Major Vices (8 page)

Despite the chilling cold, Judith turned to head for what she presumed was the lily pond. “Let's see if it's iced over. If it is, we're sunk.”

Judith and Renie clung to each other as they proceeded slowly down a short flight of flagstone steps. The pond was large, circular, and surrounded by brickwork. Some of the bricks had been removed, presumably to replace damaged masonry in the house. Three curved wrought-iron benches would provide restful relaxation in better weather. But now the lily pads were submerged under a sheet of ice. Judith made a choking sound.

“It's got to be thirty degrees or less,” she fretted. “We're doomed, coz. If the police can't take us home, we're stuck here for the duration.”

“The police barely made it here themselves,” Renie reminded her as they struggled back up the flagstone steps. “Black ice screws up everybody in this town. Too many hills.”

Irritably, Judith nodded. She began to worry about how
Joe would get back to Heraldsgate Hill. Or how the guests would fare at the B&B. And if Gertrude was keeping warm and snug in the toolshed.

“Stop fussing,” Renie urged. “If Joe has to, he can walk home from the bottom of the hill. Your mother's already spent one winter in her new place, and she was just fine. The guests can fend for themselves. It serves them right for taking a vacation in February. Nobody can predict the weather around here, especially at this time of year. We can have a false spring, with lots of shrubs in bloom, or a blizzard with two feet of snow. Remember what Grandma Grover used to say about buying primroses before St. Valentine's Day? ‘Fools' flowers,' she called them, because we'd have a frost and they'd die.”

“Yeah, right.” Judith only half-heard Renie's monologue. Shaking with cold, she tried to open the front door. It was locked. Renie rang the bell. One of the uniformed policemen who had been standing by the den let them in. He didn't seem too happy about it.

“I'd advise you two to remain inside,” he said with a trace of a Texas accent as he led them through the double inner doors with their stained-glass panels. “There may be a killer lurkin' around out there.”

“Yeah, right,” Judith repeated. Her indifference to danger made the policeman frown. The cousins headed back into the living room.

Buck Doerflinger had not yet reappeared. Aunt Toadie was again ensconced in the wing chair, now drinking a stiff gin martini. Mason Meade was trying to get the fire going. Aunt Vivvie twittered on the sofa while Derek tried to pacify her. Trixie played “Chopsticks” on the piano, possibly for the tenth time, since Derek finally asked her to desist.

“Music lightens the mood,” Trixie pouted. “You're such a sobersides, Derek. It's all right if Jill pounds away at this old keyboard, but you always want to spoil everybody else's fun.”

“Fun?” echoed Judith, going to the hearth to warm herself. “Trixie, you are unbelievable.”

Trixie slid off the piano bench. “Look,” she admon
ished, waving a manicured finger. “It's sad that Uncle Boo is dead, I'll give you that. But he didn't have to suffer. If he'd lived longer, he might have gotten some awful disease and lingered and been in pain and writhed around in bed forever. Try to see the bright side—he's out of all that misery.”

“But he was never in it,” protested Renie, joining Judith by the rekindled fire. “Furthermore, the man was murdered. Doesn't that bother you, Trixie?”

If it did, Trixie didn't let on. She straightened the ruffle on the low neckline of her red crepe jacket. “Gloom and doom,” she murmured, “doom and gloom. What good does it do?”

The rhetorical question went unanswered. Buck Doerflinger blew into the room like a winter storm. “First we get fingerprints. Then we'll be interrogating suspects in the dining room,” he announced. “The den's off limits for a while.”

Behind Buck, Judith could see Uncle Boo being wheeled away in a body bag. She closed her eyes briefly, saying a mental prayer. The intention was there, but her concentration was demolished. Aunt Toadie had leaped to her feet and was shrieking like a harpy.

“Fingerprints! Suspects! What are you talking about!”

