Just Desserts : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery (10 page)

“What now?” groaned Judith, flying to the window and pulling up the mini-blinds. Down in the darkness, three figures were wrestling on the sidewalk next to the laurel hedge.

“I’m going to see what’s happening,” she said, racing for the door.

“Me, too!” called Renie, right behind her. On the sec-70 / Mary Daheim

ond floor, a sleep-befuddled Otto was shielding his eyes from the hallway light and muttering. Ellie Carver peeped out from behind the door at the far end of the passage just as Lance stumbled from his room in his underwear. Judith deduced that the policeman on duty had apparently gone downstairs to investigate, since his fishing magazine was lying in a heap under the wicker chair.

The rain had stopped. Overhead, the clouds were drifting slowly out to sea. The night was cold and damp, making Judith shiver under her mohair sweater and flannel slacks.

She and Renie bounded along the front walk, then turned right in the direction of the Ericsons’. The struggle was already over, with one policeman holding Mavis Lean-Brodie by the arms, another insisting that she shut up, and a third searching through her shoulder bag.

“Listen, you idiots,” railed Mavis who had changed from her Chanel suit into blue jeans and a huge fisherman’s knit sweater, “I have a job to do! Freedom of the press! The Constitution! The people’s right to know!”

“You can tell them over the phone, Ms. Lean-Brodie,” said the officer, who had been trying to outshout Mavis. “You can’t leave Hillside Manor until Lieutenant Flynn says so.”

Mavis kicked at the sidewalk with her tennis shoe. “Fas-cists! I’ll sue! KINE will sue! The network will sue! I can’t put together a story like this over the telephone!”

But the officer who held Mavis was now propelling her back toward the house. Judith and Renie stepped aside to let them pass. Mavis ignored them, as if they were a pair of fire hydrants affixed to the parking strip.

“Nazis,” she muttered. “Censorship, that’s what it is—”

Her diatribe was interrupted by the policeman who had been going through her purse. “Hold it.” He stood up, the shoulder bag dangling from one hand, something dark and shiny in the other. “Excuse me, Ms. Lean-Brodie, but do you always go after your news stories with a Smith & Wesson

.357 magnum?”

Mavis’s fine features were twisted with rage as she made
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one last futile effort to break free. “You bet I do, turkey! I’ve got a carry permit, too! I bought that gun after I was nearly killed covering the Indian clam-digging riots!”

Judith nudged Renie. “Let’s wait until they’re all settled down before we go back inside. I don’t want to see Lance in his underwear again.”

“Why not?” asked Renie innocently. “He’s the Brodie with the beautiful body, except for that scar on his knee.”

“Knee?” Sadly, Judith shook her head at her cousin. “It wasn’t his knee I noticed. I guess I’ve been a widow too long.”

To Judith’s relief, the house had grown quiet again when they went back upstairs ten minutes later. In the little foyer, Renie leaned against the wall and rubbed at her eyes. “Coz, I’m beat. I’m even beyond hunger. Would you hate me if I went to sleep in your mother’s bed for a couple of hours?”

“Do it,” said Judith. “You look like something Sweetums dragged in.”

Renie needed no further encouragement. With a wan smile and a weak wave, she tottered off to Gertrude’s aerie under the eaves. Judith fought back an overwhelming urge to give up for what was left of the night. But having purloined police evidence, she knew she had to make the most of her small advantage. She also realized with a pang that she and Joe were not necessarily playing on the same team.

With a heavy sigh, she opened the first of the legal-sized envelopes. The single sheet of paper revealed a photostat of a birth certificate issued by the City of Los Angeles, dated February 7, 1943. The infant girl’s given name was Wanda Marie. Her mother’s maiden name was listed as Gloria Ramona St. Cloud.

In the space after “Name of Father,” the typed letters spelled out
Otto Ernst Brodie
.

EIGHT

FOR THE FIRST time since Medic Kinsella had stated that Madame Gushenka, AKA Wanda Rakesh, had not died of natural causes, Judith felt a faint sense of encouragement.

Wanda, Otto’s daughter, born out of wedlock, perhaps a secret to everyone, maybe even to Otto—no wonder the fortune-teller had rattled on about women and children. But what, Judith mused, had happened to Gloria St. Cloud? If she’d been in the movie business as the glossy glamour-girl photo indicated, she’d never become a household word.

