Just Desserts : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery (21 page)

Where was reason? Where was her diaphragm?

Somewhat red in the face, Joe was on his feet, putting the finishing touches on his tie and smoothing back his hair.

“Glad you’re here, Renie,” he said, sounding very formal. “I was just telling Jude-girl about the M.E.’s report. I spoke to Dash, too, and there have been some other interesting devel-opments.”

“How about a drink?” offered Judith brightly. “Is anybody in the living room?”

“Everybody,” said Renie, deciding to let Judith and Joe play out their parts. “We can use the front parlor, instead.

But we’re running low on booze.” Carefully, she led the way down the private stairs. “Shall I check with the Rankers, or can you send somebody to the liquor store, Joe?”

“Not really,” he replied. “My men are all in uniform. Besides, driving out there must be pretty dicey already.”

“The Rankers, then,” said Judith as they descended the second flight. The kitchen was mercifully empty except for Officer Price, who was wearing an apron and rubbing shortening on a dozen large baking potatoes. “I’ll go. I want to talk to Mother anyway.”

Renie was momentarily distracted. “Woody, did you
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poke holes in those potatoes?” It appeared that Renie and Joe’s assistant had established a certain rapport.

“Of course.” Price looked at Renie with reproachful eyes.

“I help my wife make dinner all the time. Would you like my fondue recipe?”

“Cheese or beef?” inquired Renie, then grinned at Officer Price. “We’ll do this later. Don’t forget to ask me about my carrots and rutabagas.” She gave Judith a mischievous look.

“He’ll love it,” she said, then went on before her cousin could protest. “While you’re next door, ask Arlene if she’s got any chives—you’re out. Then hurry back. I could use a stiff drink about now.”

“Okay,” said Judith, going to the pantry and rummaging for her boots. “Is everything under control here?”

Renie gave the kitchen a cursory glance. “It is for dinner.

Otherwise, I’m not so sure.” She took a deep breath and leaned back against the sink. “I had the radio on while I was thawing the steaks. The four o’clock news said there was new evidence in what they’re calling the Fortune-Teller Murder. The broadcaster mentioned news clippings, but didn’t specify what was in them.” Renie’s expression was wry.

“Mavis!” cried Judith. “How did she know about the clippings?”

But Renie shook her head. “I wasn’t listening to KINE. I had on that country and western station Bill’s nephew, Kip, works for.”

Judith and Joe stared at Renie. “But it had to be Mavis!”

insisted Judith, though the conviction wavered in her voice.

“If not, who?”

Joe was rubbing at the back of his head again. “It’s five p.m., and I’m off duty,” he muttered, looking at the old school clock. “Go get the booze.”

FOURTEEN

THE SNOW HAD grown finer and the wind had come up in the last half hour. Judith trod carefully across the back yard, hugging her down jacket close to her body. The footing was slippery, and she avoided the walk-ways, just in case the snow should camouflage any patches of ice. Blinking against the storm, she smiled: This magical world of white evoked so many memories, of hiking up the snowbound hill to Grandpa and Grandma Grover’s on Christmas Eve; of laughing with Renie as they threw snowballs at each other’s Swiss ski sweaters; of Joe in a tux, top hat, and flowing cape on New Year’s Eve; of Mike on his first sled, with fear in his eyes and a yelp of pleasure on his lips. Judith heard her boots sink in the snow, but kept smiling. A moment later, she was on the Rankers’s back porch, stamping off her feet and brushing snow from her lashes.

“Judith!” Arlene’s welcome was as expansive as usual. Her red-gold hair was tousled and her smile was wide. “Come in! We were just going to have a hot toddy before dinner!”

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Judith moved carefully into the kitchen which the Rankers had remodeled that summer. “So were we, but the Brodies drank all our liquor. Could you spare a fifth of something?”

“Carl!” Her husband’s name bounced off the walls like a boomerang. To Judith, Arlene had two distinct voices: The one she used for her husband and children was frequently loud and strident; the other, which was reserved for friends and strangers, exhibited the most dulcet tones, a model of warmth and sensitivity. “Here, come into the living room, your dear mother is just coming down. She’s been resting.”

Arlene stopped in the hallway between the kitchen and dining room. “
Carl!
Where are you?”

Carl had sneaked up behind Arlene and Judith. With a deft finger, he goosed his wife. “Here, my darling. May I help you?”

