Major Vices (7 page)

No one replied. Finally, Mrs. Wakefield recalled that there was an old sewing cabinet in the third-floor attic. Mason Meade volunteered to go look for it. Trixie insisted on accompanying him.

“I know the way,” she said, clutching his arm and heading for the main staircase. “Now, Mason, don't pay any attention to what Jill and Holly say about ages and…” The pair disappeared above the first landing.

Toadie confronted Judith. “What do you intend to do?”

Judith attempted a smile. “I hate to admit it, but I've always had a knack for picking locks. I used to do it when I was a kid. You know, just for fun.” She didn't add that she had also done it, more recently, out of necessity. There had been occasions in the past few years when Judith had needed to gain access to locked rooms, not for fun or even idle curiosity. Judith and Renie had usually been on the trail of a killer. Of course, this was not the case now.

“Snooping,” breathed Toadie. “Really, Judith, now I know it was you who took my topaz brooch back in 1951. I always suspected as much. Then there was the twenty-dollar bill that went missing from Corky's wallet a couple
of years later. I shall have to deduct those amounts from your catering bill.”

Judith couldn't believe her ears. She knew Trixie had taken the brooch for a game of dress-up and Cousin Marty had swiped the money to buy a model airplane. What had become of the brooch was not known to Judith, though she supposed that Trixie had lost it in her usual brainless manner. As for the airplane, Uncle Corky's Siberian husky had sat on it. Judith turned away and counted to ten.

Derek was still fiddling with the door. “We could take it off its hinges,” he said.

Holly put a hand on her husband's arm. “Stop, darling. You'll wrinkle your nice suit.” She brushed at some dust on his pin-striped jacket. “Wait and see if Judith can't pick the lock. I think it's very clever of her.”

With her wig sliding backward, Aunt Vivvie's forehead had grown higher and was seamed with deep lines. “I don't know—if Boo wanted to see us, he'd let us in. Why don't we leave the poor dear alone? He's not used to so much company. Rosie could be very antisocial.”

But before anyone could debate Vivvie's advice, Trixie and Mason reappeared, armed with not one but two crochet hooks. “That sewing stuff must have belonged to Boo's mother,” said Trixie. “There's a picture of Mussolini in her darning kit.”

“Darning kit?” muttered Renie. “Why would anybody that rich need to darn?”

“Darned if I know,” retorted Mrs. Wakefield. “Maybe she was bored. Hey, let's see your cousin strut her stuff.”

Everyone backed off as Judith knelt next to the lock. The audience made her nervous. On the first four tries, nothing happened. Then, as she concentrated on her work rather than on those dubious eyes, Judith felt something give. A click followed, and the doorknob turned. Jill, Zoe, Holly, and Mrs. Wakefield cheered.

Judith stepped aside to let Derek into the den. Indeed, the entire crew stampeded at his heels. Judith exchanged a look of dismay with Renie. They were straggling in together when Aunt Vivvie screamed. So did Aunt Toadie.
And Holly and Jill and Zoe and Mrs. Wakefield. Derek and Mason groaned.

The cousins tried to peer around and through the crowd which had gathered at Uncle Boo's desk. “What…?” Judith began, then saw Jill turn away, her hands pressing against her pale face.

“He's dead,” she gasped out. “It looks like he's been shot! I can't believe it!”

Judith could.

T
HE COMMOTION IN
the den set Judith's teeth on edge and frayed Renie's temper. Toadie shrieked; Vivvie howled; Holly moaned; Derek groaned; Trixie again fell in Mason Meade's arms. This time her collapse seemed genuine. At last the cousins were able to get a closer look. Neither wanted to, but they felt the call of duty. After all, Judith was a policeman's wife. She was also well acquainted with murder. Violent death had crossed her path too often. Some people were lucky at winning lotteries and contests and door prizes. Others were accident-prone, breaking bones and limbs like so many dishes. Then there was Judith, whose life-style constantly brought her into contact with strangers. And with murder.