Had Otto met Gloria in Los Angeles or someplace else?

Was it a wartime romance or a one-night stand? Where had Otto been in the spring of 1942? Judith was bursting with questions, trying to figure out a logical way to get answers.

But there was still the other envelope. She opened it hurriedly and extracted yet another photostat, this time of a marriage certificate for Gloria St. Cloud and Otto Brodie.

Apparently, they had been married before Otto took Minnie as wife. There it was in black and white, 72

JUST DESSERTS / 73

five p.m., June 13, 1942, in the City of Las Vegas, County of Clark, State of Nevada, Justice of the Peace Elwood F.

Sturbridge officiating.

Judith fell back against the pillows. Wanda wasn’t illegit-imate. In fact, she had been a co-heir to the Brodie fortune, along with Lance, Gwen, and probably Harvey. As Joe had said, money was the eternal motive. But who—besides Otto—knew about Wanda? Or had Otto been aware of his elder daughter’s existence? Judith thought back to the little scene between Otto and Wanda in the kitchen. Something about Madame Gushenka had put him off. Was it the unexpected recognition of his firstborn child?

Judith could only speculate. It appeared that there had been a quickie Nevada marriage, no doubt followed by a quickie Nevada divorce. Judith shook out the envelope: If Wanda Brodie Rakesh had brought copies of her birth certificate and her parents’ marriage license north, she must also have had the divorce decree with her. But the envelope was empty. All that remained were the newspaper clippings. Judith was puzzling over the omission when a tentative knock at the door startled her. Renie, of course, unable to sleep and lapsing into uncustomary politeness.

“Come in,” Judith said eagerly, then let out a little squeak of astonishment as Ellie Carver slipped into the room. In their haste to repair to the family quarters, the cousins apparently had forgotten to lock the private door behind them.

Judith did her best to toss a couple of pillows onto the police evidence, but Ellie didn’t seem to notice. “I was afraid you might be asleep,” she said, pulling her blue velour robe close. “I couldn’t settle down.”

“Have a seat,” said Judith, indicating a chintz-covered armchair and arranging herself on the bed to conceal any remnants of Wanda’s mementos. Patiently, she waited for Ellie to speak, but her guest was nervously fidgeting with the ties of her robe, gray eyes darting around the cozy room with chintz comforter and wallpaper to match the chair.

74 / Mary Daheim

“I feel so silly,” she finally said in a tremulous voice. “But I must explain, if only because if I don’t, you might say something to the police and they’d get the wrong idea.” The color had risen in her pale face as she wrestled with the words that sprang from her private demons.

“About what?” asked Judith with a bland smile. She was used to confidences, even from strangers. Whether behind the desk at the Thurlow Ridge Public Library or behind the bar of the Meat & Mingle, Judith would find herself the re-cipient of the most intimate secrets.

Ellie looked away, as if she expected the alabaster statue of the Virgin Mary on Judith’s dresser to answer for her. The bedroom was very quiet, with only the sound of a red-eye flight coming in low under the storm clouds.

“You saw us outside,” Ellie said at last in her breathless voice. When Judith didn’t immediately respond, Ellie strove to clarify. “Dash—and me. On the porch.” The pale lashes dipped; her hands clasped her knees.

“Yes.” Judith shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”

Ellie lifted her chin. “This is a murder case. What everybody does is everybody else’s business. There’s a killer loose under your roof. Aren’t you afraid?”

Judith blinked. She was, but not for the reason Ellie was indicating. Indeed, it had never occurred to her to consider herself—or anyone else—in danger. But that was a foolish reaction. “You’re right,” conceded Judith, suddenly aware of how cold the house had grown since she’d turned the furnace off. “It’s such an incredible idea, I don’t think I’ve taken it all in.”

“Well, I have.” Ellie had regained her composure, showing a hint of the steel that allowed her to prod patrons, coerce committees, and untie purse strings. “It’s a horrible thought, but it’s got to be faced.” She frowned and shook her head, as if staving off weakness. “The police mustn’t be misled. If they get sidetracked, they’ll never find the murderer. That’s why I wanted to explain about Dash. Years ago,” she continued, swallowing hard, “we…went steady.” The gray eyes dared Judith not to mock

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her. “I haven’t seen him since I was a freshman at UCLA.

My parents didn’t approve.” Her small mouth tightened, registering disapproval of her parents.

