Bantam of the Opera (25 page)

Judith acknowledged the bald truth of Renie's observation. “Well,
I'm
thrilled,” she said, turning to Skjoval Tolvang. “If you're done by the weekend, we can start moving the furniture in Monday.”

“You vant me to help Sunday night?” asked Tolvang, making another stab at starting his pipe.

“Oh—my husband can do it when…” Judith paused and swallowed. “…When he gets back from his trip.” She still hadn't come to grips with confronting Joe. “But it might be a good idea if you give me the bill before he gets home.” Judith gave Tolvang a sickly smile.

“Okay, vill do,” the carpenter agreed. “I stick to my price. Except for them pesky bedpost beetles.”

Judith gaped at Tolvang. “Bedpost beetles? What on earth are they?”

Tolvang had finally got his pipe to draw. In the dusk, a haze of gray smoke encircled his white head. “Like termites, only vorse. They vere chewing avay at vat vas left of your foundation.”

“Oh.” Judith had a vision of their relatives marching across the lawn to make a meal of Hillside Manor. She could see the entire house crumbling around her ears. “Okay, that's extra, right?”

“Only two hundred bucks. And then the viring. It vas all shot.”

“The wiring? How much?”

Tolvang shrugged. “It's not done yet, but I'm figuring maybe another five hundred. Not bad, all things considered. Like the plumbing.”

Judith was beginning to feel numb. “That was included,” she said a bit testily.

“Ya, sure, youbetcha. But ve veren't figuring on the roots.” He pointed not to Judith's fruit trees, but to the weeping willow in the Dooleys' back yard. “Those veeping villows, they are the nuts. The roots go all over the place. I had to dig and dig. Four places, then I finally got a free spot to run the pipe to the sewer line.” He shook his head at the memory of his perseverance. “Four hundred.”

Judith's shoulders slumped. As near as she could calculate in her head, the bill was going to come to another twelve hundred dollars above the carpenter's original estimate. That was beyond the grand she had put out for the appliances and other appointments. And wasn't even counting what she would have to add—again—to her insurance. Gertrude was turning out to be a luxury that Judith wasn't sure she could afford.

“Uh…” Judith shifted awkwardly, glancing at Renie, as if in appeal. “Mr. Tolvang, would you mind terribly if I waited a couple of weeks to pay the extra thousand or
so? It may be out of pocket because of this murder situation.”

Murder and millwork, poverty and plumbing—they were all the same to Skjoval Tolvang. He shrugged again. “Vy not? I trust you. You know vere to find me; I know vere to find you.” He pulled on his pipe and dug around in his overalls. “Reminds me, here's some change I found vile I vas digging. Maybe it'll help you out, py golly.”

With a feeble smile, Judith accepted the handful of coins and put them in the pocket of her slacks. It was mainly pennies, a dime or two, and one quarter. No doubt Dooley and his friends had dropped the money on one of their forays over the picket fence. It seemed to Judith that these days, kids didn't bother to retrieve small change. Even Mike wouldn't bother picking money off his bedroom floor unless it was paper. Sometimes Judith despaired of the younger generation's attitude toward their finances. But right now she was despairing over her own.

“Maybe you can write all this off, when income tax time rolls around,” Renie said when they were back in the kitchen, starting dinner.

“Oh, Lord, everything's such a mess!” Judith exclaimed, wielding a frying pan for the oysters. “I'm in debt up to my ears, Joe doesn't know Mother is moving back,
Mother
doesn't even know it, and I may or may not have guests staying through the week! I could lose almost two grand on this Pacetti deal if they pull out tomorrow. I've already lost money on Mario and Tippy.”

“Yeah, dying is sure a hell of an excuse to get out of paying your bill,” Renie remarked dryly. “I thought you wanted this bunch to hit the road.”

“I do,” Judith answered doggedly. “If I knew they were going for sure, I could hustle up some fill-in business. Maybe. But it's all up in the air. Just like this damned murder investigation. Wouldn't you know Woody's wife would have that kid early and screw up his schedule? Drat! Everything's a wreck, especially me!”

“Stop beating yourself up,” urged Renie, who was slic
ing potatoes to make homemade french fries. “When we were talking to Woody this afternoon, I got the impression you had an inkling whodunit.” She gazed at Judith, who was dipping raw oysters into milk, egg, and bread crumbs. “Do you?”

