away. The trio was going aboard the yacht, which had a “For Sale” sign on its starboard side.

“I'm guessing,” Judith finally replied. “The unknown person is in his forties, well dressed, and—this is a stretch—could have a sinister look. Do you suppose that could be Philip French, Anna's husband?”

“It could,” Renie said slowly, “but are the three of them here for police business or boating pleasure?”

“A good question,” Judith murmured as the men disappeared inside the yacht. “I think I know how to find out.”

J
UDITH WAS DIALING
a number on her cell phone. Renie was licking mocha residue off of her upper lip.

“Hello?” Judith said with a thumbs-up sign for Renie. “Yes, I'm calling about the”—she paused, grimacing as she tried to calculate the length of the yacht that was for sale—“forty-foot yacht that's moored by the Crab House. How much is it?”

Renie didn't take her eyes off Judith even as she accepted the bill from their server.

“Three-fifty?” Judith said. “You mean…Yes, that's what I thought. Three-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She gave Renie a look of incredulity. “How many previous owners?…Oh, just one. Good…Is that right? How interesting…Yes, I would like to look at it. If possible, I'd prefer that the owner shows me around. Mr. French would know the yacht intimately. When would be a good time?…He is? Can you reach him? I could be there in…ten minutes…Certainly. My cell phone number is…”

Renie was holding her head.

“Have another mocha,” Judith advised. “We're in for the long haul.”

“So Philip French owns that very expensive yacht?” Renie inquired, dumping the contents of her fourth raw sugar packet into what was left of her mocha.

“Philip French of French's Fleet,” Judith replied, looking a bit smug. “It's a tugboat company. I've heard of them. Haven't you?”

“Sure,” Renie replied. “My dad worked for a big tugboat company after the war.”

“That's right,” Judith remarked. “But it wouldn't be French's outfit. The person who answered the phone said Philip was the owner and founder.”

“He must have found some money in it along the way,” Renie said. “He had to come up with a bundle to buy that baby brand new.”

Judith was staring out the window. “Here they come. Glenn and Trash don't look very happy. Phil, however, seems unperturbed.”

“And sinister, no doubt,” said Renie, resolutely not looking toward the window behind her.

“I can't really say that,” Judith replied. “He's fairly tall, balding brown hair, goatee, Nordquist's finest men's casual wear. I'd opt for ‘urbane.'”

“People who own big yachts have to act urbane.” Renie slipped her credit card inside the leatherette folder. “You know, ascots and captain's caps and navy blazers with gold buttons.”

“Right,” Judith said vaguely as she watched the men move out of sight. “I hope French's Fleet calls back soon. It's almost two-thirty. I have to get home to prepare for my guests.”

“Viewing the yacht is your idea,” Renie responded. “If we stay here long enough, I can order seconds.”

“Glenn and Trash must have been interviewing Phil,” Judith surmised. “Cops can't afford yachts. You have my word on that.”

The server came to collect the bill. Renie refrained from ordering another mocha. “Are you really going through the charade of being a potential buyer?” she asked. “Surely Phil French must know who you are by now.”

Judith considered. “Only to toss out the bait. After I reel him in, I'll be candid,” she said as her cell phone rang.

It was Phil himself who was making the call. “Yes,” Judith said. “In fact, I'm already here. In the restaurant, that is. Ask for Jones. The reservation is in my cousin's name.”

Renie waited for Judith to disconnect. “Is he biting?”

Judith smiled. “He said he could be here in two minutes.”

“Did he recognize your name?”

“I don't think so,” Judith said as their server returned with Renie's receipts. “I'm not the only Mrs. Flynn in town.”

Renie's eyes twinkled with mischief. “At least one Mrs. Flynn is in Florida.”

“Thank heavens,” Judith murmured. “That's the worst thing about summer. Herself usually comes back to town for a few months.”

“Phil should sit on my side of the booth,” Renie declared. “You'll want to face him.”

“Yes.” Judith looked up as the hostess arrived with Philip French.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a congenial smile. “Which of you is Mrs. Flynn?”

The hostess moved away. Judith raised her hand. “That would be me. Please call me Judith. This is my cousin, Serena Jones.”

