This Old Souse (18 page)

She was bringing the hors d'oeuvres tray into the living room when the phone rang. Juggling the tray, Judith swore under her breath. Luckily, none of the guests had come downstairs yet for the social hour. Before she could safely set the tray down on the oak buffet, the call switched over to Voice Messaging. Judith fetched the chafing dish with the crab dip before dialing her mailbox's number.

“This is Lynette Bland,” said the brisk recorded voice. “I wanted to thank you for the lovely bouquet you brought to my office. I'm sorry I missed you. You don't need to call me back.”

Judith, however, immediately dialed the Blands' home number, which had shown up on her Caller ID. Lynette answered on the second ring.

“Really,” she said, “you didn't have to return my call. This is probably a busy time for you.”

“I have everything under control,” Judith assured Lynette. “I'm so glad you liked the flowers. I bought some glads for myself today. In fact, I got them at the grocery store in Langford and ended up delivering your in-laws' weekly order.”

“I heard about that,” Lynette replied in an ironic tone. “You certainly cover all the bases.”

Judith sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. “Do you blame me? If you'd found a dead man in the trunk of your car, wouldn't you want to know why?”

“Maybe.” Lynette sounded unsure.

“I can't help it,” Judith confessed. “It's my nature. That's how I got to be…FATSO.”

“I suppose it is,” Lynette said without enthusiasm. “Frankly, I've always felt that the less you know about certain things, the better.”

“Sometimes that's true,” Judith agreed. “Ignorance can protect you. It can save you from worry and heartbreak. Yes, I see what you mean. We've all had the opportunity to seek Truth, but couldn't face it because it was too painful. Don't you wonder, though, if not knowing eats away at your insides?”

“Well…” Lynette paused. “Perhaps.”

“Or what's worse,” Judith went on, forcing herself to sound long-suffering, “it can build barriers between people who should be close. You might think you're protecting someone else, for instance, when, in fact, you're only creating mistrust. Goodness, I ought to know,” she continued, now speaking from the heart as she recalled the years she'd let Mike believe that Dan
McMonigle was his biological father. “I've been through that with my own son. Can you imagine what anguish it caused?”

“Really?” The indifference had seeped out of Lynette's voice. “Did he resent you for it?”

“Not in the long run,” Judith admitted. “He'd sort of figured it out on his own after he became an adult. But he was almost thirty by that time. In retrospect, it was more painful for me than it was for him.”

“Did it cause a rift between you?” Lynette asked.

Judith winced. “Yes,” she lied, her mind's eye recalling the chilly scene between Luke and Lynette at the café. “He knew I was keeping something from him, something I was too ashamed to tell him. We grew apart for many years.” Not a complete lie; Mike had been posted to Montana as a forest ranger. “I can't tell you how difficult it was to let my wretched secret come between us.”

“Yes. I mean,” Lynette amended, “I can see how that might happen.”

“Before I forget,” Judith hurriedly put in when Lynette didn't seem inclined to speak further, “your own son seems like such a nice young man. I've seen him on TV, of course, but he made an even better impression on me when I met him at your in-laws' house this afternoon. You must be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Lynette asserted. “Luke and I both are.”

“I was trying to figure out who he resembles,” Judith said as she heard bouncing footsteps and giggles from the front staircase. The sorority sisters had descended for the social hour. “He has your blond
hair, of course, but his facial features resemble your husband.”

“He looks a little like both of us,” Lynette said, “but he mostly takes after my father.”

No help there,
Judith thought. Lynette's family didn't seem to play any part in the little drama going on at the house on Moonfleet.

“I'm afraid I have to go,” Judith said with reluctance. “My guests are gathering in the living room.”

Lynette thanked her again for the flowers and hung up. All Judith could hope was that her surmise was right: Luke Bland was keeping a big secret from his wife. Maybe Judith's discourse on the agony of withholding information would spur Lynette to discover the truth. More likely, she'd often tried and always failed. But Frank Purvis's murder may have brought matters to a head. Judith could but hope.