But Boo Major was no stranger. He was distant kin, and the cousins felt an obligation. Side by side, they gazed at his body, slumped forward on the desk. His gray hair hung lankly, with a smear of blood and a large, ugly hole in his right temple. His profile was turned to the wall, eyes wide, mouth agape. Judith winced; Renie swallowed hard.

Derek had gone around behind Boo's chair. He stooped to retrieve a book which had fallen out of the
case between the two windows. “We've got to do something,” he said, his voice thick. “What is it?”

Mrs. Wakefield was fending off Aunt Vivvie, who was leaning heavily on her. “Call the police? Isn't that what people do when somebody gets whacked?”

Trixie, who was now half-sitting, half-lying in one of the two side chairs, brightened. “The police! Of course! Let's do that!”

Jill reached for the black handset on the desk, but Judith restrained her. “Wait—let's call from the phone in the entry hall,” she urged. “We shouldn't touch anything. In fact, we all ought to get out of here right now.”

Whatever resentment the others might have shown earlier toward Judith seemed to fade in the face of death. Obediently, the family members, as well as the Wakefields, trooped out of the den. Judith and Renie lingered briefly.

“Look at the floor,” Judith said in a low voice. “Is that dust or ashes?”

Renie bent down. Small gray particles were scattered all over the boxed parquet floor. “Ash?” Reluctantly, she moved back to the desk. There was more of the same residue in the brass-and-wood ashtray. “Uncle Boo's cigar, maybe. When he fell forward, the ashes were scattered around the room.”

Judith nodded. “Could be.” She stared at the big carton which had contained the new TV set. Her eyes traveled to the windows flanking the bookcase behind Uncle Boo. The casements were latched from the inside. The floor itself revealed no wet footprints, no stains, no heel marks. A key, presumably to the den, lay innocently near the brandy snifter. The cousins bowed their heads in Uncle Boo's direction, crossed themselves, and closed the door behind them.

 

It was Derek Rush who seemed to have taken over as head of the family. He had commandeered the phone in the entry hall alcove. Holly stood next to him, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. The others had returned to the living room. They were arguing about when it would be ap
propriate to leave, but for once, their manner was low-key, almost reasonable.

“We can't leave until the police come,” Vivvie asserted. “I watch TV. I know that's how it works with shootings.”

Aunt Toadie had recovered her nerve. She had no compunction about sitting in Uncle Boo's favorite wing-back chair. Her posture was very straight, her demeanor that of an empress seated on a throne. “The weather is getting terrible. It must be freezing outside. If we don't leave now, we'll never get out of here.”

Mason Meade stood at one of the four mullioned windows that looked out over the front lawn. “Mr. Major seemed so cheerful. Why would he kill himself?”

Still agitated, Aunt Vivvie darted a look at Mason from her place on the sofa. “Kill himself? Who said he did?”

Mason turned, a startled expression on his craggy face. “Why, what else could it be? The den was locked.”

Caressing the brandy glass with its fresh refill, Trixie scoffed at her fiancé's pronouncement. “Mason, darling! That's crazy! You don't know Uncle Boo! It was an accident! He must have been cleaning his guns.”

“What guns?” demanded Mrs. Wakefield, as she warmed her broad backside in front of the fire. “Boo Major was in the infantry in World War Two, but he gave his guns away a long time ago.”

Toadie's and Vivvie's heads swung around simultaneously as Derek Rush returned from using the telephone. “What is it? Why are you staring at me?”

Vivvie gestured nervously with her beringed hands. “Boo's guns. He gave them to you when you turned eighteen.”

Derek tipped his long, narrow head to one side. “He did?” His lean features were pained. “Poor Uncle Boo,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “He was always so good to me…” Getting a grip on his emotions, he gazed at his mother. “I rather remember it now. I suppose I put them away. I don't recall where. Do you?”

Vivvie put a fluttering hand on her bosom. “Oh! No, I don't. Your father would have…But he's gone, too. And
now Boo is dead…oh, my!” She burst into a new spate of tears.

“Wait a minute,” said Jill from the piano bench. Her face was still pale and her usual panache was missing. “What's all this suicide-and-accident crap? If Boo shot himself, where's the gun?”