“No,” Judith answered promptly, “but I have this ridiculous feeling that I
should
know. Then I think that if all these people go away, maybe nobody will ever know. And so what? Whether the killer is caught or not, I'm going to end up on a street corner with a tin cup selling pencils out of a shoe box. Oh!”

“Oh what?” inquired Renie. She started dumping pieces of potato into a small deep-fat fryer.

Judith's black eyes were wide as she stood in front of the refrigerator with a cucumber in one hand and a beef-steak tomato in the other. “Shoe box. Boot box.
Dan
. I put him in the basement when Tolvang began the remodeling. When are we going to take him to the cabin and…uh…lay him to rest?”

Renie was unperturbed. “Next weekend? The weather will hold. We shouldn't get frost until November.”

“Next weekend it will
be
November,” Judith reminded her cousin. “It could snow up on the river by then. Heck, it's over sixty miles away.”

“It won't snow,” Renie replied, draining the french fries. “Here, ready for your vat o' fat?”

Judith allowed that she was, at least as ready as she was for anything about now. The cousins sat down to eat, discussing not the murder, but the family cabin, where Dan McMonigle had, in one of his maudlin moods, asked to have his ashes spread. Although the family vacation home was ideally set on a riverbank with Mt. Woodchuck towering over the surrounding forest, the present generation had not made much use of it. Joe Flynn wasn't a nature lover; Bill Jones wasn't keen on outdoor plumbing; the rest of the cousins had other interests. Judith often wondered if it wouldn't be smart to sell the property.

“You'd never get everybody to agree on that,” said
Renie. “And even if they did, then there'd be a hell of a row over who got how much. Leave it be. As you already pointed out, you've got plenty of other problems just now.”

Renie was right. After she went home around ten, Judith trudged up to the family quarters. Her guests still had not returned from Maestro Dunkowitz's dinner party. Just as she was getting undressed shortly before eleven, Judith heard them come in. Maybe, she thought with mixed emotions, for the last time. Perhaps by tomorrow night, the Pacetti party would be gone from Hillside Manor.

Judith tossed her sweater on the back of a chair, but draped her slacks over a hanger. Something fell out of her pocket. Puzzled, she bent down to see what it was. The change that Skjoval Tolvang had found in the garden lay on the braided rug. Judith scooped up the coins and laid them on the dressing table. One of them caught her eye. A closer look revealed it was not a Lincoln penny as she had thought, but a foreign piece. She picked it up again, wishing she had her new glasses. But by holding it under the lamp on the dressing table, she saw the word “
Groschen
.” All the pennies were foreign, Judith realized, and the quarter was actually a clip of some kind, perhaps a family crest. Judith closed her hand over the little item and leaned against the dressing table. Fragments of knowledge danced in her brain.
When
had she heard
this? Where
had she seen
that? Who
had said
what? Before
or
after
…?

With a sigh of frustration, she paced the bedroom. On the dressing table, she noticed that her yellow rose had bit the dust. Had she forgotten to put fresh water in the little bud vase? But of course it had been almost a week since she'd picked it. It was due to die. Unlike other flowers, roses never seemed to last too long inside the house.

Judith stopped pacing and stared at the drooping petals. Some of them had fallen onto the dresser scarf. She stared; she blinked; she took a deep, ragged breath.

Moving quickly, Judith went over to the small bookcase
that stood in the corner. She took down her much-used copy of Webster's
Biographical Dictionary
and flipped to the headings under
F
. As a librarian, she had been asked many, many questions over the years. Students, especially, had required her knowledge and requested her help. Weights and measures, Colonial Africa, Babylonian religion, Paul Revere's ride, Best Supporting Actor for 1956, the final score of the first Super Bowl—there was hardly a subject that Judith had not touched on during her twenty-year career in the public libraries.

Judith squinted at the small print. Unlike siblings, she and Renie weren't competitive. But like their mothers, they, too, could enjoy a good argument. Judith was convinced that Renie was wrong about Schutzendorf's uncle, Emil Fischer. Or that
something
was wrong. Judith was determined to prove her point. Her eye strayed to the listings under Fiske: John, originally Edmund Fisk Green, 1842-1901. American philosopher and historian, b. Hartford Conn…. Fiske, Minnie Maddern, 1865-1932. American actress, b. New Orleans…Fiske, Haley, 1852-1929, President, Metropolitan Life Insurance Co., New York…

Judith curbed her natural curiosity and moved up to Fischer. Sure enough, there were two Emils, one an operatic basso, 1838-1914, and the other, a German chemist who had won the Nobel Prize in 1902. The cousins were both right—Renie had remembered the voice of Wagner; Judith, the savant of science.