“Good evening,” she said to the young women. “There's wine and other beverages in the dining room.” Hillside Manor's bar was a converted washstand that had once stood in an upstairs bathroom. “That dip is crab. Just a warning in case anyone has allergies.”

The foursome giggled some more and headed straight for the dining room. Mrs. Greenwalt and a middle-aged couple from Dallas named Durning came down the stairs and entered the living room. Mrs. Greenwalt zeroed in on Judith.

“The cat, I trust, is dead,” she said, her plump face a mask of disgust.

“The cat's gone,” Judith replied, looking forsaken.

“How is Mr. Greenwalt? Are you going back to the hospital tonight?”

“Yes, for an hour or so.” Mrs. Greenwalt sighed heavily. “I spent much of the day there. Fortunately, my husband is recovering. We'll be able to leave for home tomorrow. You'll receive the airline and hotel bills directly.”

“Airline and hotels?” Judith gulped.

Mrs. Greenwalt nodded stiffly. “Of course. Our original plans were to travel for another week. Now we've had to cancel everything because of your homicidal pet. It's only fair that you should pay for our return fare. Obviously, we couldn't get a decent rate on such short notice. There's no direct flight from here to Nashville, which means we'll have a layover in Chicago and another in St. Louis. Obviously, George can't wait around in airports. We'll have to spend two nights in hotels. It will take us three days to get to Nashville.”

Judith was speechless. The Durnings, meanwhile, were plundering the appetizers while the sorority sisters guzzled wine in the dining room. Before Judith could think of something to say, the doorbell rang.

Mike and the boys stood on the front porch. All three of them were carrying bags and boxes from KFC. “Hi, Mom,” Mike said with a big grin. “I hope you haven't started dinner. We brought it with us. Is Dad home yet?”

“Uh…no,” Judith responded. “He's stuck in Omaha for a couple more days. I forgot to tell you.”

Mac and Joe-Joe made a beeline for the kitchen, scat
tering the sorority sisters, who proclaimed the little boys' adorability in high-pitched admiration.

“Chicken! Let's eat now!” Mac cried. “I'm hungry!”

“Cluck-cluck!” Joe-Joe exclaimed. “Cock-a-doodledoo!”

“Go ahead,” Judith said to Mike. “But get Granny out of the toolshed. She loves fried chicken. And she'll love seeing all of you.”

“That's what I figured,” Mike replied, heading for the kitchen. “Since the boys and I are going back to the ranger station tomorrow, I'm not sure when we'll—”

Mrs. Greenwalt had come into the entry hall. “You keep your mother in a
toolshed
? What kind of a place
is
this?”

“The toolshed's been converted—” Judith was interrupted again by the doorbell. “Excuse me.” She turned away from Mrs. Greenwalt.

“Police,” Glenn Morris announced, flashing his badge just in case Judith might have forgotten.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Greenwalt, who had traipsed after Judith. “It's about time! I hope you're going to arrest her.”

“Who's this broad?” Jonathan Trashman asked, pointing to Mrs. Greenwalt as he lumbered into the entry hall.

“I beg your pardon!”
Lucy Greenwalt huffed. “
You
look like last week's laundry!”

Judith stepped between the pair. “Mrs. Greenwalt is one of my guests,” she said through gritted teeth. “Shouldn't we adjourn to the front parlor?”

“No need,” Glenn said airily. “We wanted to tell you in person that you're no longer a homicide suspect.”

“Not as far as I'm concerned,” Lucy Greenwalt put in, moving her plump figure in front of Glenn and Trash. “I knew I should have called the authorities myself, but it seems some other concerned soul did it for me. Mrs. Flynn's culpable of attempted murder at least!”

Glenn eyed Mrs. Greenwalt with interest. “Really? Who is the victim?”

“My poor husband,” Mrs. Greenwalt snapped. “As if you didn't know!”

Glenn's gaze turned to Judith. “Is there something you haven't told us?”

“Plenty,” Judith retorted. “But it has nothing to do with Frank Purvis. Believe me, this is all a silly—”

“Old fart coming through!” shouted Gertrude, wheeling herself into the entry hall. “What's all this commotion? I want to have my supper in peace!” On the run, Mac and Joe-Joe led the way, crashing into Glenn and Mrs. Greenwalt.

