Authors: Charlotte Hinger
Josie rose and pulled a hassock closer to the sofa. She sat down, took a Virginia Slim from an elegant gold case, and lit it. She put up her feet, laid her head back, and took a deep drag. She looked at me silently, as though I were a specimen under a microscope.
“I suppose I should have told you,” I looked at the floor, drew circles with my foot. “All the details. About the suicide, I mean.”
She blew a perfectly formed smoke ring, watched it dissipate toward the ceiling.
“I really, really wish you didn’t smoke,” I said finally.
“And I really, really wish you’d never married the dirt farmer.”
“How can you say that? Think that?”
“Are you crazy, Lottie? I don’t care how great you think he is. I’ll admit that he’s a different man than I thought he was, but there’s enough baggage in this family to fell an ox. Which you are not. You have a much frailer personality than you would like to believe.”
“That simply is not true. You’re the one who’s hung back, protected yourself. Fiddled while Rome burned.”
She quietly shook her head. “Your insistence on jumping into the middle of everything is because you cannot,
cannot,
bear not fixing things. Making them right. Think a minute, Lottie. You kept calling this woman over and over to get her to change her story. Couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t stand the friction between the sisters.”
“Oh, must we fight? I wanted everything to be perfect when you met Elizabeth and Bettina.”
I laughed ruefully, hearing my own words in the light of her lecture.
“Do you have some decent scotch, Lottie? I don’t intend to drink your husband’s vile home brew ever again.”
“That’s the only sensible idea I’ve heard all night.”
I went into the kitchen and mixed us both drinks.
Keith and I had met when I was working in the library at Fort Hays State University. Forsyth Library has priceless holdings of material about Germans from Russia, known as Volga Germans. Persons using this room always had to be under the scrutiny of university personnel. I had done my dissertation on ethnic groups, and eagerly volunteered for the monitoring job as it gave me access to the collections. Keith came in one day, asking for material on his family.
Before then, I would have scoffed at the notion of love at first sight. But it happened. Happened to me. An old maid of thirty-one. I loved his grave sense of honor.
Gravitas
, the Romans called it. He was not a light man.
I carried the drinks back into the living room.
“How did it happen?”
“She hanged herself. Elizabeth found her.”
She took a long drag, closed her eyes for a moment.
“Do any of them know about Mummy,” she asked. “Our own Lady Macbeth? I should think our own sunny childhood would be enlightening to your resident Queen Elizabeth. She who holds the patent on hard times.”
“Keith knows Mom was an alcoholic, but I don’t think he realizes how much it affected us, or how well I understand how living with Regina’s instability scarred his kids. And him. But Keith’s a rock. Like Daddy was.”
“Bingo.”
I scowled. “Oh, go to hell.”
“Be forewarned, Lottie. Queen Elizabeth is the kind of person who doesn’t like to be at a disadvantage. She may resent your seeing this side of her.”
Tosca yipped, like she was in agreement. I started, spilled my drink, and hustled off for towels. “Back to the Ladies,” I said when I returned. “The Rubidoux girls. I’ll show you the story.”
She smiled at my quick change of subject. I went to my briefcase and pulled out the working copy of Zelda’s story. She read it quickly. Her eyes widened. “My god, Lottie. I can’t believe anyone still thinks like this. It’s despicable.”
“Confederate thinking,” I agreed. “Old South.”
“May I take this back with me? I have a friend who does a lot of work with handwriting. There’s some shapes here that intrigue me.”
“Of course.”
“Bludgeoned.” Stroking Tosca, Josie speculated on the night’s events. “Sounds like an unreliable way to kill someone. I would just bet the person didn’t go in intending to kill her. There’re smarter ways. I don’t know anything about profiling, but there are some things here that are very obvious. This murder was impulsive and the murderer had to be a strong person.”
“Not necessarily. Zelda was frail. If the first blow landed just right and managed to crush her skull, it wouldn’t have taken much strength at all.”
“Did the St. Johns keep money around? Jewelry? Antiques? Any chance they would be singled out by a thief?”
“No. Rumor has it they were very hard up.”
I jumped when a stick snapped in the fireplace. It did not seem possible we were sitting in my living room calmly discussing macabre details as if Zelda St. John were some anonymous distant person.
“Sam Abbott. You seem to be bosom buddies.”
“We are. We did our horses together.”
She quirked an eyebrow.
I laughed. “Carlton County has its own carnival. When we got our carousel, volunteers painted all the horses. Sam and I just happened to be working at the same time. We talked a lot.”
“No Mrs. Sam?”
“Nope. He’s a widower. He lost his only son in Vietnam.”
We talked for hours. About her work. About my work. But we kept coming back to Zelda St. John over and over again until we were exhausted. We finally gave it up and headed for bed.
She turned on the staircase. “I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“The horses. What was his, what was yours?”
Miffed by her playing psychologist, I sulled up.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she teased. “Pretty please?”
“Mine was Princess Di. Jewel colors and feathers. Sam’s was a patriotic Desert Storm horse.”