“Yike!” Arlene jumped, almost colliding with the telephone table. She whirled on her husband, who was laughing im-moderately. “You’re an animal! What will Mr. Busbee think?”

It was clear to Judith that the value of her own opinion had been lost in the mists of time and the avenues of affection. Carl’s blue eyes danced in his craggy, handsome face as he patted his wife’s bottom and went to the liquor cabinet.

“Did I hear you say you could use some whiskey?”

But Judith had moved down the hallway to the arch which led into the beige and brown living room with its accents of emerald-green. Though both houses were basic 1907 salt-boxes, their decor was markedly different. Simple contemporary good taste emanated from every room at the Rankers’s, as opposed to Judith’s eclectic style, with its often bold and sometimes cluttered appointments. But at least one piece in the Rankers’s living room struck an unharmonious note: Lester Busbee sat in front of the TV, watching a golf tourna-ment in some exotic place where it apparently didn’t snow in late January.

“Hi, Mr. Busbee,” said Judith. “Is everything okay?”

Lester looked up a bit groggily. At his feet was a half-158 / Mary Daheim

full bottle of beer. Next to the armchair, a six-pack carton sat empty, mute testimony to Lester’s method of passing the time. “Huh? Oh, it’s you, Mrs. McMonahan. I thought you were an Eskimo. How far are we from Alaska?”

“It’s at least a day on foot,” Judith replied with a straight face as she sat down by the television set and discreetly turned off the sound. “Mr. Busbee, have you someplace to stay tonight?”

Before Lester could reply, Arlene was on the spot. “Of course he does, in Kevin’s old room.” She moved to Lester, noted the empty beer carton, and wagged a finger under his nose. “Now, now, Lester, all that beer won’t make you feel any better. What you need is a hot meal. Can you smell the pot roast?”

“But Arlene,” Judith protested, “you’re probably going to have Mother here again.”

Arlene put an arm around Judith. “I hope so! She’s such a doll! We played cribbage all afternoon. She’s in Meagan’s room. Now let me get your eggs and—”

“Not eggs. Booze.” Judith pried herself loose. “Actually, I’d like to talk to Mr. Busbee for a minute. And Mother, too, when she comes down.”

“Well, of course you would,” agreed Arlene as the sound of something boiling over in the kitchen caught her attention.

“Good heavens, it’s the carrots!”

Alone with Lester, Judith rushed to the point: “Are you absolutely sure your mother divorced your father?”

Lester recoiled as if Judith had snapped a whip in his direction. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s simple,” said Judith. “I want to know if Gloria—your mother—was legally free to marry Otto Brodie. It might not make any difference to you, but it certainly would have to Wanda.”

“Hell, yes!” He cracked his knuckles and scowled at Judith.

“My mom and dad split up when I was two. I don’t remember much about it except for a big fight and then she’d bitch because my dad was late with his child support or whatever they called it then. The fact is, Mrs.

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Moynihan, I spent more time with my dad than I did with her. She was either hanging around the studios or working behind the desk at the auto court where we lived.”

“I see.” There was no question that Otto’s marriage to Gloria was valid. She had given her name as St. Cloud, not Busbee, on the license, but Judith had the feeling her real name was something else. “What was her real name?” she asked.

Lester’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “What do you mean?

Gloria Ramona St. Cloud. The Wichita St. Clouds, she always said. She had it changed back after she divorced Dad.

Then she called herself Gloria Brodie, when she wasn’t calling herself a taxi or a fire hydrant.”

Judith moved onto less certain ground as Carl appeared with three unopened bottles cradled in his arms. “Who do you think knew Wanda besides Otto and Dash?” she asked Lester.

Though his eyes were still fixed on the muted TV set, at least they were coming into focus. “Jeez Louise, I don’t know most of those creeps myself except Ankles—or whatever he calls himself now. Wanda never talked about any of ’em.

The big guy—didn’t he play football for the old Hollywood Stars? Maybe he dated Wanda.”

“I hope not,” murmured Judith as visions of incest danced in her head. “Did she ever mention him? He was known as Lance ‘Out-of-Bounds’ Brodie in his playing days. In fact, he had knee surgery at St. Peregrine’s.”

“Is that a fact?” Lester cocked his head and cracked his knuckles, eliciting a grimace from Carl. “Wanda used to work on a lot of celebrities there. Cosmetic stuff, like boob implants and butt lifts. I think they call them something else at the hospital.”