“Cluck-cluck!” Joe-Joe shouted, tugging at Mrs. Greenwalt's too-tight green slacks. “Big fat chicken!”

Lucy Greenwalt yanked Joe-Joe's small hands from her slacks. “Mind your manners, little boy! They should keep
you
in the doghouse!”

“Woof, woof,” Joe-Joe barked, scampering away.

The sorority sisters stared and the Durnings gaped. Mike started toward his mother, but she waved him off.

“Later,” Judith mouthed.

“What's with these two bozos?” Gertrude asked, gesturing at the detectives.

Judith grasped the handles on Gertrude's wheelchair
and started to turn the old lady around. “Never mind, Mother. You'd better eat your supper while it's hot.”

Gertrude, however, set the wheelchair's brake. “I don't like the looks of 'em. Don't let those two get near Grandma Grover's breakfront. They might steal her Royal Doulton gravy boat.”

Glenn, whose composure had previously seemed unflappable, began to look slightly dazed. “Yes,” he informed Judith, “the parlor. Now.”

“Pat 'em down before they go!” Gertrude shouted as Judith moved quickly through the parlor door with Glenn and Trash on her heels. Mrs. Greenwalt attempted to follow, but Trash slammed the hall door in her face while Glenn secured the door to the living room.

“We won't keep you from your…whatever they are,” Glenn said, assuming his accustomed stance in front of the fireplace. “We merely wanted to advise you that you're no longer a suspect. In fact, you're no longer a person of interest.”

“As in”—Trash chuckled—“you're really boring! Ha-ha!”

Judith felt like rolling her eyes, but she already had a throbbing headache. “Does that mean you have an actual suspect?”

Glenn gave Judith a thin smile. “We can't reveal that information. But you may claim your car from the impound lot Monday morning. We're finished with it.”

“Good,” Judith said. At least she'd have the Subaru back before Joe came home. “Did you find anything helpful?”

Glenn shook his head. “I can't say.”

“How was he killed?” Judith persisted.

“The classic blunt instrument to the skull. A garden tool, in this case.” Glenn made a dismissive gesture. “I can't go into details.”

“Did Frank Purvis leave any survivors?” Judith asked.

“Not that we could find,” Glenn replied. “No one has stepped forward to claim the victim.”

“What happens to the body?” Judith inquired, vaguely recalling that Joe had once mentioned that the county or the city was responsible for disposing of the remains in such cases.

“We take care of that,” Glenn answered with an appropriately grim expression.

Judith wasn't satisfied with the response. “I realize that, but how?”

“We roast 'em and toast 'em,” Trash said. “The ashes go in a metal box and get sent to a crypt someplace. Purvis is a done deal. Well-done, I might add. Ha-ha.”

“What information goes on the metal box?” Judith asked.

Trash shrugged. “Name, date of death, and, if we know it, date of birth. That's it.”

“Does that happen often?”

Glenn gave Judith an impatient look. “Too often these days, with all the homeless.”

Judith cringed. “That sounds so…awful.”

“It's reality,” Glenn stated flatly.

“I suppose it is,” Judith murmured. Then, in a stronger voice, she posed another question: “Why are you working on a Saturday?”

“We're shorthanded,” Glenn replied. “We'll leave
you now. Thanks for your cooperation.” The detectives went out of the parlor the way they'd come in.

Judith remained in the room, staring at the fireplace's empty grate. The explanation jibed with what Joe had told her. Except for the part about Purvis having already been cremated. If she remembered correctly, homicide victims were kept in the city morgue for some time if the body had not yet been claimed.

But maybe it had. Maybe somebody out there wanted Frank Purvis's earthly remains destroyed.

Judith wondered who—and why.

J
UDITH HAD TO
choke back tears when Mike and the grandchildren left around seven-thirty Saturday evening for the ranger station. They weren't going more than fifty miles from Hillside Manor, and they were only a phone call away, but she felt as if a new distance had grown between her and Mike. It was an emotional gap, a generational chasm, a disparity in values.