“Take a seat,” Renie said, patting the place next to her in the booth. “Can we order something for you?”

Phil eased himself onto the upholstered banquette. “A martini would do, but it's on me. What will you two be having?”

“Drambuie, straight up,” Renie said without hesitation.

“Galliano on the rocks,” Judith responded.

Phil, with a subtle show of long practice, signaled for the server and relayed the drink orders. “So,” he said, after the server had gone off to the bar, “you're interested in the
Moonfleet.
”

Judith gave a little start. “Ah…yes, I am.” Confused about whether Phil was referring to the yacht or the family home, she decided that silence was her best ally.

“Great ship,” Phil said. “I wouldn't sell it, but we need something a bit larger. I use the
Moonfleet
for company business. Two staterooms aren't enough when you take her out with a group of potential business prospects.”

The drinks arrived. Now that she knew which Moonfleet Phil was talking about, Judith decided it was time for candor. “I'm not a buyer,” she confessed. “I'm trying to keep out of jail.”

Apparently, Phil thought she was joking. “So are a few of my business associates. Do you want to buy the
Moonfleet
to sail to some country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States?”

“No,” Judith replied, vigorously shaking her head. “I mean it. Those detectives you were with this afternoon think I may have killed the man who apparently died on your family property. He ended up in the trunk of my car.”

Phil threw back his head and guffawed. “This,” he said when he finished laughing, “is a unique approach to bartering. I'm not coming down in price, Mrs. Flynn. It's firm and it's fair.”

Renie was looking irked. She was swinging her feet under the table, and accidentally kicked Judith. “Sorry,” Renie apologized before she turned to Phil. “I'm just sitting here listening to an incredible conversation and wondering if I should set my hair on fire to put an end to it. Please take my cousin seriously. Or do you honestly not know about the murder of Frank Purvis?”

Philip French's olive skin turned pale; his hand shook as he put down his martini. “Frank's been murdered? You're kidding!” He reached inside his jacket, then suddenly withdrew his hand. “Damn! There's no smoking here. I could use a cigarette. And another one of these.” He tapped his half-empty glass.

“Did you know Frank?” Judith asked, recovering from her surprise at Phil's reaction.

“Yes. Yes, he was interested in the
Moonfleet.
” Phil's color had returned, but he was starting to perspire. “We looked at the yacht Monday. He said he'd get back to me by the end of the week.”

“It looks like you lost a potential buyer,” Renie said. “Didn't the cops tell you his name just now?”

After a gulp of his drink, Phil shook his head. “They didn't mention a name.” He stared at Judith. “You
are
serious. Frank's body was found in your trunk?”

“Yes. I've no idea how it got there. I mean,” Judith clarified, “I don't know who put it in my car. It certainly wasn't me. The detectives seem to think otherwise, or at least haven't eliminated me from their list of suspects. Did they mention my name by any chance?”

Phil shook his head again. He still seemed dazed. “We didn't talk long. They got kind of interested in seeing the boat.”

“How long had you known Frank Purvis?” Judith asked.

“Not long,” Phil replied, indicating to their server that he could use another round. “I met him a couple of months ago on the golf course. It turned out he was interested in buying a yacht. I hadn't made up my mind to sell yet, so I told him to call me in a month or so. He did.”

“He must have been well-heeled,” Judith said, wondering why Glenn Morris had referred to Frank as a “lowlife.” “How did he make his money?”

Phil finished his first martini just as the second arrived. “Investments. I guess he was one of the lucky stiffs—excuse the expression—who didn't bomb out in the market.”

“Were you playing a private course?” Judith inquired.

Phil nodded. “Broadwood. I'm a member.”

Judith knew that Broadwood was one of the most exclusive—and expensive—courses in the area. “Did Frank belong?”

“I don't know,” Phil replied, lapping up some of the new martini. “I guess so.”

“I don't suppose,” Judith said, “you'd have any idea why Frank would impersonate a milkman?”

“I sure don't.” Phil devoured half of the olive. “It must have been a prank.”

Phil didn't look as if he believed his own words, and Judith certainly didn't. “You have no idea why Frank Purvis would have an interest in your in-laws' house?”

