Just Desserts : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery (16 page)

Illustrateds
. My
Opera Newses
must be in that box over there.”

“Hey,” said Renie, “let’s check out the
SI
’s, too. Maybe we can research Lance.”

“Speaking of Lance,” said Judith, pulling out a foot-high stack of musty periodicals, “he wasn’t the one Dooley saw last night. Dash was outside, also meeting a couple of peculiar people.”

Renie looked up from a cover showing Verdi in a top hat and muffler. “Do you suppose that’s who called him during dinner?”

Judith considered. “Could be. I wonder who?”

“His parole officers, maybe,” suggested Renie with only token interest. “Lordy, you’ve got a lot of these things. What years do you think Oriana was singing in Europe?”

“I’m guessing. She’s got to be in her forties. So let’s figure the late 1960s or early 1970s. If so, judging from what Joe said about Dash’s history, he would have had to have been abroad either just before or after he was married to Wanda.

Start with 1967.” Judith returned to sorting out the
Sports
Illustrateds
. “Ah! A pro football preview issue for 1979! That was the first year Mike had a subscription.”

“We gave it to him for his birthday,” recalled Renie. “Your mother always hid the swimsuit issue.”

“
I
always hid it,” said Judith. “I didn’t want Dan to nag me about my weight.”

“What a crock, especially from a guy who looked like the Goodyear blimp.” Renie leaned over Judith’s shoulder.

“Anything on Lance and the Stars?”

“They were picked dead last in the Western Division.” Judith flipped through the lengthy spread that took up most of the issue. “Here—‘This year’s Stars would be better off not coming out at all. Except for perenially tough nose guard Calvin Tweeks and the skittish wide receiver Lance Brodie, this cast of Hollywood has-beens should stumble off into the sunset.’ Gee, no wonder they folded.” She snapped her fingers. “Hold it! What did Wanda say about
118 / Mary Daheim

the night going dark and the sky being empty? I’ll bet she meant the Stars going kaput. And the crowd that went quiet—maybe there’s a connection.”

“Could be. The Steelers were big that year,” said Renie, joining Judith in perusing
SI
’s autumn of ’79 collection.

“Dallas, L.A., gee, Tampa Bay? Hey, here’s a picture of Lance!” She waved the magazine in front of Judith. “Look, that’s him, up in the stands, on top of the hot dog vendor!”

Judith gasped. Sure enough, Lance Brodie, No. 88, had been captured by the camera falling into the wienie wagon while a stunned vendor and an astonished cluster of fans reeled against the seats of Alameda County Coliseum. The cutline read: “Out-of-Bounds Brodie finally went too far in the Stars’ 35-3 loss to the Raiders last weekend. Brodie ran a down-and-way-out pattern that sent him flying first into the Oakland stands, and later into a Los Angeles hospital.”

The article featuring the photo was a summary of the week in the AFC. Renie read aloud, quoting the magazine as saying that Brodie’s injury did not appear to be as serious as it was spectacular. The team owners, however, had taken the precaution of flying Lance back to L.A. in their private jet.

Eagerly, Judith and Renie perused subsequent issues, but up through early December they found only one reference to Lance, again in a league round-up:

“Even All-Pro Calvin Tweeks looked helpless against the rampaging Chargers in a 45-7 rout in San Diego. Dwindling attendance and lack of interest in TV rights may dim the Stars forever next season. To add to the team’s woes, Lance Brodie probably won’t be back this year. Coach Pete Chakiris admitted last week that the capricious wide receiver’s knee injury was more serious than first expected.”

“Lance must have retired then,” said Judith. “Check out the Milestones column.”

But up through the Super Bowl, they found no mention
JUST DESSERTS / 119

of Lance. Judith gave Renie a woeful look. “It was probably in the swimsuit issue.”

“That’s okay,” soothed Renie. “We know he retired. Let’s get back to Oriana.”

But Mrs. Brodie proved much more elusive than her stepson. After going through the ’67-’70 issues, the cousins could find no mention of her, at home or abroad. An inadvertent glance at her watch told Judith it was ten minutes past the noon hour.

“Lunch! Oh, good grief! I’ve got to feed this crew! Quick, let’s check the freezer!”