At least Mike had managed to find a sitter for the boys. But Kristin was headed for her family's wheat ranch across the state, presumably to mull over her options. Judith wanted to shake her Valkyrie-like daughter-in-law. But that would be like a willow trying to move an oak. Nor would it be wise to interfere or offer advice to Kristin. Maybe her parents would be able to make her see reason. Unfortunately, Judith wasn't optimistic.

“They're gone,” Judith said to Renie over the phone. “And Joe's not here to help me cope with my emotions. I feel miserable.”

“How do you think I feel with all three of our
kids in far-flung places?” Renie shot back. “Bill and I waited forever for them to get married and leave home. Then, when they all did it at the same time, I was bereft. I still am.”

“But none of them are breaking up,” Judith pointed out, sounding bitter.

“Not so far,” Renie replied. “Heck, they've only been married for a little over a year. Cheer up. Get your mind back on murder.”

“That's hard to do,” Judith declared, but promptly regaled her cousin with the latest homicide-related news.

“What are you saying?” Renie asked after Judith had finished. “That someone did in fact claim Frank Purvis's body, but it's a big secret? Isn't there a record of who the body was released to?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“In other words, money passed hands,” Renie speculated.

“It's not impossible,” Judith said, “though bribes were almost nonexistent in the homicide squad when Joe was there. Or so he insisted.”

“No city is immune to police corruption,” Renie remarked. “I wouldn't trust Glenn and Trash an inch.”

“Neither would my mother,” Judith said, “but she doesn't trust most people. As she puts it, if you can't trust the weather around here, who can you trust?”

“Maybe that's why so many of us natives are skeptics.”

“Maybe,” Judith conceded. “But it wouldn't have to be Glenn or Trash who were coerced into releasing the body. It could have been a higher-up or maybe even
somebody in the morgue. The question is, who would want to dispose of Purvis's corpse and why? And who
was
Frank Purvis in the first place?”

“What about checking with the people at Dairyland?”

“The police must have done that already,” Judith said. “Dairyland keeps its trucks in a lot a couple of blocks from Emerald Lake. That neighborhood adjoins the Langford district. How hard would it be to steal a truck and a uniform? It'd take some daring, unless Purvis arrived earlier than the other drivers and employees.”

“Who's awake at four in the morning?” Renie remarked. “I'd be a zombie. I wouldn't notice a woolly mammoth in the bathtub.”

“People who work those shifts are used to getting up early. On the other hand, they probably do things by routine, each employee in his or her own little world.”

“Purvis had to know Vern Benson's route,” Renie noted. “Maybe the drivers keep their route and schedule in their trucks. All Purvis would have to do is scout the Moonfleet area and take down the truck number when Vern made his deliveries.”

Judith sighed. “The one thing we know is that Frank definitely stole Vern's truck and jacket. I saw him with my own eyes, both alive and dead.”

“I suppose we can dismiss any complicity on the part of the real Vern Benson,” Renie said.

“I think so,” Judith replied. “He seemed like a nice, hardworking young man. Still…”

“Still what?”

“You never know—as we've discovered before,” Judith asserted. “The real question is how and why did Frank Purvis show up on the day of the UPS delivery? Where does he fit into the picture with regard to the Blands? Was he really going to steal the package on the porch?”

“Teamsters?” Renie suggested.

“Huh?”

“I was thinking—I assume UPS and the Dairyland drivers belong to the Teamsters,” Renie explained. “If Frank Purvis was an actual truck driver, maybe he heard about the peculiar annual delivery to the spooky house. It's the kind of oddity that people would talk about.”

“That's true,” Judith responded slowly. “If not at union meetings, then with other UPS drivers.” She paused, testing her memory. “Kevin, that was the driver's name.” She paused again. “Drat—the office wouldn't be open on a Saturday night except to take pickup orders or trace deliveries. I'll have to wait until Monday to find out Kevin's last name. Why didn't I think of this before?”

