Major Vices (6 page)

“You ate everything but the centerpiece,” Judith broke in. “We hardly need to wash the dishes. I think you licked them clean.” Judith turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen. Derek looked startled; Holly appeared crushed; Aunt Vivvie seemed on the verge of tears; Uncle Boo had crème brûlée all over his chin.

“That does it,” Judith muttered, black eyes flashing at Renie. “Let's clean up this place and get out of here.”

Renie was more than willing. To the cousins' surprise, Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe offered to help. The dishwasher had already finished one cycle. Zoe removed the clean items; her mother reloaded. Renie scraped plates; Judith scoured pans. The diners retreated to the living room, except for Uncle Boo, who headed for his den.

Peeking out into the entry hall, Mrs. Wakefield chuckled. “He's had enough of that crew. I'll bet he finagled the key out of Mrs. G. and is going to lock himself in. Old Boo's no dope.”

“W-e-ll…” Judith hedged, then laughed as she turned out the lamps on the dining room table. “Maybe not. When do the rest of them go home?”

Mrs. Wakefield removed the lamps and began stripping
the table. “Not a minute too soon,” she muttered, then glanced out the window. “In fact, if I were them, I'd leave now. The wind's coming from the north. Look at those trees.”

Judith went to the leaded bay window, from which she could see the tall yew trees swaying next to the brick wall that separated the property from the sidewalk. The hard rain was now coming down on a slant, its freezing drops punishing the expanse of lawn between the house and the herbaceous borders.

“It looks miserable out there,” Judith agreed. “Let me check the thermometer by the kitchen window.”

The mercury had fallen to thirty-four. Judith urged Renie to hurry. They were loading the cartons when a loud noise made them jump.

Zoe, who had been putting clean dishes away, almost dropped a stack of butter plates. “What was
that?
”

Her mother's head darted in several directions. “Damned if I know, kid. It sounded like an explosion.”

Still looking startled, Zoe twitched her lips in a smile. “Maybe Mrs. G. blew up.”

“Dream on,” muttered Mrs. Wakefield.

Zoe's wish was in vain. Toadie appeared in the kitchen door, bug-eyed and apprehensive. She did not, however, cross the threshold. It occurred to Judith that even in a time of anxiety, Toadie Grover wouldn't deign to put her fine foot down on serf turf.

“Did you drop something and break it?” she asked, her voice a trifle hoarse.

Judith shook her head. “The noise didn't come from in here.”

Toadie scanned the kitchen, apparently to make sure. “Then what was it?” she inquired. Her charm bracelets jangled as she nervously fingered the half-glasses which hung around her neck.

Mrs. Wakefield's aplomb had returned. “A car, maybe. Or somebody ran into a pole. Who knows?” She shrugged her stout shoulders. “It's a nasty night out there. You folks ought to be heading home.”

Toadie's nerve hardened. So did her expression. “We're
finishing Derek's brandy. His taste is deplorable, but we're drinking it to be polite.”

She was about to sweep away when the downstairs door opened. Weed Wakefield entered the kitchen. His body was plastered with beet greens. He stared vacantly at his wife.

“Your pot blew up.” He patted his shirt pocket. “It's a good thing I've got mine.” Weed broke into uncontrollable laughter.

The housekeeper gaped at her mate, then whirled in his direction. “Oh, for God's sake! You mean the pressure cooker? Hell's bells, what a mess! Weed, are you scalded? What were you doing?” She pushed him back toward the open door to the basement.

“Watching it, just like you told me…”

“Get below, let me see if you're all right…”

The Wakefields disappeared down the stairs. Toadie uttered an indecipherable exclamation, threw up her hands, and stomped off. Zoe giggled while the cousins returned to their tasks. Renie scrubbed the durable one-inch tiles on the counters. Judith swept the linoleum, then wiped it down with a damp rag. Cantankerous voices were raised in the living room: Aunt Vivvie emitted a wail; Trixie's laughter verged on hysteria; Derek's low voice rumbled with warning; Jill drowned them out with a few chords from Chopin. More faintly, a soft thud emanated from somewhere in the house.

“Poor Pop,” Zoe remarked, eating the last roll. “I'll bet he fainted. He can be really ineffectual sometimes.”

Judith didn't comment, but Renie made a face. “Does he ever do anything around here?” she asked.