“I see.” Judith thought she did. That Dash Subarosa should appear at Hillside Manor along with one ex-girlfriend and one ex-wife seemed somewhat unbelievable. Almost as much, she reminded herself, as Joe Flynn showing up after twenty-two years. “You didn’t know who Gwen was engaged to?”

Judith asked.

Ellie gave Judith a faintly patronizing look. “Dash and Gwen had been out of the country. They met in Mazatlán, I think. All I knew was his name.” Ellie put both hands at her small bosom and took a deep breath. “Dash Subarosa isn’t his real name, you see.”

“Oh. That’s a relief.” Judith turned penitent. “I’m being flip, I must be tired.”

Ellie absolved her with a nod. “Dash—I’ll call him that since everybody else does—has had a rather rocky life. His father, Dukes Frascatti, was in the construction business in the San Fernando Valley. There were some questionable doings, indicating that Mr. Frascatti wasn’t quite what he seemed.” She spoke primly, now perched on the edge of the chair. “That was why my father disapproved of the romance.

Like father, like son, Poppa said. It was very unfair of him, of course. Rico was just another carefree college student when I met him.”

Obviously, Rico was Dash, once removed. “I suppose he had a reason to change his name,” Judith remarked casually.

“Naturally.” Ellie’s eyes grew wide. “He explained all that to me tonight. The association with his father plagued him.

To make his way in the world, he became Felix Subarosa, nicknamed Dash by a kindly professor of medieval English.

Even though Mr. Frascatti passed away some years ago, Rico had already established himself as Dash.”

Briefly, Judith searched her conscience and found it sleeping soundly. “Did he marry Wanda Rakesh as Dash or Rico?”

76 / Mary Daheim

Had she asked if Ellie knew there was a ten-foot python around her neck, Judith could not have elicited an expression of greater shock. “Where did you hear that?” Ellie was gripping the arms of the chair, all but falling onto the carpet.

“How did you get such a peculiar notion? What kind of ru-mors are the police spreading?” But behind the bravado, her face was crumbling like wet clay. “Is this all a frame-up, just because Rico’s—Dash’s—father was a little shady?”

“Actually,” said Judith calmly, “Dash told the police about Wanda. I assume he also told you. The question is,
when
.”

She let the word fall with ominous intent, then mentally kicked herself. Ellie could be a murderess. If she’d killed one person already, she wouldn’t hesitate to try for two.

But Ellie had retreated into the chair, not quite cowering, but clearly jarred. “He told me when we were on the back porch. I swear to you, I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years.”

“That happens,” said Judith, the irony lost on Ellie. Her weary gaze roamed around the room, taking in the comforting familiarity of the Spanish armoire that housed her TV

and stereo, the dressing table with its old-fashioned flounce of chintz, the walk-in closet with her limited ward-robe and priceless Storybook Doll collection. “Did Dash also explain how he knew Oriana?”

This time the question definitely flummoxed Ellie. “Oriana?

You must be mistaken. Unless, of course,” she added dubiously, “Gwen had introduced them on a previous occasion.”

“I gathered none of the family had met Dash until tonight,”

said Judith. “In fact, now that I think about it, all of you Brodie ladies seemed—how to put it?—disconcerted by his presence.”

“
I
certainly was,” Ellie admitted. “So much so that I can’t remember how the others reacted. Except I did think Lance seemed…befuddled when he was introduced to Dash. But then Lance is often befuddled.” She frowned,
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her hands again working at the ties of her robe. “But Mavis wouldn’t have been put off! Nothing disconcerts that hard-bitten creature!”

Judith considered. “Maybe not Mavis. At least, not as much.” The truth was, she couldn’t be sure of what she’d seen. The incident had been so unimportant at the time.

Ellie was getting up, arms crossed, rubbing her hands up and down her sleeves as if she were very cold. “I must get back to bed. If Harvey wakes, he’ll wonder what’s happened to me.”

Judith glanced at the digital clock next to the bed. The numbers were just changing to 4:21. She hadn’t been up this late since Mike had pneumonia in fourth grade. Hoping that Ellie would be too immersed in her own problems to notice the items on the bed, Judith dared to get up and see her visitor out into the foyer.

“By the way,” she asked Ellie, “when did Dash give up socks?”

Ellie paused at the private door. She was a full head shorter than Judith and had to crane her neck to look at her hostess. A tiny smile played at her lips. “In college, I guess.