Her laughter pealed through the house.
***
Bettina volunteered to go with me to the St. Johns for my traditional death-in-the-family call the following afternoon. I placed my usual food offerings in a wicker basket in the back of my Tahoe. A meat loaf for those who needed something solid and real to stomach death, and a custard pie for those who had a hard time getting food past the lump in their throat.
The radio was tuned to our local station, and I listened to the account of Zelda’s death for the second time that day.
“Zelda St. John, wife of local businessman Maxwell St. John, was murdered last night. St. John was the aunt of state senator, Brian Hadley, who is campaigning for the United States senate seat now held by Pat Roberts. Her body was discovered at approximately nine o’ clock by her husband, Maxwell St. John, who had returned from a meeting at the local Lions Club.
“Although the actual cause of death has yet to be officially established, pending an autopsy being conducted by County Coroner, Dr. William K. Kasper, she appears to have died from blows to her head with a blunt instrument.
“Brian Hadley is expected to arrive from Wichita later today to be with the family. Details of the funeral service have not been announced.”
There were several cars parked in front of the St. John’s. The sprawling white farm-house has multipane windows framed by peeling dark green shutters. Overgrown pfitzers blotched with dead branches sagged at both sides of the doorway. Elephant skin blisters marred the lapped siding.
I rang the doorbell, stilled by the solemnity of death. It’s always sudden, even when it’s not murder. As shocking as a bolt of lightning. Even if a family has been keeping a cancer vigil for a year.
Zelda’s and Maxwell’s only child, Judy, opened the door. A waif with spiked orange hair, her huge blue eyes were red and swollen.
I knew her well through helping with the Carlton County Neighborhood Entertainment Company. She had perched beside me between scenes when we produced
The King and I
and told me her time-old teenage story. A little problem with drugs, a little problem with sex, a little problem with a juvenile record. All past now, but recorded forever in the collective memory of a small town.
“Judy, honey, I’m so sorry.”
I hugged her and patted her on the back. She tried to speak between spasmodic sobs.
“Mom always tried so hard. She was a wonderful mother.”
“I know, honey. She was devoted to you.”
“Folks made fun of her all the time. But she was my mother and I loved her. Still love her. Death isn’t going to change that.”
She eased off my shoulder, nodded hello to Bettina, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Dad’s not doing well. We’d better go inside. He’s in the living room.” She pointed down the hallway to an open door where Maxwell St. John sat with his head buried in his hands.
Bettina headed for the kitchen, carrying our basket of food. I went directly to the living room to pay my respects to Max.
Their living room looked like an old-fashioned parlor set in a museum. White doilies crocheted in the pineapple motif protected the maroon cut-velvet sofa and matching chair. Umber and green marbleized tiles framed the gas-log fireplace. A glass-shaded, brass-footed lamp was centered on an imitation Duncan Fife table in the bay window. Heavy walnut framed portraits of generations of Rubidoux hung on plastered walls.
Maxwell rose unsteadily to his feet. He extended his arthritic hand, and my heart ached at the misery in his bleak face. Although he was eighteen years older than Zelda, Maxwell had doted on his crazy younger wife.
“Maxwell, I’m so sorry. Our deepest sympathy.”
All he could do at first was nod.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said, when he could summon his voice. He tugged at slipping frayed suspenders fastened to stained chinos. Tiny singes from pipe embers pocked the front of his rumpled pin-striped shirt.
The doorbell jarred the room. Judy’s quick steps echoed down the hallway. Then I heard her shouting.
“Get out,” she yelled. “All of you. None of you are welcome.”
I dropped Maxwell’s hand and turned. Edgar and Fiona Hadley stood framed in the entrance. Behind them, high-lighted by the sun was Brian.
Son of the
Morning Star
. Crown Prince of Carlton County. His razor-cut gold hair gleamed like bullion.
Across from the road turning into the farmyard, TV crews circled like buzzards, cameras in place, wanting to record every minute of Brian Hadley’s visit to the grieving family.
“Murderer. Murderer.” Judy looked straight at Fiona. “You killed her. Just leave us alone.”
“Judy!” Nervously eyeing the cameras, I quickly pulled the Hadleys inside. The media teams were not close enough to pick up sound. “Please go on into the living room.” The Hadleys were mute with shock. “Max needs you.”
“So sorry,” I mouthed silently to an ashen-faced Brian as I steered Judy toward the stairs. He nodded and guided his parents down the hall.
His political success was a testimony to his steely will to overcome his inherent liabilities. Only in America would looking like a young Brad Pitt be an obstacle to having his ideas heard. The press maneuvered constantly to get him to say or do something naughty. Senior citizens just fell all over him.
Brian Hadley is a fine man. Moreover, he is not a fool, even if he is a Republican. I voted for him last time when he ran for state senate. Although I’m a Yellow Dog Democrat, when he decided to run for the national seat, I didn’t mind crossing party lines to organize his campaign in this county. I
like
politicians. I respect persons who are willing to make honorable and reasonable compromises. It’s what makes the world work. Over my dead body would I allow Judy St. John to slander this man who might have a shot at the presidency some day.