Judith and Renie, who were sitting on a striped settee near the piano, kept quiet. By mutual, silent consent, they had decided to withdraw from the fray, at least until the police arrived.

Toadie seemed to agree with her daughter. “It must have been one of those freak mishaps. The gun fell on the floor. It's probably under the desk.”

Jill made a slashing gesture with her hand. “That's bull, Aunt Toadie. Boo had a lot to look forward to. Believe me, he had no reason to kill himself.” She paused, her brown eyes traveling from face to face. “Well? Don't you get it?”

Judith watched curiously; Renie shifted impatiently. The only light in the room came from the candle-shaped wall sconces and the dying fire in the big grate. Long shadows played against the cream-colored stucco walls. The small, leaded-glass panes were streaked with rain; the big house had grown quite chilly. All of the faces turned toward Jill were anxious, strained, and wary.

Finally, the truth descended upon the room, from the coved ceiling with its nautical rope decor to the lush pattern of the handsome Oriental carpets. It was Derek who was the first to comprehend. His wolflike features sagged, his hunted eyes bulged, and his long, thin fingers clawed at the back of the sofa on which his mother sat.

“You mean—
murder?
” His voice was incredulous. “Jill, my dear, how could you think—” Derek bit his lower lip, unable to continue.

Vivvie stopped weeping, but turned on the sofa to grab at her son's hand. “Derek! No! It's too awful!”

“It's silly,” Trixie insisted. “Why are you always so grim, Derek? Lighten up.”

Derek stiffened, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He removed a pack of cigarettes and a book of
matches from the inside pocket of his suit coat, and defiantly began to smoke. “You're a fool, Trixie. For once, don't dodge reality. Somebody killed Uncle Boo.”

In the arched doorway, Zoe reeled. “Wow! This is heavy! This is grimmer than Ibsen! In fact,” she went on with a catch in her voice, “this is horrible!” With her hair streaming behind her, she fled out through the entry hall.

Jill seemed transfixed. “The maid's right. This is more than I can handle. Poor Boo!” Flinging a hand over her face, she leaped off the piano bench and also raced away.

Holly Rush's face crumpled. “My poor baby! I must go to her! Jill!” Holly hastened after her grieving daughter.

“I can't believe this.” Aunt Toadie spoke in an unusually thin voice. “Imagine! Murder! It's so embarrassing!”

“Now, Mummy,” soothed Trixie, “look at the bright side. We may get our pictures in the paper or even on TV. It'll be good publicity for my home fashion business. Women can't resist buying clothes from a celebrity. Look at Arnold Palmer.”

“What?” Renie couldn't contain her dismay. “Good God, what has Arnold Palmer got to do with women's fashions? And when did you start peddling clothes?”

Trixie shot Renie an indignant look. “You know—those golf sweaters. They've been the rage for years. For men. But women wear them sometimes. I've been a Wear-House Dressing rep for almost two years. It's really great. Want to see my catalogs?”

“Oh, egad,” groaned Renie. “
No
.”

Trixie looked offended, but before she could challenge Renie, Mason Meade held up his hands. “Listen! I hear sirens. Here come the police.”

Trixie and Derek joined Mason at the window. On the settee, Judith could hear the faint wail of the approaching squad car. The little group waited in silence. It seemed to be taking a long time for the police to arrive. Judith craned her neck to look out the window. To her surprise, the rain had blown out across the bay, and the wind had died down. A bank of fog was rolling in over The Bluff. Anxiously, she wondered about the driving conditions.

At last the red-and-blue flashing lights were spotted at
the corner. The police car crept up the street. So did the ambulance that followed. A third vehicle skidded at the intersection, then veered into the curb. Judith's heart sank. She knew the pavement must be covered with black ice. Her chances of getting home plummeted.

Straining to see, Toadie got to her feet. “They're coming in the
front?
Oh, good heavens! They should use the tradesmen's entrance! Don't they have any sense of decency?” She whirled on Judith, who was still sitting next to Renie on the settee. “Aren't you living with a policeman? You must speak to him about this breach of conduct.”