“You've been kind of busy,” Renie said dryly. “As for me, I'm out of work at the moment now that SuperGerm's been delivered and I finished the Bucky Beaver art for Mom. All I did today was work in the yard, chase squirrels, and run some errands. Which reminds me, I should put the sympathy card I bought for Alyssa Barnes in the mail tomorrow on the way to Mass.”

“Who's Alyssa Barnes?” Judith inquired.

“She works for the gas company in marketing. I've
done some projects for her and we have lunch together a couple of times a year. Her brother, Fred, died this week. I'm not going to the funeral Monday, so I figured the least I could do is send her a card. Good PR on my part.”

“You might have mentioned kindness,” Judith said as something clicked in her brain. “Is Barnes her maiden name?”

“No, it was Pettibone. In fact,” Renie went on, “Lyssa's—that's what she goes by—other brother is the vet at the Cat Clinique where you collected Sweetums. When are you bringing him home from Uncle Al's?”

“Tomorrow,” Judith said tersely, her mind veering in a different direction. “This Pettibone thing is curious, but I'm not sure why. I saw Fred's obituary in the paper. In fact, I sent my condolences to Bert through his receptionist or whatever she is at the clinic. I went to school with Bert. I also remember an Alexis Pettibone.”

“They're an old Langford family,” Renie noted. “Lexis teaches nursing at the University. I don't recall her married name. Why are you so intrigued?”

“I'm not sure,” Judith said. “Maybe I'm just obsessed with Langford these days. Or maybe I'm losing my mind.”

“We've got roots in Langford,” Renie pointed out. “Uncle Al still lives there. Heck, Morty the Mailman's still on a Langford route. You've said it yourself, this city may be big in some ways, but for those of us who go back a few generations, it's still a small town. You ought to know—how many times have you met somebody, gotten them to open up a little, and discovered
that their first cousin is somehow related to you on your mother's side of the family?”

“Twice, actually,” Judith admitted.

“And what about our Anne? We go back to visit Bill's relatives in Wisconsin, she takes one look at a graduation photo on his sister's endtable, screams, and runs out of the house because she'd made out with the guy at a high-school party. By coincidence—or what you will—he's our brother-in-law's nephew whose family moved here years ago.”

“I remember that,” Judith said. “Yes, it's true. If we've lived here for any length of time, we all seem to be interconnected.”

“Ask my mother,” Renie responded. “She's like you, she knows everybody.”

“Maybe I should ask her,” Judith said in a musing tone. “She probably remembers the Pettibones. Uncle Al might, for that matter.”

“Sorry, coz,” Renie said with a sigh, “I'm not following your train of thought. I mean, why do you care about the Pettibones?”

“Because,” Judith replied, “we've got a body that's disappeared. Or has it? Would you care to change your mind and attend Fred Pettibone's funeral with me Monday?”

 

Renie had hemmed and hawed, but finally said she'd go, even if she thought Judith was crazy. “Bert Pettibone may not remember me,” Judith had argued. “At least you've been in recent contact with the deceased's sister. You have a reason to be there. I don't.”

Judith attended eight o'clock Mass Sunday morn
ing, after setting up brunch for her guests. Mrs. Greenwalt hadn't appeared when Judith returned a few minutes after nine. She still hadn't shown up by a quarter to eleven. The other guests had finished and were in the process of checking out. While eleven was the deadline for departure six days a week, Judith allowed an extra hour on Sundays.

Waving off the sorority sisters at eleven-fifteen, Judith decided to go upstairs and see if Mrs. Greenwalt was all right. A single knock on the door evoked a sharp response.

“What is it?”

“I was making sure you're awake,” Judith said through the door. “Did you want to eat before you check out at noon?”

Yanking open the door, Lucy Greenwalt stood before Judith in a zebra-striped bathrobe and matching zebra slippers. “I'll leave when I leave,” she declared. “George can't be released from the hospital until one. We'll go straight from there to the airport. Our flight's at three-fifteen. Our
first
flight, that is. I'd like a tray in my room. Three scrambled eggs, ham, hot biscuits with gravy, fried cornmeal mush, grits, and strong, hot coffee with sugar and cream. Frankly, I've been very disappointed with your breakfasts. Omelettes with fish? Crab on a muffin? And those bagels with very thin sliced…what is it, salmon? What kind of breakfast food is that?”