“Well…” Phil was beginning to look a trifle bleary-eyed. Maybe, Judith thought, these weren't his first drinks of the day. She guessed that the
Moonfleet
had a well-stocked bar. For three hundred and fifty grand, it should come with a bartender and a case of Hangover Helper.

“Yes?” Judith urged as Phil faltered.

“The only thing I can think of,” Phil said slowly, “is that maybe he was interested in buying the house. Luke and Lynette—Anna, too—have been pressuring the old folks to move to a retirement home. Maybe Frank wanted to look around the place without being noticed. I mean, who pays any attention to a milkman?”

“Because they can't afford yachts?” Renie put in.

“No, of course not,” Phil said, giving Renie an unpleasant look. “What are you—the semicomic relief?”

“I'm not ‘semi' anything,” Renie shot back. “And ‘comic' doesn't exactly describe my present mood. Besides, only a nutcase would wear a disguise to check out a house. Frank Purvis must have been up to something other than real-estate speculation.”

Judith glanced at her watch. It was after three o'-clock. “We have to go, I'm afraid. I'm sorry about the deception, but it was the only way I could think of to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure, fine.” Phil was more than halfway through his second martini. Grudgingly, he got out of the booth so that Renie could make her exit. “Say,” he said to Judith as she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder, “if you think you could swing it, you'd find yourself in a whole new world if you bought the
Moonfleet.
”

“Like a world of debt,” Renie muttered.

“We'll keep in touch,” Judith said.

The cousins left Phil just as he signaled for a third hit.

 

What's wrong with that picture?” Judith asked as they walked to their cars. “As in how much coincidence can you accept?”

“You mean Phil knowing Frank Purvis?”

“That's just part of it,” Judith declared. “Why did Glenn Morris say that Frank was a lowlife? Granted, there are some wealthy people who are sleazes, but that's usually not the way they're described. And how did Frank meet Phil? Did Frank plan it? Or was it the other way around? And why was Frank so interested in the Blands' house?”

“It
is
possible,” Renie said as they reached the Joneses' Camry, “that he may have been checking it out as a potential real-estate project. If the place is as dilapidated inside as it is outside, it could be a teardown and at least three houses could be built on the property.
Didn't Phil say that Frank had made his money in investments?”

“That's what he told us,” Judith replied, “but it all sounded vague to me. I think Frank was casing the joint with a plan to steal whatever was being delivered to the Blands. Surely everyone in the family knows they get only one UPS delivery a year. They may not know what it is, but it would be the kind of thing you'd talk and speculate about.”

“How could the younger generation know?” Renie asked, digging into her purse for her car keys.

“Think about it, coz,” Judith responded. “Luke and Anna wouldn't be any less curious than other kids. A big box arrives. Being children, they hope it's something for them. But it never is. They're disappointed. Not to mention that the family leads a very dull life. Eventually, they realize that the annual delivery is strictly for the grown-ups. But they never forget.”

“That's true,” Renie agreed. “The box always comes in June. Luke and Anna would be out of school. They played outside—I do remember seeing wagons and tricycles and other toys in the front yard. It was one of the few signs of life I ever noticed around the place. It's likely that they might have seen the deliveryman come to the house.”

“Exactly.” Judith squinted up into the bright sky. “I gather that Phil and Anna are childless. I wonder how they get along. Judging from what I saw at the café, Luke and Lynette seem to be on rather frosty terms. I couldn't help but think that if Mike and Kristin stayed married for the sake of the children, they'd end up like
Luke and Lynette—couples who are strangers to each other.”

“Maybe you just caught the younger Blands on a bad day,” Renie said, opening the door to her car. “Remember, there are no easy answers.”

“No,” Judith agreed. “Not for Mike and Kristin, not for any of us, really.”

And, she thought, waving Renie off, certainly not when it came to the house on Moonfleet.

 

The hors d'oeuvres were prepared; the first four guests had arrived; and Mike had left a message saying that he and Uncle Al and the boys were eating out. With one ear cocked for the doorbell, Judith dialed the Broadwood Golf and Country Club's number. Having once dealt with residents of an exclusive community, she knew that protecting members' privacy was a priority. Thus she was forced to invent a ruse.