Zoe had propped herself up on a kitchen stool. “Oh, sure, he does what he has to. Handyman stuff. Errands. Driving to doctor and dentist appointments for the old coot a couple of times a year.” She stuck out one long, slim leg and admired its shapeliness. “Pop's not stoned all the time. He usually smokes only before and after meals. Oh, and in the evening.”

That covered most of Weed's waking hours, as far as Judith could tell. If Weed's self-induced euphoria could in
deed be considered a state of consciousness. Master and servant were well suited. Neither was in sharp focus.

“Who,” Renie asked, stuffing the last of Judith's plastic containers into the cardboard box, “hired your parents?”

Zoe tugged at her earlobe. “Mrs. Major, I guess. Rosie, Boo's wife. I was a baby at the time. Dunlop had servants, but they were as old as he was. They died, too, all about the same time. Boo didn't want to bother getting new staff, but Mrs. Major must have convinced him. She usually did.”

Judith nodded. “Rosie Major was a forceful woman. She could be a nag, but I always thought she was the most agreeable of the three Lott sisters.”

With a languid toss of her head, Zoe sniffed. “Isn't that like choosing your favorite disease? Those women are all awful, if you ask me.”

The cousins didn't argue. Haste was imperative if they were to beat the falling temperature. There were few leftovers, except for the wine. Judith had the feeling that if she hadn't kept the cases in the kitchen, they, too, would have disappeared along with all of the food. Aunt Toadie probably had a secret cache. Judith wouldn't put it past her to return the unopened bottles to the liquor store.

Flushed and fanning herself with her hand, Mrs. Wakefield returned. Zoe expressed mild interest in her father's welfare.

“Did he get burned or does he know the difference?” Zoe seemed inured to Weed's mishaps.

Mrs. Wakefield cupped a hand around her ear. “What? Oh, he's okay, except for a couple of places on his face. I fixed him up with some ointment. Maybe that'll teach him not to peek into a pressure cooker.”

“They're dangerous,” Renie declared, closing up one of the boxes. “My mother's blew a hole in the ceiling once.”

Judith gave Renie a sidelong look. “That's because your dad put a cherry bomb in it. He didn't like pressure cookers, either.”

“He didn't like chokecherry jam, which was what Mom was making,” Renie replied. “I didn't blame him, but nowadays it's sold as a delicacy up at Falstaff's—”

Another loud noise jolted the four women. “Now what?” Mrs. Wakefield sighed. “I put what was left of the beets in a kettle.”

Zoe swiveled on the stool. “What about Pop?”

“I put what was left of him to bed.” The housekeeper peered out through the dining room and into the entry hall. “Jill and that low-life fiancé of Trixie's are out there, nosing around. I can hear Vivvie Rush sniveling all the way from the living room.”

Judith was closing the last of the cartons. “That almost sounded like a firecracker. Was it outside or in the house?”

Mrs. Wakefield was removing her white apron, which was now stained with meat juices, beets, and a good many patches of dirt. “Hard to tell. With that wind blowing, sound gets distorted. You need some help with those boxes?”

The offer was accepted. With Zoe joining in, the car could be loaded in just one trip. But as soon as they reached the cement steps on the back porch, they realized that it was beginning to ice up outside.

“Be careful,” Mrs. Wakefield urged. “It's getting ugly outside.”

“It's ugly inside,” Renie retorted. “At least in the living room. Those lamebrains better button it up and head home.”

The street was still mainly wet, but the sleet was blinding. The quartet trod cautiously, feeling the wind bite into their faces. For the return trip, everything could be loaded into the trunk. Judith slammed the lid shut and spoke through half-closed eyes:

“Thanks so much for helping us. We honestly couldn't have done it without you two.”

Mrs. Wakefield had allowed her daughter to take her arm. “No problem,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “Be careful.”

“Right,” Judith responded, unlocking the car door. “'Bye, now.” Heads lowered, the Wakefield women started back toward the big house.

Renie swore. “I forgot my purse.”

Judith swore, too. “You're an idiot.”

“I'll be right back,” said Renie, stepping off the curb.

Judith shut the car door. “I'll go with you. You'll fall down. And we really should say good night to Uncle Boo. Three minutes won't make any difference.”

