Vi Agra Falls (12 page)

“You can leave immediately,” Judith retorted. “I refuse to listen to you jabber about a stuffed animal.”

“That's it!” Renie cried. “Oscar Ocher!”

Judith glared at Renie as her cousin strolled nonchalantly out the back door. Less than a minute later the phone rang. To her astonishment, it was Renie.

“I just saw Herself returning to her cozy, yet deadly, bungalow,” Renie said. “Luckily, she didn't see me in the driveway. The coast is clear for me to pay a quick call on Aunt Gert before I rent a chain saw to cut my mother's toenails. G'bye.”

Ten minutes later, Joe returned from outside. Judith regarded him with reproachful eyes. “So,” she said, “you caved in to the media.”

“Caved in?” Joe looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“We don't need that kind of publicity for the B&B. You better not have mentioned Hillside Manor, and I sure hope you didn't stand in front of the B&B sign on the lawn.”

“Oh, for—” Joe noticed that Judith was putting an empty plate into the dishwasher. “Did you already eat?”

“Yes. Your sandwich is in the fridge.” Her stern gaze didn't waver. “Well?”

Plate in hand, Joe sat down at the table. “There was no mention of the B&B, and sure as hell no reference to you. The only reason I talked to the media was because they'd spotted me with the homicide detectives, and thought maybe I had some knowledge that the tecs were interested in. I explained that I was retired from the force and just being friendly, checking up on some of the other old-timers.”

“Oh.” Judith was somewhat placated. “Sorry.” She finally lowered her eyes. “It's just that…you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe retorted. “I don't need reminding. Your track record speaks for itself.”

Judith ignored the comment. “Tell me about the detectives.”

“Newcomers, young, white male and black female, Almquist and Griffin. They seem sharp, if inexperienced.”

Before Judith could probe further, the phone rang. Once again it was Renie, calling from her cell. “I'm at Mother's,” she said. “I wanted to let you know that I didn't visit Aunt Gert because…” Renie's voice faded slightly. “Yes, I'm sure she isn't dead.”

Judith heard Aunt Deb's faint voice in the background but couldn't make out the words. “No, Mother, if she has germs, I never got close enough to catch them.” Another pause. “But it's eighty-two degrees and I don't need a damned coat! And never mind the sandals, I will
not
wear socks with them!”

“Coz,” Judith said, putting aside her earlier annoyance with Renie, “you'd better tend to your mom. But why wouldn't my mother let you in?”

“I don't know,” Renie said crossly. “She told me to beat it, that's all. Yes, Mom, I'll help you with your shoes. What? So how can I cut your toenails if you're too chilly to take off—” Renie hung up.

Judith set the phone down on the counter. “I'm going to collect Mother's lunch things,” she said. “Do you have any other plans except hobnobbing with the media?”

Joe shot her a vexed look. “They're leaving. Forget it. You're being a pain. I'll be on the computer upstairs this afternoon, working on those corporate background checks.”

Judith started for the back door, but stopped. “Uh…” She realized it was time for a bite of humble pie. “Really, I am sorry,” she said, turning back. “Too much confusion, not enough sleep, weather still hot, and another murder. I'm frazzled.” She
stopped just short of the kitchen table. “If you get a chance,” she said, “that is, when you have a spare moment, could you…ah…ask the police if they found any roses in all the stuff they went through before it was chucked in the Dumpster?”

Joe wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and gazed at Judith with an ironic expression. “Did you lose some roses?”

“No. It's just that…” She involuntarily put a hand on the pocket where the petals were stashed. “Never mind. It's not important.” She started again for the back door. Joe didn't comment on his wife's request. That, Judith thought, was just as well. Her idea was probably an exercise in futility.

To her surprise, the toolshed door was locked. “Mother?” Judith called, and knocked again. “Mother?”

“Go away!” Gertrude's voice was more raspy than usual.

“What's wrong?” Judith shouted.

“Nothing! Take a hike!”

Baffled, Judith stared at the locked door. The toolshed's small windows were not only closed, but the linen curtains were drawn. Like Aunt Deb, Gertrude's circulation was poor. Summer's heat didn't bother either of the cousins' mothers.