While Renie raced upstairs to alert the guests that food was in their future, Judith hauled out frozen shrimp and pastry puffs. In her absence, restrictions on the dining room table had finally been lifted by the police. To the tune of can openers, clanging saucepans, whirling spoons, and microwave buzzers, Judith and Renie produced a satisfactory lunch of shrimp florentine en croute, sliced pears on a lettuce bed, and tin-roof sundaes. The entire family had gathered, though in a far different mood from the dinner party of the previous evening. Otto was still grumbling mightily if drunkenly, Oriana had grown testy, Lance seemed more morose than vague, Mavis smoked frantically, Ellie could hardly sit still, Harvey was sunk into gloom, Gwen’s chatter was punctuated by exclamations verging on hysteria, and even Dash seemed on edge. When the doorbell rang, he almost jumped out of his chair.

Judith was on the phone in the living room, trying to convince her mother that it would be best for her to stay at the Rankers’s, at least for a few more hours. Gertrude was not pleased by the prospect, asserting that the world had gotten to be a sorry place when a poor old crippled woman couldn’t live under her own roof without a bunch of damned-fool murderers using her towels, her soap, her dishes, and, for all she knew, her Tums. Begging off after the second ring of the doorbell, Judith arrived in the entry hall at the same moment as Renie.

120 / Mary Daheim

“Where’s Joe?” Judith whispered, peering through the peephole and seeing a stranger on the doorstep.

Renie shot a cautious glance toward the dining room. “He and Price are using lunchtime to snoop around in the guest rooms. They just went up the back stairs.”

Judith gave a little shake of her head, then opened the door. “Yes?”

A balding man with wary blue eyes stood splay-footed on the porch. He was of medium height and wore a plaid sports coat, maroon pants, and a rumpled open-necked shirt. The fine lines around his mouth indicated that he had probably experienced some happy times. The scowl that creased his high forehead showed that this wasn’t one of them.

“Hillside Manor, right?” He made no attempt to shake hands. “I’m Lester Busbee.”

Judith went momentarily blank, but Renie rode to her rescue. “Busbee? Oh,
that
Lester Busbee! We’re so sorry about your sister! Come in, we weren’t expecting you until late this afternoon.”

“Those nitwits in that Cedar River hick town couldn’t get the part for my car until Monday so I rented one,” said Busbee, tromping into the house. “Who killed Wand?”

Enlightened as to the newcomer’s identity, Judith introduced herself and Renie, even as she steered Lester into the living room and out of hearing range of the lunching Brodies.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” she said, “but I imagine you’ll want to talk to the homicide detective first.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Busbee, stopping in his descent onto one of the matching sofas in front of the fireplace. “Haven’t they found the murderer yet?”

Judith assumed an air of dignity as she and Renie seated themselves across from Lester. “If they have, we haven’t been told. After all, everybody here is under suspicion.”

“I should hope so,” said Busbee, reaching for the cranberry glass dish on the coffee table and stuffing a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth. “Anybody who’d knock off
JUST DESSERTS / 121

Wanda would have to be a real creep. She was a good egg.”

The words came out a trifle garbled.

“I don’t suppose,” said Judith casually, “that you’d have any idea who might have wanted her dead?”

Lester reared back in surprise. “Me? Heck, I don’t see that much of her. I’ve been living in Riverside until this last summer. All I know is that she came up here to visit her dad.”

Judith stiffened and Renie twitched. “Her dad,” echoed Judith. “How nice. Your dad, too?”

Lester was shoveling in more nuts. “Nope. Wanda’s dad was our mother’s second husband. We’re half-brother and half-sister. My dad croaked a long time ago.”

Judith’s brain was engaged in trying how to best play Lester Busbee. “Your mother’s still alive then, I take it? This will come as a terrible shock to her.” Despite his lack of sentiment, Lester’s presence underscored the impact of Wanda’s death on her family. Judith mentally berated herself for so far having seen the tragedy only in connection with her B&B enterprise.

Lester cracked his knuckles, swallowed the last of the nuts, and gave Judith an ironic look. “The only thing that shocks Mom is what they hook her up to at the asylum. Come to think of it, they stopped doing that years ago.”

The photo showing young Wanda with her mother at what Judith had at first guessed to be a hotel now made sense. No doubt the teenaged boy in the picture had been Lester, though the resemblance was marginal. Judith guessed him to be some four or five years older than Wanda. “I’m sorry,” said Judith, feeling as if she and Renie had cornered the forgiveness market as far as Lester Busbee was concerned,

“I didn’t know she was…mentally ill.”

Lester pointed a finger at the empty cranberry glass dish.

“Nuts. Just plain nuts, has been ever since Wanda was born.

Before, maybe. She thought she was traffic signs and streetlights and stuff. Must have grown up by a busy intersection.