The cousins clung to each other as they picked their way back across the street. There were definitely icy patches, but Judith had studded tires on her blue Japanese compact. Once they got to the bottom of the steep hill that led up to Major Manor, there should be no further problems.

Zoe let them in. “What's wrong?” she asked, her auburn hair now loosened and falling over her shoulders. Mrs. Wakefield was emptying the most recent load of dishes.

Renie explained, then espied her handbag sitting on the floor next to the refrigerator. “We wanted to say good night to Uncle Boo,” she added.

“Get in line,” said Mrs. Wakefield, gesturing toward the entry hall. “The goon squad is about to leave. They're making nice in the den.”

But they weren't. The guests had gathered in the little corridor between the entry hall and Boo's sanctuary. Derek was pounding on the door; Toadie was shouting. Uncle Boo obviously didn't want to be disturbed. The cousins couldn't blame him.

Toadie was looking vexed. “He took my key and now he won't open the door.”

Vivvie shot her sister a reproachful look. “You wore him out with all this partying. I'll bet he's taking a nap.”

“Some bet,” remarked Jill, her brown leather jacket hanging over one arm. “I like the odds.”

Trixie eyed Jill. “Don't be snide, you little snip. Uncle Boo is so thoughtful—he wouldn't smoke his cigars in front of us because they make your grandmother sneeze.”

Jill returned stare for stare. “
You
make Grandmother sneeze. A lot of people are allergic to you, Trixie, including three out of three of your ex—”

“Ohhh!” Trixie clutched at her throat and staggered. “I feel strange! All weak and shivery!” She allowed Mason Meade to take her in his arms.

“Menopause,” muttered Jill. “It's probably a hot flash. You
are
almost fifty, aren't you, Aunt Trixie?”

Trixie started to bolt out of Mason's embrace, then remembered her allegedly fragile state. “Hardly! I turned forty just a short time ago.”

Renie rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother!”

“Trixie's three years younger than I am,” Judith said out of the corner of her mouth.

It was Holly, however, who set the record straight: “Let me think—I was born in '51, and you're seven years older than I am, Trixie, so that makes you—”

“Unconscious!” cried Mason Meade as Trixie collapsed in his arms. “Quick! Do something!”

Mrs. Wakefield did. She marched up to the recumbent Trixie Bellew and slapped her across the face. Trixie's eyes flew open, her body recoiled, and she glared fiercely at the housekeeper.

“You fool! How dare you! That
hurt!
”

Mrs. Wakefield shrugged. “Brought you around, didn't it? Ever try a dose of smelling salts? They're nasty.”

Angrily, Toadie wedged herself between her daughter and the housekeeper. “That's grounds for dismissal, Mrs. Wakefield! I'm going to report this incident to Mr. Major!”

Mrs. Wakefield yawned extravagantly. “Go ahead. I'll bet he gets real excited, especially if you tell him he got a birthday card from Saturn.”

At the door to the den, Derek was still trying to turn the knob. He pushed, he shoved, he wiggled and jiggled. He also shouted. There was no response, either from the door or from Uncle Boo.

“I wouldn't come out, either,” Renie whispered to Judith. “If Boo stalls long enough, they'll all go home.”

“Us, too,” Judith whispered back, then frowned. “You don't suppose he's sick?”

Renie made a face. “Hardly. He's asleep, as usual. If everybody shut up, we could probably hear him snore.”

Derek turned to Aunt Toadie. “Is there another key?”

Toadie shook her head. “No. The one I gave him was
the only key to the den. The lock for every room is tooled differently.”

Mrs. Wakefield guffawed. “A lot you know! There's a master key for all the rooms.”

Everyone stared at the housekeeper. Trixie, now recovered from whatever had been ailing her, glowered at Mrs. Wakefield. “Well? Where is it? Go get it so we can open the blasted door.”

But Mrs. Wakefield suddenly looked blank. “I'm not sure. Weed had all the keys on a big ring he kept downstairs by the furnace room. But I haven't seen it in weeks. Shall I ask him?”

Derek's dark eyes narrowed. “You shall indeed. And if he can't find those keys, tell him to bring a crowbar.”

With a sigh of resignation, Judith stepped forward. “Hold it,” she said, feeling all eyes now upon her. “That's a beautiful Philippine mahogany door, and I'd hate to see it ruined. Has anybody got a crochet hook?”