“Why,” Judith shouted, “won't you open the door?”

“I can't hear you!” Gertrude yelled back. “I'm deaf, you know!”

Judith surrendered. As long as the old lady's lungs sounded strong, she obviously wasn't in any danger or pain. By the time Judith got back inside the house, Joe had gone upstairs to work on his research assignment. Phyliss was vacuuming the living room. The honeymoon couple had just returned from the public market downtown, where they'd apparently made several purchases, judging from the bags and boxes they carried up to their room.

As Phyliss shut off the vacuum, Judith asked if she knew if any of the other guests were in their quarters.

“Nobody home up there the last time I looked,” Phyliss replied, caressing the handle of the vacuum, which she'd dubbed Moses. “I think someday the two of us are going all the way up to Mount Sinai. Hallelujah!”

“Good for you,” Judith murmured. “When did the Busses leave?”

Phyliss made a face. “The ones with the fancy duds?”

“No. The designer clothes belong to the people from Iowa,” Judith clarified. “Mr. and Mrs. Buss are the couple visiting the other Busses in the cul-de-sac.”

The cleaning woman nodded. “You can put all of 'em in a sack, shake 'em out, and I wouldn't know the difference. Too many Busses, if you ask me. Anyways, the Buss people left, came back, and left again.” She shrugged. “Could be anywhere. Try Hades.”

Judith went into the front parlor, where she looked out the window into the cul-de-sac. Sure enough, the media vans were leaving. Wistfully, she gazed at the former home of Mrs. Swanson.
If only,
she thought,
Herself's grandiose plans to build a condo would come to naught
. Surely the city wouldn't allow a multifamily dwelling in such a quiet area. “Wishful thinking,” she said aloud and went into the entry hall.

A voice called to her from the kitchen. Judith hurried through the dining room to find Arlene wearing an expression of triumph and waving a sheet of paper.

“Look what I found in the hedge!”

“Elvis?” Judith answered, only half facetiously. It wouldn't have been the first time that a person had managed to get lost among the laurel leaves.

“No, no,” Arlene said, handing the paper over to Judith. “I think it's Vivian's guest list. Do you know any of these people?”

“I hope not,” Judith replied, studying the handwritten
names. “This looks like Vivian's horrible penmanship,” she said, recalling the erratic and overblown style from the infrequent postcards Herself had sent from the Florida gulf. “There must be thirty names here.”

“No addresses or phone numbers, though,” Arlene pointed out.

“The only names I recognize are Frankie and Marva Lou Buss,” Judith said. “Was there another page?”

“This is all I found when I was looking for Tulip's favorite ball,” Arlene replied. “Why? Do you think there were more guests at the party?”

“I never counted them,” Judith said. “But look at this double space toward the bottom of the page. At the top Vivian's written ‘VIPs,' so I'm assuming that's her pretentious way of identifying her friends and relations. Then, after skipping a couple of lines, she's put in ‘HH' but there are only three names. What do you think that stands for? And since the neighbors were invited, where are we listed as guests?”

“You're right,” Arlene agreed. “This must be only the first page. I'll go back into the hedge and see if I can find more.”

For Judith, the task of crawling around in the hedge was just short of attacking an Afghani terrorist camp. Arlene, however, was unperturbed.

“How did this get into the hedge in the first place?” Judith asked her neighbor.

Arlene's face puckered as she considered the question. “I assumed it was with everything else that ended up in the cul-de-sac. Maybe Vivian or Billy had the list to keep track of who came and who didn't.”

“Maybe,” Judith said. “I wonder if…oh, never mind.” She smiled at Arlene. “Good luck in the hedge. Do you want me to help?”

Arlene was aghast. “With your artificial hip? Goodness, we don't want more ambulances and medics around here, do we?”

Judith sobered quickly. “No. We do not.”

 

A
n hour later, Arlene returned. Judith marveled at her tidy appearance. “How do you manage not to get leaves and twigs and all that other stuff on you?”