I led her into her bedroom.
“Please try to get yourself under control. I just can’t stand by and let you say things you’ll regret later.”
“She hated my mother. Enough to kill her.”
“You can’t believe that! Now is not the time and place for this, Judy. Don’t disgrace your mother’s memory by turning this into a family brawl. Zelda would just hate it. You know how much she cared about appearances.”
“Aunt Fiona killed her or hired someone else to kill her.”
“Judy, I’ll be right back. Please lie down. I know you’re exhausted.”
I had to shut her up. I ran down the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen. I stopped cold when I saw our county health nurse, Inez Wilson. Her back was turned toward me. She stood next to Minerva Lovesey. I didn’t want Inez near Judy St. John. Clearly, none of them had heard Judy’s carrying on as Inez was warning Bettina and Minerva of the dangers of the coming flu epidemic.
Bettina saw me at once, and before the others could turn to follow her glance, I put a finger to my lips and gestured her to step into the hallway.
“Excuse me, please,” she said brightly to the assembled women. The heavy swinging kitchen door whooshed shut behind her.
“Get these people out of here, Bettina. All of them. I don’t care how. Turn away anyone who comes to the outside door, too. Judy’s raising six kinds of hell.”
Bettina’s a quick study. She nodded and hurried back into the kitchen. I listened.
“Judy is not well,” she said to Inez and Minerva. “She’s overwhelmed and wants to be alone with her father. It would be best for all of us to leave and not take it personally. I’m going home right now and Brian will drive Lottie home later.”
“Well, if
she’s
going to stay, I know the family would want me around,” said Inez. “They could certainly use a nurse more than a historian.”
“Max and Judy have asked Lottie to assist with funeral arrangements. They really do want all the rest of us out of here.”
“I was just trying to help,” Inez said sullenly.
I could just imagine her dramatic account of the prostrate grief-stricken daughter that would be making the rounds by morning. I listened a moment longer, just to be sure Bettina wouldn’t need reinforcement, before I returned to Judy.
“Some people
do
just want to be by themselves,” said Minerva.
I smiled. Good old Minerva. Chief secret keeper of Carlton County. Gatekeeper of thousands of records, she was the soul of discretion. Intensely private about her own affairs, she even doctored in Denver and mail-ordered prescriptions because she didn’t want medical personnel gossiping about her health. Or so it was said.
She must have mail ordered all her clothes from L.L. Bean and Eddie Bauer because they had that look and she never shopped in town. She wore her graying red hair in a neat bun. Her only nod to femininity was maroon polish on her short nails. It seemed out-of-character, since she shunned all other makeup.
We would have been better friends if I could have seen her eyes. I can’t tell what people are thinking if I can’t see their eyes. Minerva wore dark amber Varilux lenses that did not change color with the light. Inez had told me that Minerva had very light sensitive eyes that need protection, but I’d wondered if they didn’t reflect her intense sense of privacy.
Satisfied Bettina had everything under control, I turned away and tried to think of something I could say to the Hadleys.
Brian was waiting for me in the hallway. He ignored my outstretched hand and hugged me instead.
“So sorry, Brian. For everything. Save some time for me this weekend. We must talk and I want to know how you’ve been. Not that the papers don’t report your every little move.”
“You’ve got that right. Thanks for your quick thinking, Lottie. I hate to think what the media would have made of this. Do you know what set Judy off?”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to you about it later. Right now I think it’s best we play like nothing’s happened.”
I stepped into the living room. Knowing how hard hit in-laws are sometimes, I cupped Edgar’s hands in my own, patted them. “So sorry. Terribly sorry.”
Edgar Hadley nodded, grief deepening the lines on his coarse heavy face. When I first met Edgar, I took one look at the jutting jaw, the gun rack in back of his pick-up, his anti-government bumper sticker, and decided he was a Neanderthal. I was partially right.
He didn’t hold with free school lunches, Jane Fonda, working wives, Democrats, farm programs, Wall street, communists, foreign cars, gold-threaded cowboy shirts, high-heeled boots, golf, the lottery, coffee beans, or chickens.
Luckily for Brian, the press had decided his father was an American primitive. In a class by himself. Just like his wife.
I turned from Edgar to Fiona.
“It must be devastating to lose a sister, let alone a twin.” She nodded and clung to my hand.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “It can’t be true.”
Then her mood changed abruptly and visibly. “How did you manage to shut up that sullen little delinquent? Judy belongs in an institution.”
I glanced at Max. He’d heard, all right. His face crumbled with confusion. His mouth worked helplessly.
“Brian,” I said, “may I please have a word with you?”
We went into the foyer and shut the door, closing off the hallway.
“Please take your folks and go home until a little more of this plays out. Talk to your mother or chloroform her. I don’t care which. We need to keep this from turning into a three ring circus.”
“Right,” he said tersely.