This Old Souse (17 page)

Her next problem was getting through the overgrown shrubbery while carrying the box. She stumbled over roots and deadwood, got scratched by blackberry vines, and narrowly avoided being poked in the eye by a forsythia branch. Out of breath, she proceeded through the tall grass, weeds, ferns, and rocks.

Still panting, she set the box down on the small moss-covered stone porch that rose only a few inches from the ground. The door was arched and made of solid wood with a tile surround, two wrought-iron hinges, and a handle to match. Judith wound up like a pitcher and pounded the door as hard as she could.

Looking at her watch, she decided to wait at least a
full minute for someone to respond. Sixty-eight seconds later a curious Alan Bland stood in the small entryway.

“Excuse me?” he said.

Judith pointed to the groceries near her feet. “I'm Judith Flynn. I didn't think Anna would be able to collect the order, so I thought I'd drop it off for her.”

Alan's handsome face grew puzzled. “It wasn't Anna's turn. It was mine. I was going to the grocery store in just a few minutes. Who are you?”

“It's a long story,” Judith said with a sigh. “May I come in for a moment? I had a hard time cutting through from the alley. There was no place to park out front.”

“Everybody in this neighborhood seems to have two cars,” Alan remarked, still eyeing Judith with curiosity. “Did you say you're a friend of Aunt Anna's?”

Judith avoided a direct answer. “I took her home from work last night. Have you spoken with her today?”

Alan shook his head and stepped aside. “Come in. I'll get the groceries. Is Aunt Anna okay?”

“Yes, she's fine,” Judith said, going into the kitchen. One glance made her feel as if she'd moved back in time. Even though the sun was coming through the single window with its colored panes, the room seemed dark. The green gas range looked as if it had been installed in the twenties; so did the matching refrigerator. The tiles on the counter and the walls were faded and chipped. The old-fashioned sink and the tiled floor also showed considerable wear and tear. There was no dishwasher, no microwave, no garbage disposal. Only the wooden table and chairs looked as
if they'd come from a later era by about twenty-five years. Even the quartet of metal canisters on a wooden shelf appeared to be at least a half century old. The musty air and the tomblike silence in the rest of the house gave Judith a chill.

Alan noticed. “Are you all right? Your arms are bleeding. Can I get you some Band-Aids or antiseptic?”

“A towel will do,” Judith replied. “They're only scratches.”

Alan pulled out a drawer that seemed to stick just a bit and handed Judith a dish towel thin enough that she could see through it. She had to be careful walking across the floor. The tiles were so grooved and cracked that they upset her balance. At the sink, she turned on the warm water tap. It sputtered a bit, then released the water in fits and starts.

“I know what you're thinking,” Alan said with a wry chuckle as he stashed groceries in the ancient fridge. “You're wondering why my grandparents haven't done some renovating. The truth is, they don't have the money and they don't care.”

“Really.” Judith dabbed at her scratches. “So even though your folks and your aunt and uncle—and you—are doing quite well, your grandparents don't want to be bothered?”

“You got it,” Alan replied. “Too much hassle, they say. Workmen all over the house, lots of noise, confusion, being inconvenienced—the whole gig. But hey—as long as they don't care, it's their home after all.”

“It's such a beautiful house,” Judith said. “That is, it could be a real showplace if it were fixed up.”

“That's what my dad says,” Alan responded. “He
keeps trying to talk them into moving to a retirement place. But they refuse to budge.”

“Aunt Sally concurs, I assume,” said Judith.

Alan looked amused. “Aunt Sally—well, she goes along with whatever my grandparents want.”

“Aunt Sally is your grandmother's sister, right?”

Alan nodded. “In her younger years, she was quite the adventurer,” he replied, taking the towel from Judith. “For her time, of course. She was a photographer. She even had some of her photos published in
National Geographic.
”

“She must have traveled widely,” Judith remarked.

“She did,” Alan replied, placing the worn towel on the counter. “Africa, Asia, Europe, South America—somehow she never got to Australia or New Zealand. That's one of the reasons I went into TV. I want to work my way up to reporting from the field. See the world and be where the action is.”