Arlene shrugged. “I bonded with the hedge years ago. It's like part of the family.” She sighed. “But I didn't find the rest of the list, only Carl's bedroom slippers and one of our kids' pacifiers.”

“You mean your grandkids?”

“No. That pacifier's been there for going on forty years,” Arlene said. “Carl's slippers have only been missing since 1994.”

Judith pointed to the original guest list that Arlene had left on the counter by the computer. “Do you want this back?”

“I've no use for it. Maybe you can figure something out. You are,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes, “the sleuth, after all.”

“Not this time,” Judith asserted. “I'm staying out of it.”

“Of course you aren't,” Arlene said indulgently. “See you later.” She left via the back door.

Judith stared at the wrinkled and slightly soiled piece of paper for almost a full minute.
Useless,
she thought. The only names she knew belonged to two of her B&B guests. A couple of others seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps people Joe had mentioned either from the police department or the cop bars. Maybe he'd recognize some of the invitees if they'd crawled out of whatever place they'd occupied in Vivian's past. But asking him would only reinforce her husband's conviction that she wanted to get involved. Judith picked up the sheet of paper, walked over to the stainless steel trash can by the hallway door, stepped on the pedal to open the lid—and paused.

“You in some kind of trance?” Phyliss asked as she came into
the hall from the basement. “Pastor Goodheal stands like that when he's about to lay hands on our sick brethren.”

“He does?” Judith said vaguely. “I mean…” She went to the counter and slipped the alleged guest list in a drawer. “Does he cure anyone?”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘cure,'” Phyliss replied. “Two weeks ago Wilma Wallup came to Pastor Goodheal with a terrible rash. He told her—and rightly so—that she couldn't expect an instant miracle. Her faith was too weak for that. But he sold her some of his Saintly Salve, and last Sunday she showed up looking much better and hardly itching and scratching and wiggling around like she usually does during the sermons.”

Judith tried to keep her expression blank. “He sells medicine?”

“Oh, yes, and it works wonders! I use his Heavenly Heat Liniment for my bursitis all the time.”

“That's…good,” Judith says. “I assume he doesn't charge much for his remedies.”

“Cheap enough,” Phyliss replied, taking off her apron. “He's a real fine Christian businessman. Incorporated, too. His company is called Prophet and Loss.”

“Nice,” Judith murmured. “I take it you're done for the day?”

“Everything's slick as a whistle,” Phyliss assured her employer. “I can just make the two-twenty-two bus over on the avenue. That'll get me to my chiropractor in time.” She put a bony hand to her gaunt cheek. “About this jaundice—what do you think?”

“Ask Pastor Goodheal,” Judith said. “Frankly, you look fine to me.”

“You never know,” Phyliss said darkly. “Your cousin didn't think so. Of course, she
is
evil.”

On that note, the cleaning woman departed. Judith decided
to try to get Gertrude to open the toolshed door. Respecting her mother's privacy—and ornery whims—could only go so far. The afternoon was growing warmer. Poor circulation or not, the old lady could still succumb to heat prostration in her closed-up, airless quarters. If she had to, Judith would use her own key to get in.

To her surprise—and relief—the toolshed door was ajar. “Mother?” Judith said, going inside.

“What?” Gertrude's tone was sharp, though she didn't look up from the jumble puzzle she was doing.

Judith sat down on the arm of the small divan. “How come you wouldn't let me in earlier?”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“None of your beeswax,” Gertrude shot back. “Is c-l-e-v-e a word?”

“I don't think so,” Judith replied. “Is there an ‘r' at the end of it?”

The old lady finally looked at her daughter. “If there was, I'd circle it, squirrel-bait. You're not as
clever
as you think you are.”

“Probably not,” Judith allowed. “That being so, can you explain why you wouldn't let me—or Renie—come inside this afternoon?”

“Renie came when Vi was here,” Judith's mother said. “How many people can I entertain at once in this packing crate of an apartment?”

“I meant later,” Judith clarified. “Renie came back, remember?”

“Maybe.” Gertrude seemed absorbed in her puzzle.

“Then I knocked on your door to see if you were okay.”