Buck's steely gaze would have mowed down almost any hardened criminal. But Aunt Toadie was made of sterner—and meaner—stuff. She headed straight for the detective, matching shriek for bellow. Judith and Renie returned to the settee.

“We'll take you first, lady, since you're so anxious to make trouble,” Buck shouted. He signaled to the Texan. “Rigby! Get a move on! Where's your fingerprinting kit?”

Officer Rigby responded with alacrity. Despite Toadie's outraged protests, she was subjected to the inkpad. “I'll have your badge!” she rasped at Doerflinger. “The chief of police is my hairdresser's next-door neighbor's sister-in-law!”

Buck ignored the threat. He waved a majestic arm in the direction of the dining room. “Okay, lady, get in there and
start answering some tough questions. This isn't no birthday party.”

“But it is,” Trixie called after the detective and her mother. “You know, we should have had balloons. Why didn't I think of that?”

Even Mason Meade seemed put off by his fiancée's remark. “Uh, Trixie—we shouldn't worry about the past. What's done is done. Or not done, in this case.” Mason hadn't left his station by the window. “What's bothering me is how we get out of here,” he fretted, with one eye on Officer Rigby, who was making the rounds with his fingerprinting kit. “I have an early appointment in the morning.”

Trixie gave an unconcerned shrug. “Whoever you're meeting is probably iced in, too.” She stroked the arms of the sea-green chair in which she was lounging. “Besides, you need to take a good look at the outside of the house if you're going to bid on the masonry work.” Trixie favored the room with an ingratiating smile. “It's such a coincidence that you should be here on the very day that the masons were fired!”

Mason Meade didn't look pleased. “Yes, yes,” he replied edgily, “but I'd rather it hadn't also been the same day your uncle got killed.”

Trixie was unmoved by her fiancé's quibbles. She submitted to Officer Rigby with a flirtatious smile, and when he had finished his fingerprinting task, she began to hum tunelessly. “You know, we could decorate Uncle Boo's casket with balloons. Since he died on his birthday, that would be a really nice touch.”

Next to Judith, Renie began to splutter. Officer Rigby completed his job and hurried from the room. Judith didn't blame him for beating a hasty retreat. In an effort at keeping the fragile peace, she got to her feet. “Say, it occurs to me that this is a family matter after all.” Judith paused, not only for the baffled faces that had turned toward her, but for the return of Holly and Jill Rush. Both women's fingers were stained with black ink and their eyes were rimmed in red. It occurred to Judith that they, along with Derek, might be the only people present who were genuinely grieving for Uncle Boo.

Vivvie's blue-eyed gaze followed her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter as they both sat down on the piano bench. Mother and daughter appeared to be seeking mutual support. Vivvie asked her daughter-in-law to fix her a teensy vodka martini.

“You're not related to us,” Vivvie said to Judith, then made a quavery gesture with her hands. “That is, not by blood. You needn't feel any…responsibility.”

“But we do,” Judith averred. “We were in this house when Boo was killed.” She saw Vivvie shudder and Holly shiver as the vodka martini was passed from daughter-in-law to mother-in-law. “Naturally, I have the utmost confidence in Detective Doerflinger,” Judith went on as the lie tripped glibly off her tongue, “but having had some experience with police investigations, I can tell you that the officers won't tell us much, at least not right away. I think we owe it to ourselves to do a little sleuthing on our own.”

Derek Rush glumly shook his head; Aunt Vivvie waved her handkerchief in a negative manner; Holly turned away; Mason Meade looked alarmed; Trixie screwed up her face in a disgusted manner. Only Jill expressed agreement.

“You're right, Judith. The police have procedures and forms and a ton of paperwork. It's going to take them forever just to talk to each one of us. If nothing else, we can help pass the time by trying to sort all this out on our own.”

Trixie now looked puzzled. “You mean like playing Clue?”

“Right, Trixie,” Renie replied in a condescending manner. “Like, ‘Uncle Boo was killed in the den with the revolver by'—fill in the blank.”