“I understand you're on special assignment right now,” Judith said. “I assume—since you're here—you don't have to travel for this job.”

Alan looked away. “No. But sometimes I do. I've been to L.A. and San Francisco and Vancouver, B.C.”

“What are you investigating?” Judith asked.

Alan hesitated, then looked again at Judith. “I'm sorry, I can't talk about it. At this stage, it's confidential.”

“Oh.” Judith was edging toward the door that led out of the kitchen. “I understand. My husband's been a private detective since he retired from the police force. Once in a while he gets a case he can't discuss. In fact, he's working on one right now. All I know is that
it's some insurance scam. At least that's what the carrier is trying to prove.”

Alan's keen blue eyes were regarding Judith with apprehension. “Were you thinking of going out the front way?”

She was standing on the threshold, which led to the dining room. The drapes were pulled. All she could glimpse was a table and a couple of chairs.

“No,” she replied. “I was wondering if the rest of the house was furnished in Spanish-style furniture.”

Alan laughed. “It's furnished with whatever my grandparents could get at secondhand stores. It's just plain old-fashioned furniture. I think some of it came with the house. The previous owner didn't want it, I guess.”

“It's so dark,” Judith noted. “Why don't they open the drapes on such a nice day?”

“My grandmother has very weak eyes,” Alan replied. “So does Aunt Sally. It runs in the family. I hope I don't inherit it when I get older.”

Desperately, Judith was trying to figure out an excuse for seeing more of the house and at least one of its inhabitants. “You know,” she said in a wistful voice, “I've never met your grandparents. I understand they're very private people. But as long as I'm delivering their groceries, I thought it might be polite to introduce myself.”

Alan looked regretful. “They're resting right now. They always take a little siesta after lunch.”

“Oh. Aunt Sally is resting, too?”

“Aunt Sally is always resting,” Alan replied in an ironic tone. “She's very frail.”

“How old are they?” Judith inquired. “My own mother is quite elderly. She doesn't take regular naps, but she does tend to doze off now and then.”

Alan tapped his cheek, apparently calculating ages. “Grandpa is in his eighties. Grandma is up in her seventies. Aunt Sally is a few years younger.”

Compared to Gertrude, the trio was still fairly young. But, Judith realized, her own mother couldn't be compared to other human beings. “I understand your grandfather never really recovered from his war experiences,” she said. “My Uncle Corky never has either. He was in the army, serving in Europe. At least once a week, he still feels a need to shoot at crows and seagulls and an occasional piece of garden statuary. Twice, he's used his pickup to take out a couple of utility poles. He calls his truck ‘Tank.'”

Alan nodded. “Grandpa served in Europe, too, under General Patton. The carnage was horrendous.”

“Really? That's who Uncle Corky served under. Patton may have had his flaws, but my uncle adored Old Blood and Guts.”

“Grandpa didn't feel the same way about Patton,” Alan said. “Of course, he doesn't like to talk about his war experiences. I wanted to interview him a while back for a feature on World War Two veterans, but he turned me down. I guess it stirred up too many bad—”

A phone rang somewhere nearby. Judith didn't see one in the kitchen, but before she could peek into the dining room, Alan removed his cell from his back pocket.

“Hi, Aunt Anna,” he said in a bright voice. “What?…Oh, no, everything's fine. A friend of yours
stopped by. Judith Flynn.” He glanced at Judith to confirm that he'd gotten her name right. “Yes, she's here with me in the kitchen. She picked up the week's supply of groceries…Really?” Alan shot Judith a curious look. “I didn't know that…Yes, of course I will. Talk to you later.”

Alan clicked off the phone. His expression had grown troubled. “Aunt Anna said to say hello.” He hesitated, wincing slightly. “She told me who you really are. You're FATSO. I'm afraid you'll have to go.”

I
T DID NO
good to try to explain it was Mavis-Lean Brodie's fault that Judith had gained such notoriety. Alan was polite but firm. The Blands were private people. They didn't want some amateur sleuth—especially someone whose car had held Frank Purvis's corpse—lurking around the family home.