“Actually, I'm married to—” Judith broke off as the front doorbell chimed. Derek had already gone into the hall to greet the police. The living room again fell silent. A booming masculine voice bounced off the walls. Some sort of protest issued from Derek Rush, then was drowned out by the much-louder new arrival.

The voice belonged to the man who now filled the doorway. Tall, broad, and bellicose, the homicide detective wore white. His woolen overcoat, his Stetson hat, his stiffly starched shirt, his crisply pressed pants, his calf-high boots, were white. Only his red tie and black driving gloves broke up the monotone color scheme. When he whipped off the hat, his hair was white, too. Or at least a very pale blond.

“Buck Doerflinger here,” he bellowed. “Where's the stiff?”

Everyone but Judith cringed. She groaned and grabbed Renie's arm. Renie looked puzzled.

Derek was fighting hard to keep his dignity. “My uncle's body is in the den,” he said, pointing to the small passage that led off the entry hall. “Come, I'll show you—”

Buck Doerflinger brushed Derek off as if he were a gnat. “You stay put,” Buck admonished. He glared around the living room. “The rest of you, too. We need fingerprints from all of you. I'll be back.” Buck thundered away. The footsteps of the other police officers and the ambu
lance attendants could be heard traipsing to the murder scene.

Renie unfastened Judith's deathlike grip from her arm. “That hurts, coz. What's wrong?”

Judith lowered her voice. “Buck Doerflinger is what's wrong. He's Joe's archrival at headquarters.”

Enlightenment dawned on Renie. “Oh! I remember! Joe's always bitching about what a grandstander Doerflinger is. Lots of noise, not much action. The Master of the Obvious.”

“That's the one.” Judith fell back against the settee. “Damn! Why couldn't Joe have been assigned to this case? Instead, he's off on a wild-goose chase, looking for the Mayor's cousin, who's probably holed up in a motel with cheap champagne and an expensive hooker.”

“It might be a conflict of interest if Joe had gotten this case,” Renie said in what she hopped was a calming tone. “Hey, it's after ten. I'd better call Bill before he goes to bed. We may be stuck here for a while.”

That, Judith feared, was putting it mildly. She accompanied Renie to the hall phone, noting en route that two uniformed officers stood outside the den. The door was closed, but she could still hear Buck Doerflinger.

Renie's conversation with her husband was not as brief as usual. Bill Jones did not like the telephone. He used it as seldom as possible. But Renie's news was such that Bill was forced not only to hear her out, but to ask some questions as well.

“Maybe I should call Mother,” Judith said after Renie had finally hung up.

Renie dissuaded Judith. “She'll worry. She won't admit it, but she will. Wait until Joe gets home and phone him. Then he can go out to the toolshed and tell her in person. That'll make her feel better.”

Judith looked askance at Renie. “Talking to Joe will make Mother feel better? Are you nuts? That's like asking a man sitting on a keg of dynamite if he's got a match!”

Renie shrugged. “Go ahead. Call her. Tell her Uncle Boo's been shot to death in a locked room, a big-mouthed imbecile is handling the investigation, and we're iced in
on The Bluff with Aunt Toadie and the rest of the loathsome Lotts.” Renie smiled thinly. “Well? Dial away, coz.”

Judith stomped off toward the main entrance. “Later. Let's go check on the weather. Maybe it's not as bad as we think.”

Without their coats, the cousins felt the damp cold straight through to the bone. Unfamiliar with the front of Major Manor, they carefully picked their way down the walk that led to the street. Another uniformed policeman standing next to one of the squad cars told them to go no farther. They must stay within the grounds.

Annoyed, Judith marched along the grass, which was frosty but not as dangerous as the icy pavement. Through the drifting fog she could make out the half-timbered overhang above the dining area, the crenellated staircase tower which matched the design of the extended entrance, and the fine old oak door lighted by a ship's lantern. The beacon also illuminated a coat of arms depicting a lion rampant clutching a spoon. Wheat, oats, barley, corn, flax, and rice symbols flanked the lion. The name MAJOR was etched at the top; the date 1933 was at the bottom.