Trixie's eyes grew round. “He was killed by
blanks?
Is that possible?”

Judith gritted her teeth. “Actually, it is, but I don't think that's what happened here. The first thing we should establish is where everybody was when the murder occurred.”

Derek's initial opposition faded. “But we don't know exactly when it happened.”

“True,” Judith agreed. “Let's try to narrow down the time factor. When did Uncle Boo go into the den?”

Vivvie batted her blue eyes with their false lashes. “Oh, dear! It was after dessert—why, I've no idea!”

Jill, however, had the time nailed down to the minute. She held out her wrist with its digital watch: “It was nine-oh-one.”

Trixie tossed her bleached blond head. “Now, how would you happen to know that, Miss Smarty-Pants?”

Jill gave her first cousin once-removed a venomous look. “I was trying to figure out how much longer everybody'd have to stick around this place. Do you think I enjoy family get-togethers? I'd rather be attacked by killer bees.”

Trixie stiffened, but it was Holly who spoke. “Jill, dearest, don't say such things! Especially now that Uncle Boo is dead.”

Jill appeared unfazed by her mother's criticism. “I'm not referring to Boo. He was…lovable.” She lowered her dark eyes, stared at the piano keyboard, then softly played a few bars of “Can't Help Lovin' That Man,” ending on an off-key note. “This thing's out of tune,” she complained. “It's as if when Boo died, the strings lost heart. If pianos have souls, this one senses tragedy and evil.”

Holly patted her daughter's shoulder. “You're distressed, Jill. Don't take it out on the piano. Or your family. We're all undone.”

Jill's eyes darted around the room. “Some more than others,” she said in a brittle voice.

“So,” Judith noted before further wrangling could break out, “Boo went into the den at one minute past nine. What did the rest of you do then?”

Derek, who had been slowly pacing up and down the hearth, stopped and regarded Judith thoughtfully. “I believe we lingered at the table for another five minutes. Then we adjourned to the living room for brandy.”

Judith nodded. “Did anyone leave the room after that?”

It seemed to her that covert glances were exchanged around the room. Aunt Vivvie was the first to speak: “Heavens, no! We didn't budge until it was time to leave.”

“Which was…?” coaxed Judith.

“Nine-thirty-seven,” Jill replied promptly. This time, no one questioned her accuracy.

“So,” Judith mused aloud, “Uncle Boo must have been killed in that time span. Did anyone hear the shot?”

“My, yes!” Vivvie avowed excitedly.

“No,” Trixie stated emphatically.

“I'm not sure,” Derek replied hesitantly.

“The pressure cooker,” Holly put in. “Aunt Toadie said the loud noise was a pressure cooker exploding in the servants' quarters.”

“There was more than one noise,” Jill insisted. “In fact, I heard at least three distinct sounds—including that dumb pressure cooker.”

“Three?” Derek gave his daughter a dubious look. He moved away from the hearth to gaze across the room. “Mason? What did you—”

Derek stopped, his long face a mask of puzzlement. The others followed his eyes to the front windows.

Mason Meade was gone.

I
MMEDIATELY AFTER
T
RIXIE
went to search for her fiancé, Aunt Toadie returned, and Aunt Vivvie was summoned by Buck Doerflinger. The debate over what had happened to Mason Meade was cut short by Toadie's charges of police brutality. She was enraged; she was outraged; she intended to sue the city.

“There is no excuse,” she seethed, “for treating innocent people as if they were axe murderers! That dreadful man did everything but beat me with a rubber hose!”

“Too bad,” murmured Renie, nudging Judith. “You bring your thumbscrews?”

“I wish,” Judith whispered back.

When at last Aunt Toadie had run out of steam, Holly expressed the thought that had been bothering everybody: “How did Mason leave without us seeing him?”

Judith considered. The room was large, long, and in deep shadow. All attention had been fixed on whoever had the floor at the moment. Mason Meade hadn't said a word after Judith began her round of questions. No doubt he had taken the opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Judith said as much. The others didn't disagree.