Unencumbered by the heavy groceries she'd delivered, Judith managed to reach the alley without doing any more damage to herself. She settled in behind the MG's steering wheel, then suddenly thought it might be a good idea to take a look in the boot. She didn't want to cart around another body in a Flynn automobile. Judith lurched out of the car and apprehensively raised the boot's lid. Except for some of Joe's belongings, it was empty. She sighed with relief.

Driving home, she grew angry with Anna French. After rescuing the woman, Judith expected a more gracious response. Anna had acted grateful the previous night, but now she seemed to have turned her back on her savior.

And yet…

Judith had come away from the house on Moonfleet feeling as if she had missed something. It might have been a remark by Alan, the conversation between him and his aunt, or the house itself. Whatever it had been, she felt an immediate need to talk to Renie.

Carefully parking the MG on the steep hill in front of the Joneses' Dutch Colonial, she spotted her cousin in the front yard. Half-hidden by ornamental evergreens, Renie was wielding a broom and cussing. A fat gray squirrel fled through a patch of St. John's wort.

“Coz!” Judith called from the parking strip. “It's me.”

“Yikes!” Renie cried, almost falling over a cherub statue that had been a birthday present from Judith. “You startled me! I'm obsessed with those damned squirrels since they got inside our attic and set up a condo two years ago. They've been lurking around all spring, trying to get back into the house. I don't trust them an inch. What's worse, they're smarter than I am.”

“I thought Bill had screened off all the areas where they could come in,” Judith said as Renie came out of the garden and down to the sidewalk.

“He did,” Renie replied, keeping a wary eye on the squirrel's path of flight. “They removed the duct tape and ate two of the screens.”

“They keep digging up my bulbs,” Judith complained, before changing the subject. “You got a minute?”

“Sure,” Renie replied. “Let's go out on the deck, where I can exercise vigilance if Squeldon the Squirrel tries to attack from the rear. Do you want something to drink?”

“Water will do,” Judith said as they went inside and down the hall to the kitchen. “Where's Bill?”

“Running his usual Saturday errands,” Renie responded, taking two glasses out of the cupboard. “You know—the Swedish bakery, the German deli, the Japanese market. Bill's very global.”

Judith accepted a glass of ice water; Renie removed a can of Pepsi from the fridge. The cousins went out onto the deck, where they had a clear view of the mountains and the northeastern section of the city.

“So what's up?” Renie inquired, putting on her sunglasses.

In detail, Judith explained about the impromptu visit to the Blands' house and her chat with Alan. Then, with equal precision, she related Alan's conversation with his aunt.

Renie, who had listened without interruption, frowned and stared down into the big backyard. Atop the garage, which faced the street in back of the house, stood Squeldon—or one of his cohorts. Renie glared at the squirrel; the squirrel glared back.

“Beat it!” Renie yelled.

But Squeldon—or his henchman—skittered to the near end of the garage and jumped into a mountain ash tree. “Now what?” Renie muttered as the squirrel climbed down the tree and disappeared behind the tall rockery that separated the upper garden from the lower section. “What were you saying? Oh! That darkness—it does seem very strange. I mean, even if you've got weak eyes—and I do—you'd think that as you got older you'd need some natural light to help you move around.”

“Blind people get used to their surroundings,” Judith pointed out. “After all, the Blands have lived there for over fifty years.”

“Fresh air's another matter, though,” Renie noted. “Did the place feel stuffy?”

“Very,” Judith replied. “As if it hadn't been aired out in fifty years.”

“Hunh.” Renie became pensive again. “Go over that one part again—about the elder Blands being feeble.”

Judith repeated what she'd already told her cousin. “Except for Jane Bland and Aunt Sally's eye conditions, Alan didn't mention any other specific physical problems.”

“Inertia,” Renie said. “Lack of exercise and fresh air. Can you imagine how you'd atrophy in such a house?”

“Except that it's very big and they must have plenty of stairs,” Judith pointed out.