In the silence of her room, with the autumn air fresh and crisp outside her dormer window, Judith stared at the silver moon. The wind was picking up again, blowing clouds in from the west. A crow called from the maple tree, then flew off into the night. Leaves fluttered in the brisk breeze, like feathers drifting to earth. Judith bit her lip, leaned against the casement, and closed her eyes tight.

Fiske. Fischer. Fish…Something was fishy, all right. All along, Judith knew the killer had to have a sophisticated knowledge of poisons. And access to them. Judith felt as if she had been blind. Reaching for the phone, she
started to dial Edna Fiske's number, then thought better of it. Judith would bide her time, though it was swiftly running out. It wouldn't be wise to alert Edna too soon.

Or was it foolish to wait?

J
UDITH DIDN'T EXPECT
to reach Woody Price, but she definitely wanted to get hold of Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. They were off duty, Judith was informed, but would be paged.

After putting her clothes back on, she sat on the bed for a few moments, but was too nervous to stay still. Renie might be up—she was a Night Person, after all. She tended to work late, insisting that she got her best creative ideas after dark. Consequently, she often turned the phone off after ten o'clock. It was now almost eleven-thirty. Renie might be in bed; she could be in the bathtub. Judith didn't want to take the chance of making the call. She was, after all, already taking more of a chance than most ordinary mortals would. Her almost certain knowledge of the murderer's identity made her feel like a live target. Except, she tried to console herself, the killer didn't know that she had figured it all out…

Perhaps she'd feel safer downstairs. Eventually, she'd have to let the police officers in. But first, they'd telephone. Dare she risk being overheard on the kitchen phone? Judith decided she did. Being cornered in her
own bedroom didn't appeal to her. The tension in the old house seemed to seep from the very walls.

But the familiar kitchen cheered her somewhat. She could hear the wind in the trees and the Rankers's hedge rustling between the houses. Judith poured a small glass of tomato juice and wished, not for the first time, that she hadn't quit smoking. She was about to change her mind about calling Renie when the phone rang. She snatched it up and answered in an uncharacteristically breathless voice.

“Hello, Mrs. Flynn,” said the sleepy voice of Corazon Perez. “What can I do for you?”

Judith hesitated. Obviously, Perez had been in bed. “Well—I had some information I should relay to you and Ted. I didn't want to disturb Woody after he stayed up last night with Sondra. I'm afraid I woke you up, though.”

“That's okay, it's part of the job.” Perez's tone was philosophical. “Can you give me the data over the phone?”

Again, Judith paused. Overhead, she heard footsteps. Not all of her guests had settled in for the night. “I'd rather do it in person. Is Ted Doyle off duty, too?”

“That's right. In fact, he was coming down with a terrible cold this afternoon.” The policewoman's voice had become more alert. “Look, why don't I get dressed and drive over to your house? It won't take half an hour.”

The footsteps were coming down the back stairs. Judith tried to assume a casual, cheerful air. “That sounds great. It'll be terrific to see you again. 'Bye.”

Winston Plunkett wandered into the kitchen, looking vague. His hostess's presence didn't seem to surprise him, not even at such a late hour.

“I can't sleep,” he announced. “Actually, I'd just drifted off when something woke me. I thought I might get a glass of mineral water.”

“Sure,” said Judith, going to the refrigerator and trying to conceal her nervousness. “Maybe the noise you heard was the wind. Or me, coming back downstairs.”

But Plunkett shook his head. “No, it was much closer. Doors opening and closing. I'm a very light sleeper.”

Judith's hands shook as she opened the bottle of mineral water. She kept her back to Plunkett as she poured the liquid into a glass. “Are you leaving tomorrow for sure?”

“I hope so,” said Plunkett, with more feeling than usual. “I'd like to be done with all of this, once and for all.”

Judith finally turned and handed the glass to Plunkett. “Oh? Have you resigned?”

Plunkett thanked Judith, then sipped slowly. “It's not a question of resigning. I signed a lifetime contract with Mario Pacetti. It expired when he did.” The faintest hint of a smile played around Plunkett's thin mouth.

“Really. What will you do now?” Judith kept her shaking hands behind her back.

Plunkett didn't meet her gaze. “I'm considering a new post.”

“With Justin Kerr?” Judith phrased the question innocently.