Trixie returned looking subdued. “My car's gone,”
she said in a hollow voice. “I looked all over the house and couldn't find Mason; then I went outside, and the Lexus is gone.” She sank into the sea-green armchair, chin on her semibared chest.

“Your car keys,” Toadie snapped. “Did he take them, too?”

Trixie gave her mother a sullen look. “Mason drove. He had them all along.”

At the piano, Jill played the opening bars of “What Kind of Fool Am I?” “Hey, Trixie, your new man's a car thief! You sure know how to pick them. Didn't Rafe Longrod own all the porno-flick theaters in town?”

“They were art houses,” Trixie replied indignantly. “Rafe showed only the finest foreign films. Of course there was some nudity and that meant they were often X-rated, but that's because a lot of prudes run this country. Look at Ronald Reagan!”

“Why?” said Renie.

Trixie took her seriously. “He was never in an X-rated movie, so he started up this censorship thing. And the reason he didn't do scenes in the nude was because who would want to see Ronald Reagan naked?”

“Certainly not Nancy Reagan,” Jill retorted. “You're full of it, Trixie. You call movies like
An Affair with My Member
and
Ben Hur, Ben Him, Too
art films? How bogus!”

Again Judith saw the need to intervene. “We're not getting very far,” she warned the others. Noting Toadie's curious as well as hostile gaze, she explained what had taken place in her absence.

Toadie scoffed. “You're playing detective, Judith? How absurd! Just because you're living with a policeman—what does he do, direct traffic for football games? Honestly!” She folded her arms across her chiffon-covered breast and turned away.

Derek, however, ignored his aunt's carping. “Go ahead, Judith. We might as well do something constructive.”

“What about Mason?” Trixie wailed. “What if something's happened to him!”

“It did,” Jill responded. “He stole your car.”

Judith's peace plan seemed to be unraveling. “Maybe,” she suggested, “we should break up into smaller groups. Some of us could go into the breakfast nook.”

“But we can't,” Derek protested. “We'd have to go through the dining room to get to it, and the police are in there. With Mother.” He grimaced.

“Nonsense.” Toadie, who obviously was now siding with Judith just to be ornery, glared at her nephew. “We could go outside or through the garage and come in through the kitchen. There are two doors in the breakfast nook—one to the dining room and the other to the kitchen.”

“I'd rather be in here,” Holly said in her small voice. “I feel safer.” She gave her husband an imploring look. “You'll stay, won't you, Derek?”

Derek looked uncomfortable but agreed. So did their daughter. Judith realized she was about to exile herself to the breakfast room with Aunt Toadie and Trixie. The idea appalled her.

But Renie saved the day—or at least what was left of the evening. Sensing Judith's dread, she offered herself as a viable alternative. “I could use a snack,” she admitted, finally giving in to her ever-voracious appetite. “In fact, I could eat a cow. I'll take Aunt Toadie and Trixie out to the kitchen and we'll forage.”

As Renie and the other two women trooped out of the living room, Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile. Renie smiled back.

“There're steaks in the fridge,” she said in passing. “I'm going to cook two. Both for me.” Renie patted her stomach and continued on her way.

With only the three Rushes left, the big living room seemed virtually empty. Judith decided to make the most of the relative calm.

“Jill,” she began, moving over to the vacant sofa, “you said you heard three different noises. I did, too. Could one of them have been a gunshot?”

Jill considered. “I don't know. I'm not sure what a gunshot sounds like. Not in real life, I mean.”

Holly rose from the piano bench, wandering over to a Duncan Phyfe table near the sea-green armchair. “All I re
member was that pressure cooker. That happened right after we came back into the living room.”

Derek nodded. “There was at least one other noise, now that I think about it. Much quieter, though. These walls are so solid and the wind was up—it would be impossible to tell where the sounds came from.”