“But that's about it,” Renie said. “They obviously aren't gardeners.” She sighed. “Talk about dysfunctional families—the senior Blands don't seem to function at all. Luckily, it seems that their two children haven't inherited their parents' reclusive traits.”

“That's true,” Judith allowed, waving off an inquisitive bee. “But remember, Luke was adopted.”

“Yes,” Renie agreed. “I'd forgotten.” She turned abruptly in her lounge chair to face Judith. “Alan is Luke's son. Why would he worry about having the same eye problems as his grandmother and his aunt? They're not related by blood.”

Judith stared at Renie. “He wouldn't. But the only time I saw Luke Bland was in that café, and he was wearing sunglasses.”

“Lots of people do that,” Renie said, “especially around here, or if they think they look cool.”

“Luke was reading,” Judith responded. “First the menu, then something from a big binder. He kept the sunglasses on the whole time.”

“They might be prescription sunglasses,” Renie pointed out.

“Damn!” Judith breathed. “Adoption papers are sealed. How do we find out? And why would someone lie about adopting a child?”

“Because the child belonged to someone near and dear?” Renie suggested.

“Like Aunt Sally?” Judith scowled. “Sally's a widow. Not that we can't rule out an illegitimate baby. Maybe she had an affair.”

“Maybe this has nothing to do with Frank Purvis's murder,” Renie pointed out. “But often there's a mystery within a mystery.”

Squeldon, accompanied by two accomplices, was on the stone stairs that led to the lower part of the garden. They had surrounded a wooden planter next to the steps and were attempting to tip it over.

“You vile wretches!” Renie shrieked, jumping up from her chair and running from the back porch toward the stone stairs just as the planter was upended. The villains fled, furry tails a-flying.

“They're smirking, I swear it!” Renie called up to Judith. “That's the fourth time they've done that this week!” She stooped down, using her bare hands to scoop the plants and the soil. “They've just about ruined this planter. Dad made it for us when Bill and I moved into this house years ago. I'm taking it into the basement.”

Renie disappeared under the deck, where the basement door was located. Two minutes later, she reappeared, brushing her hands off on her jeans.

“Land mines,” she muttered as she returned to the deck. “That's what we need. They know about traps and such. They can even deactivate them and remove the nuts. They probably think it's just a game on my part.” With a sigh, she sat down again. “Have you heard from Morris and Trash?”

Judith shook her head. “For being their original suspect, they've kept me at arm's length. It makes me wonder if they have a line on who really did it. There's been nothing in the paper, not even an obit for Purvis.”

“I know,” Renie said. “I've been searching the papers, too, and even—gag—watching the local TV news.”

“I've caught the late news on KINE,” Judith said. “I often do, especially when Joe's home. I figure he's got a thing for Mavis. By the way, I tried to find out what kind of special assignment Alan—or Adam Blake, if you prefer—had been given, but he couldn't talk about it.”

“Sounds like city politics,” Renie said. “Somebody's got a hand in the till, I'll bet.”

Judith glanced at her watch. “Good grief! It's after one! Mother must be starving. I'd better get home.”

“Doesn't she have about a six-month supply of microwave foods in the toolshed?” Renie asked. “Why do you have to knock yourself out to wait on her hand and foot?”

Rising from her chair, Judith shot her cousin a challenging look. “How many times have you talked to your mother today?”

“Uh…” Renie also stood up. “Twice. I'll drop by her apartment for a bit after Bill gets home with the car.” Grinning, she put a hand on Judith's arm. “They spoiled us, we spoil them. I guess it's only fair.”

“There's fair,” Judith murmured as they entered the kitchen, “and there's unfair. I still can't understand how Anna French could be so uncooperative after what I did for her last night.”

“You know perfectly well that life is not fair, and neither are people,” Renie declared, walking Judith to the front door.

“It's not just that,” Judith said, “it's that she told Alan to say hello to me. I'm getting a mixed message there. I wonder what else she had to say to her nephew.”

Renie shrugged. “You'll probably never know.”

Reaching the porch, Judith eyed her cousin closely. “If I have anything to do about it, I will.”