“Salmon omelettes and Dungeness crab and Nova Scotia lox are considered delicacies around here,” Judith retorted. “I can do the scrambled eggs and ham, maybe even whip up some biscuits, but the grits and
gravy are out. Sorry.” She stalked off down the hall to the back stairs.

She reached the kitchen just as the phone rang. It was Uncle Al. “Your gang left here around ten,” he said. “We went out to breakfast first. Tess came along, too. We had a swell time.”

“Good,” Judith said. “Thanks so much for letting them stay with you. I really appreciate it. I'll be over to get Sweetums in an hour or so. Is that okay?”

“It would be,” Al said, his voice no longer so chipper. “The only problem is, Sweetums isn't here.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took off right after Mike and the boys left,” Al explained. “You'd better wait until he shows up again.”

“But he might not,” Judith said, sounding agitated. “He doesn't know the neighborhood.”

“Hey, kiddo, he'll be fine,” Uncle Al soothed. “He's probably exploring the alley out back. I'll give you tento-one odds that when he gets hungry he'll wander up to the door. I'll call you when he gets here. How's that?”

“That” had to be sufficient. But Judith was unsettled. Sweetums had never been let loose anywhere except in his familiar Hillside Manor surroundings. It was four miles from the B & B to Uncle Al's house. No matter how Sweetums might try to head home, he'd have to cross a bridge. To Judith's knowledge, the cat had never been on a bridge. Indeed, he'd never strayed far enough to confront a stream of traffic.

She wouldn't tell Gertrude about Sweetums's defection. There was no point in upsetting the old girl. Not
yet, anyway. For the next twenty minutes she busied herself with baking biscuits, making more scrambled eggs, and reheating the ham that was left on the sideboard.

Lucy Greenwalt accepted the food with ill grace. “It took you long enough,” she declared. “Will you please order a taxi for twelve-thirty?”

“There's a phone for guests by the wicker sofa in the hall,” Judith retorted.

Mrs. Greenwalt glared at her hostess. “Will you please order a taxi for twelve-thirty?” she repeated. “I don't know the cab company's number. You do.”

Rather than exacerbate the situation, Judith ordered the taxi from the downstairs phone. She felt like telling the dispatcher to send the company's most reckless driver, especially one who didn't speak English.

The last straw came when Mrs. Greenwalt asked Judith to carry her luggage downstairs. Lucy and George had two large suitcases, two carry-on bags, and a garment bag. There were also two shopping bags from local stores where the Greenwalts had made purchases.

“I simply can't pick up anything that weighs over ten pounds,” Judith stated. “I have an artificial hip.”

“As in ‘phony'?” Mrs. Greenwalt snapped. “This whole place is phony, if you ask me. Well? If you can't, who will?”

“Ask the taxi driver,” Judith shot back. “I'll take those shopping bags and I'm sure you can manage the carry-ons. The driver can get the suitcases and the garment bag.”

“What about my purse?” Mrs. Greenwalt de
manded, wielding a huge handbag decorated with sequined roses.

“Isn't that a shoulder bag?” Judith asked wearily.

“I don't like to carry it over my shoulder. That makes it too easy for purse snatchers.”

“Inside the house?”

“You never know,” Mrs. Greenwalt snapped. “Especially
this
house.”

The doorbell rang. Judith hurried out of the guest room and down the hall to the stairs, taking the shopping bags with her. Opening the door, she faced the taxi driver, a huskily built platinum blonde with long dangling earrings.

“Hiya, hon,” the woman said, chewing gum. “Are you Greenwalt?”

“No,” Judith replied. “She'll be right down. Would you mind helping with her luggage?”

“Is this an airport run?” the driver inquired with an eager expression.

“I don't think so,” Judith replied as Lucy Greenwalt came huffing down the stairs with the two smaller bags and her big purse.