Jill's fingers hovered over the keyboard as she gazed first at her father, than at her mother. “Let's cut the crap, okay?” Anxiously, her parents stared at her. “Grandma lied about everybody staying in this room after Boo went into the den. I don't know why she said such a thing, but it's not true.”

Holly blanched. “Oh, Jill! I'm sure your grandmother just wanted to avoid trouble. You know how she hates a fuss!”

Judith had doubted Vivvie's words at the time, since she knew Mrs. Wakefield had seen Jill and Mason Meade in the entry hall. Naturally, her curiosity was further piqued. “Who left besides you, Jill? And Mason, of course.”

“I had to get out of here for a few minutes,” Jill replied. “Grandma and Aunt Toadie were making me crazy, and Trixie is such a dork. Trixie's fiancé followed me into the entry hall, and I thought he was going to come on to me—he looks the type—but he didn't. He said he had to go outside and get something in the car. Maybe he moved it to make his getaway.”

“Maybe,” Judith conceded. “You didn't see or hear anything unusual while you were in the entry hall?”

Jill snickered. “Everything's unusual with this bunch of weirdos. No offense.” She nodded at her parents. “But no, I didn't. I just wandered around, admiring that mirror with the flower design outside the den, the stained glass on the first landing of the stairs—nice ships, pretty colors—and the rest of the decor. I like this house. It's old and dowdy, but it's comfortable.” She started to smile, then her lips quivered. “Oh, damn! I hate it when I get all sentimental!”

To cover Jill's embarrassment, Judith turned to Holly. “Did you notice who else left?”

“I went to the ladies' room,” Holly answered primly. “So did my mother-in-law, a few minutes later.” She
looked at her husband. “You went out for a bit, didn't you, Derek?”

He nodded. “I had a cigarette in the garage.” As if by reflex, he removed the pack from his suit coat and lighted up again. Through the cloud of smoke, he gazed questioningly at Holly. “Didn't Aunt Toadie go check on Uncle Boo?”

“Yes, I believe she did. That was right after I came back from the bathroom.” Holly put a hand to her cheek. “And Trixie—she went to make a phone call. To her brother, Marty.”

Judith frowned. “In other words, everybody in this room was gone at one time or another while Uncle Boo was in the den.”

Jill had regained her composure. “Great. In other words, nobody has an ironclad alibi.” She shot Judith a wry glance. “What about you and the rest of the kitchen crew?”

Momentarily taken aback, Judith stared at Jill. The question was valid, however. “We were working together the whole time. Except when Mrs. Wakefield and Zoe were back and forth cleaning up the dining room. And, of course, Mrs. Wakefield had to go patch up Mr. Wakefield.” She frowned again, more deeply. “Shoot, the only people who can alibi each other are my cousin and me.”

Derek's expression was sardonic. “And as I recall, you and Renie would—excuse the phrase—kill for each other. Or so it seemed to me when I was a child.”

To Judith's chagrin, the bond between the cousins appeared to be well known among the shirttail relations. Flustered, she gave a halfhearted laugh. “We're close, that's true, but all the same we—”

Aunt Vivvie stumbled into the room, her wig askew. “Oh, dear! Such an ordeal! You'd think I was a serial killer!” She collapsed on the sofa, her tiny feet swinging above the carpet. “Derek, dearest, do pour me a bit of brandy. I feel faint.”

Derek, however, discovered that the bottle was empty. He volunteered to fetch some other spirits from the
kitchen. Aunt Vivvie revived sufficiently to inform Judith that she was wanted next in the dining room.

“I almost forgot,” Vivvie said apologetically. “I'm so undone, as you can see. But that terrible detective said he had to speak to whoever was in charge here this evening. It is you, isn't it, Judith?” The false eyelashes flapped over the baby-doll blue eyes.

“I guess,” Judith said with a touch of grimness. Resolutely, she left the room and headed through the entry hall.