Now, Plunkett stared at Judith. “Why—yes. How did you know?” Before she could reply, he actually smiled, giving his normally lackluster features a certain gray wolfish charm.

“It would be an obvious choice, since Justin has just signed a recording contract and appears to be on his way up. He can't let Tippy manage him forever. It must have been tough on her these past few months doing two jobs. And they'll probably want to start a family one of these days.”

Plunkett took a big swallow of mineral water. “My, you seem to know a great deal about this whole situation. How did you get the Kerrs to confide in you? I didn't realize that Tippy and Justin were married until I went to see him at the Hotel Plymouth the other night.”

“Oh,” Judith replied on a forced note of calm, “people tend to talk to me. I guess I invite confidences.”

“Yes,” Plunkett agreed, studying Judith more closely. “You have a very open face. I suppose that's why your
business is so successful. People feel welcome here.” He set the glass down, then reached out to touch Judith's arm. Involuntarily, she winced. “Excuse me,” he apologized, “I wanted to extend my thanks. You've been very gracious, considering you've had to put up with a terrible situation.”

Judith removed her hands from behind her back, but leaned against the sink counter for support. “It's been terrible for everyone,” she said, shaking hands with Plunkett. “Especially Mrs. Pacetti.”

Plunkett sighed, then released Judith's hand. “Yes,” he said in a dolorous voice. “Especially Mrs. Pacetti. But I'm not sorry I won't be working with her anymore. She's extremely spoiled.” Again, he gave Judith that incongruous smile.

Judith girded herself for what was to come. “Tell me, Mr. Plunkett, was it you or Tippy who put the Strophanthin bottle on the prop table after Mr. Pacetti died?”

If there had ever been any color in Winston Plunkett's face, it now drained away. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he mumbled. “What's this Stro…” He made an effort to sound bewildered and look amused.

“Both of you admitted going back to the opera house Saturday night,” Judith said in a calm voice. “I'm just curious about which of you dropped the bottle on the table.”

Winston Plunkett started backpedaling for the stairs. “Really, I'm quite flummoxed. Perhaps you should talk to Tippy. Good night, Mrs. Flynn.”

“Good night,” Judith responded, watching him head for the back stairs in a state of near-panic. “But,” she added under her breath, “
you'll
be the one to talk to Tippy…”

As soon as his frantic tread faded, she went to the back door and stepped out on the porch, taking in deep gulps of fresh air. Quietly closing the door behind her, she made sure that it wasn't locked. Clouds now rolled across the moon; the old orchard trees cast eerie shadows. The wind had grown sharper, colder. A few doors away, a garbage can blew over; nearby, shutters banged; the old house seemed to groan.

From her vantage point on the porch, the toolshed looked all but finished. Skjoval Tolvang would complete the interior work the following day. According to his last report, he needed to install the sink and shower, then put on the finishing touches. Judith walked down the steps to gaze more closely at Tolvang's handiwork. She had to stop calling it
the toolshed
. It was now what? The word “folly” came to mind, and Judith shook her head. This was no time to deal with what she and Skjoval Tolvang had wrought. Corazon Perez would arrive at any moment and Judith would deliver a murderer's destiny into the policewoman's hands. Judith wandered over to the birdbath and watched for headlights in the driveway.

Instead, a car pulled slowly up to the curb in front of the house. A furtive figure hurried down the walk and got in. Judith frowned. Should she let them go? They wouldn't get far, though. She nodded in satisfaction as the gray Ford sedan drove out of the cul-de-sac.

Judith was sure it was Tippy who was driving. She was sure, too, that Tippy had put the half-empty bottle of Strophanthin on the stage table. It had been risky, not because of being seen—the vial was too small to catch anyone's attention—but because by the time Tippy returned from the hospital and got the bottle from Justin, there was always the chance that the police would have finished their search. It had been a clever plan. Unfortunately, it hadn't worked out the way they had hoped.

The back door opened slowly. A figure moved onto the porch, darted a look in the direction of the garage, then marched down the steps. Judith held her breath and didn't dare budge. The other person also appeared to be waiting, large suitcase in hand.
Waiting for what?
thought Judith frantically. A cab? A hired car? Corazon Perez would pull up at any moment; almost thirty minutes had passed since the two women had spoken on the phone. Judith decided to act.

“Hello there,” she called, brazenly stepping out from the
shadow of the old apple tree. “Are you a late-night stroller?”