 

Uncle Corky and Aunt Theodora lived on an island across the bay. The surroundings were rural; their A-frame house was set among tall firs and other varieties of evergreens. They rarely took the ferry into the city, but far from being reclusive like the Blands, they remained active in community affairs and frequently traveled abroad. Uncle Corky particularly enjoyed going to Europe and visiting the sites where he'd served during World War II. He was smart, outspoken, and profane. In fact, he was not unlike his hero, General Patton.

On a whim, Judith decided to call her uncle. After a greeting of hearty expletives, Uncle Corky asked why Judith was calling.

“We don't usually hear from you unless it's the annual invitation for Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving,” he said in his rich baritone. “What's up? Don't tell me my freaking sister-in-law bought the Big One?”

“No, Mother's fine,” Judith answered. Briefly, she considered telling her uncle about Mike and Kristin's estrangement. But for now, the less said, the better, Judith decided. “I'm doing a little research. I know you were in Innsbruck at the end of the war. Have you ever heard of a town in Austria named Kopfstein?”

“Kopfstein.” Uncle Corky was obviously turning the word over in his agile mind. “Yes, as I recall, it's closer to Salzburg than it is to Innsbruck. In fact, it's right on the German border in the Bavarian Alps, near Berchtesgaden.”

“That's interesting,” Judith said. “I mean, being so close to Hitler's mountain retreat.”

“Beautiful country,” Corky noted. “Too freaking good for that crazy bastard.”

“So Kopfstein is just a dot on the map,” Judith said. “That is, there's nothing unusual about it?”

“Not that I know of,” Uncle Corky replied. “Along with the freaking French, we overran that whole part of Austria, accepting the surrender of the German freaking soldiers. Then it was balls-up with a lot of our soldiers. They really cut loose. Who the hell could blame those poor SOBs after all they'd gone through? To the victor go the spoils, as they say. They raided the Nazi big shots' liquor cabinets and wine cellars, they snatched up a bunch of souvenirs, they traded loot with each other, and took everything with a swastika on it. One big item was the Hitler freaking Youth dag
gers. I wouldn't have used one of those freaking things to cut up a seagull. But besides the souvenirs, our men got to sleep indoors, take showers, wear clean uniforms. And when it came to women, well, there were plenty of lonely broads in Europe after the war. Our guys were more than happy to console them.”

“They had free time on their hands,” Judith remarked. “That must have been a terrific adjustment.”

“You bet your butt it was,” Corky retorted. “I had an office on the third floor of a seventeenth-century building in Innsbruck. The town had been shot up pretty goddamned well, but that Baroque beauty survived. Anyway, I'd sit on my dead ass and watch the GIs down in the street. Sometimes it seemed as if they were wandering around in a freaking daze, not quite sure how to act without some crazy Kraut bastard shooting from a roof or a window or a doorway. Fear's hard to shake. We didn't just liberate Europe, we liberated ourselves. Sudden freedom is heady freaking stuff. It's no wonder some of our guys got out of control.”

“Those of us who've never been through it really can't understand,” Judith said, then paused before continuing. “I've got a silly question for you, Uncle Corky. Does the name Dick Bland mean anything to you?”

“In connection with the war? Not offhand,” Corky replied. “Who
is
the bastard?”

“Someone I know who served under Patton, maybe in the same places you did,” Judith replied.

“He could have,” Corky said. “But he wasn't in my
company. Hey—I've got a perfect freaking shot at a seagull. The SOB's about to crap on Tank. Keep your pecker up, as my mom used to say.”

Hanging up the phone, Judith smiled. Grandma Grover had been a true lady, but her favorite words of encouragement to her children and grandchildren had been given without regard to gender—or delicacy. It was her only vulgarity, but the phrase had served Judith well.

As she prepared various cheeses and a crab dip for the guests' appetizers, Judith considered how she could approach Lynette and Luke Bland. But what was the point? Nobody in the family seemed willing to surrender any kind of useful information. Still, Judith reasoned as she melted cream cheese for the crab dip, casual conversation often elicited revealing tidbits that the speaker unwittingly let slip.