Buck Doerflinger had restored the pair of lamps to the dining room table but had removed the shades. The effect was bright, stark, and sinister. Judith blinked as she sat down between Buck and the round brown officer who was assisting him.

“Mrs. McMonigle,” Buck began in his too-loud voice, “I hear you put on this shindig for the deceased.”

Judith fingered her upper lip. Buck had called her Mrs. McMonigle. Perhaps Aunt Toadie's obstinacy had played into Judith's hands. Not only did Toadie refuse to acknowledge that Judith and Joe were married, but the wretched woman still called her by Dan's last name. Given the animosity between Buck Doerflinger and Joe Flynn, the mistake was providential.

Judith gave Buck a flinty smile. “I catered the event, yes. Mrs. Grover organized it, though.”

Buck grunted. He proceeded to ask Judith for her age, address, phone number, and occupation. None of the responses seemed to ring any bells for Buck. His knowledge of Joe undoubtedly was limited to the professional arena.

“You're some kind of relative, I hear,” he said, leaning back in the chair at the head of the table and affecting a casual demeanor. His voice had dropped to a dull roar.

Judith explained the relationship between herself and Renie, as well as their connection with the Lott family through Uncle Corky. “Boo Major isn't—wasn't—related to us in any way, not even by marriage,” she emphasized.

Buck grunted. “Nepotism.”

“Huh?” Judith looked startled.

Buck gave her a conspiratorial look. “You got the job
because your uncle Corky is married to this Theodora Grover, right? That's nepotism.”

“That's a shame,” Judith retorted. “If you want to know the truth, I didn't want to do this. Toadie—Mrs. Grover—twisted my arm.”

Buck nodded to his subordinate. “Use of force. Make a note, Foster.” His seemingly bland gaze returned to Judith. “Now this coercion—what did Mrs. Grover have on you that she could
force you against your will
to cater this party?”

Fleetingly, Judith wondered how many times her patience could be tried in a single night. “It wasn't exactly against my will. I don't like mixing business with family.”

“But you said Boo Major wasn't family.” Buck wore a triumphant air.

“Look,” said Judith, gripping the edge of the dining room table, “I didn't want to get into a row with Aunt Toadie and I didn't want to hurt Uncle Boo's feelings. I came, I served, I tried to go home. Then Uncle Boo was found shot. That's the whole story in a nutshell, as far as Renie and I are concerned.”

Buck Doerflinger was scanning a page of notes. “Renie? Who's Renie? I don't see any Renie listed among the suspects.”

Judith winced at the detective's terminology. She explained that Renie was no doubt listed as Serena Jones. Buck lifted one white eyebrow. “An alias?”

Judith sighed. “A nickname. Renie—Mrs. Jones—is my first cousin on the Grover side. She came along to help. Ordinarily, my neighbor, Arlene Rankers, is my assistant caterer, but Arlene's husband, Carl, retired in December and they're in California visiting—”

For reasons unknown to Judith, Buck Doerflinger was scribbling furiously and nodding at Officer Foster to do the same. “Hey,” she said, interrupting herself, “why are you taking all this down?”

Buck snorted. “Don't question police procedures. How do we know these neighbors are really in California? It's a big state. They could be anywhere.”

“But…” Judith's feeble protest died aborning. Resignedly, she waited for the next outrageous question.

This time, however, Buck Doerflinger was right on target: “Did you hear the shot?”

Judith explained about the exploding pressure cooker and the other two noises. Buck listened impatiently, obviously already having heard similar accounts from Toadie and Vivvie.

“Did you see anyone go into the den after Mr. Major entered?” he asked.

The brightness of the lamps and the events of the evening were giving Judith a headache. “No. But then, I wouldn't have. I stayed in the kitchen. You can't see the door to the den from there. At an angle, you can look out from the kitchen through this room into the hall, but the den door is recessed several feet. I didn't see any of the guests go near it, though.”