A hearty chuckle grated on Judith's ear. “No, no, I am merely…
leaving
,” replied Bruno Schutzendorf, his cape caught by the wind. “I catch what you call the red-eye to your East Coast.”

“I see.” Judith took in the flapping cape, the snap-brimmed cap, the walking stick with its handle carved into a boar's head. “I didn't realize you were free to go. That is, Mr. Plunkett indicated you would all hear from the police in the morning.”

Schutzendorf gave a scornful shrug. “
He
has already gone. Why should I not go, too? I await my cab.”

“Oh.” A sudden inspiration struck Judith. “Which company did you call?”

Schutzendorf frowned at Judith. “Which? The Checkered one, who else?”

Judith waved a hand in a disparaging gesture. “Oh, no, Mr. Schutzendorf. Not Checkered Cabs. They can't go to the airport. You see, we have taxi zones in this town. It's been done to eliminate fighting over fares at the terminal,” Judith explained, fibbing only a little. “You have to call a different company. Here, I'll do it for you.” She brushed past Schutzendorf and hurried into the house.

It seemed to take forever for the Checkered Cab dispatcher to answer. When he finally did, Judith canceled Schutzendorf's request. Then she dialed Perez's number to make sure the policewoman was on her way to Hillside Manor. To her dismay, Judith got not Corazon's answering machine, but Perez herself.

“I'm just leaving,” said the policewoman, now fully awake and sounding perky. “I checked in with Ted and he thought I should have him as backup. I'm on my way to collect him, then we'll be right over.”

“Listen, Corazon,” Judith said in desperation, “our suspects are leaving in droves. You folks had better get over here before it's too late. In fact, maybe it already is.”

“Oh.” Perez paused, then spoke rapidly into the re
ceiver. “I'll have a squad car there right away. Unless they're still sorting things out at the Heraldsgate Tavern. They had quite a ruckus up there a few minutes ago. That's why they haven't been cruising around your place in the last hour or so. Hang tight until they get there.”

“Hurry!” urged Judith. But Perez had already hung up.

Starting back outside, Judith wondered if she should rouse Amina Pacetti. But would Amina help or hinder? Judith couldn't take that chance. As casually as possible, she sauntered through the door. Schutzendorf startled her. He was standing on the back porch. His briefcase and luggage rested on the walkway.

“You have sent for the proper cab?” he asked.

Judith could have sworn that there was suspicion in his eyes. “Right. It'll take a few minutes. I had to give directions. Sometimes the cabdrivers get confused. Because of the cul-de-sac, you see. Heraldsgate Hill is a bit of a maze, once you get off the beaten track.” She realized she was speaking much too fast. Her eyes darted to the driveway; her ears pricked for the sound of sirens.

“Which cab did you summon?” Schutzendorf's voice was remarkably soft.

Judith jumped. “Yellow? Green? One of them, they both go to the airport. It took a while for them to answer.” Frantically, Judith wondered how much Schutzendorf had heard from the back porch. What had she actually said to Corazon? “I told them to hurry. And that it was getting late…” She gave Schutzendorf a ghostly smile.

He inclined his head. Despite the wind, the houndstooth cap remained in place. “Yes, you said all those things.” In the bushy beard, his teeth looked almost like fangs. “But not to the taxi man, eh?”

Judith gulped. “The dispatcher.”

“No.
Nein
,” Schutzendorf added on a more emphatic, but still soft note. “You dispatch the police!”

“The police?” Judith tried to laugh, at the same time darting glances around the backyard. Rankers's house was dark; so were Dooleys' and Ericsons'. Had Amina Pacetti
been awakened by the wind? Judith opened her mouth to scream, but Schutzendorf deftly tucked his walking stick under his left arm, and grabbed her with his right.

“March!” he growled, all but pushing Judith down the porch steps.

Schutzendorf's grasp was like steel. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. Feeling numb, Judith willed her legs to propel her from the porch. She kept moving, straight into the howling wind, aware that her captor was shoving her in the direction of the toolshed.

“Open,” he commanded, releasing her just enough so that she could reach the door.

Judith could scarcely breathe. Fumbling at the brand-new brass doorknob, she finally got it to turn. Schutzendorf pushed her inside, still holding her tight. The wind blew the door shut behind them.

“You pry,” he muttered. “You ask too many questions. So you know the truth. You spoil everything, all the precise plans. For your interference, you must die.” His tone was more vexed than furious. Judith would have preferred outrage to calm. But of course he was a most calculating man.