“Let’s hope so,” breathed Judith. But before she could pose her next question, Lester tugged at his ear and spoke up:

“Hey, wait, you mean
Lance Brodie!
Now I remember.”

Lester actually looked more or less alert. “There was something about the guy that bothered Wanda. His
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eyes, maybe. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but it bugged her because he had the same last name as her father.

That must have been when she started trying to track old Otto down for real.”

Judith considered. Wanda had hazel eyes. So did Lance.

And Otto. Perhaps she had recognized a resemblance between the patient and herself. It wouldn’t have been that noticeable to anyone else, but coupled with the surname, Wanda’s instincts could have risen up to goad her. “Do you think she talked to Lance about his father?” Judith asked.

Lester sucked on a dill pickle. “I don’t know. It’s usually pretty hard to talk to your patients when they’re out cold.”

He smirked slightly at Judith, as if he’d come up with a witty riposte. “Give me a break, Mrs. McDoodle, that’s all I remember about the jock. Or Crazy Otto, for that matter.”

Judith tried another tack: “Does the name Stanley Edelstein mean anything?”

“Yeah. He was at St. Peregrine’s. Or was he Wanda’s dentist?” Lester frowned, then took a big gulp of beer.

“There’s something about him that sticks in my mind. Did he own a chicken ranch?” He waved the almost-empty bottle at Carl. “Hey, sport, got any refills?”

Carl gave Lester the same winning grin he exerted on temperamental advertising accounts. “Arlene’s making hot toddys. Why don’t we wait for her?”

Lester didn’t seem too pleased at the idea, but gave in.

Judith was leaning forward in the chair, feeling as if she were trying to grasp at some elusive object, like chasing guppies in a fish tank. “I don’t think Edelstein raised chickens. Neither did Dr. Jack O’Doul, but there is a connection. This is important, Lester.” She paused to let her words sink in. “What do you remember about Dr. Edelstein, Dr. O’Doul, and the chicken farmer?”

Lester took the last swig from his bottle. “O’Doul? He was that big-wheel surgeon who got killed in a plane crash, right?

Or was that Edelstein?”

“It was O’Doul. And his wife, Cynthia.” Judith kept very
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still, her eyes never leaving Lester’s mottled face. “Think, there must be something Wanda told you about them.”

Lester thought. But his gaze had grown fuzzy again. “That was a long time ago, right?” He fumbled in the pocket of his plaid sports coat, then gave a little laugh. “I forgot. I quit smoking for New Year’s. Carl, you got a cigarette?” Carl produced a pack and lighter. Lester lit up, inhaled deeply, and coughed twice. “Jeez Louise, I feel light-headed! Where was I?”

Judith gritted her teeth. “We were talking about Dr.

O’Doul…”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Lester nodded jerkily. “I didn’t see much of Wanda for a while there, I was selling used cars in Studio City. But I remember she got all worked up over some deal at the hospital where a hotshot sawbones screwed up. Some kind of cover-up went on, I think. In fact, it was about the same time that she told me Lance Brodie had been at St.

Perry’s. Sure, it could have been O’Doul. Why not?” Behind a haze of smoke, Lester sat back in the chair, looking inor-dinately pleased with himself.

Judith was not so pleased, but held on to her patience.

Lester wasn’t telling her much she didn’t already know—or could surmise. Unless…The idea that had been forming earlier in the day flitted through her brain, then evaporated.

As for Lester, he was reclining in the chair, eyes closed, humming an off-key version of “Wake Up, Little Susie.”

Judith wasn’t going to get much more out of Lester for a while. Resigned to frustration, she started from the chair, but stopped when she heard the familiar clump of her mother’s walker on the stairs. Carl winked at Judith and went into the hallway.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called, “you want a piggyback ride to the sofa?”

“Go on, you devil!” rasped Gertrude, though there was a coy edge to her voice. “You think because I’m old, I’m
easy?
”

Another series of clumps brought Gertrude into the liv-162 / Mary Daheim

ing room. She was wearing a red tartan housecoat under a blue and white Norwegian sweater. Judith did not recall sending either garment over to the Rankers’s.

“Well!” Gertrude’s contempt was obvious as she spotted her daughter. “I’m not speaking to you. Take a hike!”

Startled, Judith fell back in the chair. “Mother, I’m sorry.