They took her away when she was being a four-122 / Mary Daheim

way stop at La Cienega and Pico. Brought everything to a dead halt, all right.” His scowl deepened, and he cracked his knuckles as he spoke: “Mom and Dad were divorced when I was two. My dad and his second wife brought me up in San Bernardino. After Mom was hauled off, poor Wanda got stuck with a foster family.”

Renie was staring at the design on the cranberry glass as if seeking inspiration. “Why didn’t Wanda’s father raise her?”

she asked innocently.

Lester shrugged. “He split, not long after they were married. I guess he was from up here. Maybe he went into the service, maybe he didn’t want to be bothered with a kid.

Who knows? But Wanda finally tracked him down two or three years ago, in Palm Springs, as a matter of fact. Then he moved back here and she decided to go see him. They must have hit it off better this time around.”

Judith and Renie avoided looking at each other. They were also careful to keep their voices down, and hopefully in the process, encourage Lester to follow suit. “You mean she spent a lot of time with her dad?” asked Renie, still playing the round-eyed middle-aged ingenue.

Lester had found the mints on the end table. “She must have.” He gave another shrug and chomped away. “She’s been up here for a couple of months at least. When she called me last week she said she and her dad had a big surprise and wouldn’t I like to drive up to help her celebrate?” He dropped a mint on his pants, picked it up, and popped it into his mouth. “So off I go, and some surprise! Wanda gets whacked.

How’s her dad taking it?”

At that very moment, Otto exploded from the dining room, yelling for Judith. “Where the hell is the rest of the scotch?

The bottle I just finished tasted like antifreeze!”

“He’s drinking to forget,” murmured Judith. “Excuse me, Mr. Brodie, but that’s all the scotch I have. The bottle was, I think almost full.”

“So was your birdbath last summer,” snapped Otto. “What kind of a place is this, running out of scotch?”

Judith evaded the issue. “Mr. Brodie, I’d like you to meet
JUST DESSERTS / 123

Lester Busbee.” She paused, waiting for Lester to rise from the couch, and Otto to the bait. But though Lester got up and put out a wary hand, Otto didn’t react as Judith had hoped. “He’s Wanda Rakesh’s brother,” she threw in.

This time, she was rewarded with the most fleeting of shocked expressions. Indeed, under any other circumstances, Otto’s response might have been ascribed to dismay for a grieving relative. “Sorry about all this murder stuff,” he muttered, giving Lester’s hand a perfunctory shake. “Damned shame.” Turning away, he started to trot back toward the dining room.

“Hey,” said Lester, pointing at Otto’s retreating figure,

“what did you say his name was?”

Judith all but smirked. “Brodie. Otto Ernst Brodie.”

Lester charged around the coffee table, knocked the mint dish off onto the carpet, and dove after Otto. “Hold it, Brodie!” he cried, grabbing Otto’s arm. “You’re Wanda’s dad! Haven’t you got more to say than ‘Where’s the scotch’?”

They were standing under the archway between the living room and the dining room. At the oval table, the other guests sat with mouths agape. Gwen actually screamed.

Dash jumped to his feet. “Les!” His greeting was uncertain.

“Ankles!” Lester was still hanging on to Otto.

“Get this lunatic off me!” Otto demanded, fixing his angry little eyes on Lance. “He’s mad as a hatter! Probably comes from a long line of cuckoos!”

Lester decked Otto with one blow. Gwen screamed again, Oriana howled, and Ellie made as if to faint. It was Mavis, not Lance, who flew from the table and locked her fingers in Lester’s lapels.

“Keep your paws off my father-in-law, buster,” she warned, looking him straight in the eye and jiggling him up and down.

“L-Lester, not b-b-buster,” corrected her would-be victim.

“Cut it out, lady, I’ll bet that little creep bumped off my sister!”

124 / Mary Daheim

The little creep was groaning on the floor at Judith’s feet, sounding far more realistic than he had when faking his heart attack. Harvey had rushed to his uncle’s aid, sending the shaken Ellie off to fetch his medical kit.

“Step aside,” he commanded in his most autocratic hospital manner. He leaned over Otto, who was squealing in pain and frustration.

Gwen was torn between defending her father and Lester’s recognition of Dash, but opted for playing the dutiful daughter. “Daddy had a heart attack this very morning! How dare you hurt him!” she wailed, trying to wedge her considerable bulk between Lester and Mavis. “How dare you speak to Dash!”