Creeps Suzette (20 page)

Judith scanned the small squares that had been checked on the printed list: Mozzarella, Canadian bacon, pineapple with a regular crust. “This is different from the one Fritz had,” she murmured, showing the box to Renie. “Mrs. Burgess, are you sure you feel okay?”

“I'm just fine,” the old lady snapped, “despite a rather tumultuous day. But if Fritz is gone, I need someone to spend the night in here. I still can't walk on my ankle. Where's Caroline?”

Judith replied that they hadn't seen her for several hours. “Shall I see if she's in her room?”

“Please,” Mrs. Burgess said. “She can sleep here on the chaise longue.”

“I'll go get her,” Renie said.

Offering Mrs. Burgess her most sympathetic expression, Judith sat down next to the bed. “You have great inner strength. I don't know many women who could go through what you have and still be so…chipper.”

“Older women, you mean,” Mrs. Burgess said with a shrewd glance at Judith. “Is your mother still living?”

In a way
, Judith wanted to say, but didn't. “Yes, and she's quite a bit older than you are.”

“How would she react?” Mrs. Burgess seemed genuinely interested.

The truth was that Gertrude would have exhibited her usual tough-as-nails demeanor. “Mother is a forceful personality,” Judith responded. “She would probably be up to the task.”
As in chewing up anyone who opposed her and spitting them out like so many pistachio nuts
, Judith thought. Which, she recalled, Gertrude had recently done, and spit out her dentures along with the pistachio shells. It had taken two days to find her mother's teeth because they had landed in a wastebasket that Phyliss Rackley had emptied into the Dumpster. A terrible scene had ensued, with Phyliss trying to save Gertrude's soul while Gertrude jammed the empty wastebasket over Phyliss's head.

But Judith didn't care to go into maternal-related details with Mrs. Burgess. “You mentioned a few minutes ago that you were…ah…fed up with medical people who…fell apart during a crisis. I was curious. Had Nurse Fritz done this before when she was caring for your husband?”

Mrs. Burgess shook her head. “No, Millicent was a rock all those months. At the end, no one could have been more stalwart or more kind. Of course, she had her reasons,” the old lady added enigmatically.

“Oh?” Judith evinced casual curiosity. “You mean a sense of duty?”

“Not exactly.” Mrs. Burgess stared straight ahead, her mouth fixed in a rigid line.

Judith had the feeling that Leota wasn't going to say any more on the subject. “Then you must have been referring
to Dr. Moss. I can't imagine him losing his composure. Of course, I really didn't know him.”

“Well, he did. Just once, I'll admit. I still don't know why…” Mrs. Burgess broke off as Renie reappeared with a very sleepy Caroline, who was wearing flannel PJs decorated with Porky and Petunia Pig. “My dear,” the old lady said in greeting, “go back to sleep on the chaise longue. Mrs. Jones will get a pillow and blankets from the cupboard.”

But Caroline made straight for the bed and crawled in next to her grandmother. “G'night,” she mumbled, and buried her head in the pillow.

“Well.” A faint smile touched Mrs. Burgess's mouth. “I suppose we can manage. It's a big bed.”

Judith and Renie took their leave. Out in the sitting room, Judith reached for the phone book. “It's almost midnight. Let's see if we can get hold of Jack Moody at the gatehouse. I saw a number for it scrawled in the margin someplace. Ah—here it is.”

“You're kidding,” Renie said, her mouth agape. “Can't we go to bed like normal people? Sleep was short last night, in case you've forgotten.”

“I told you earlier today I wanted to talk to Moody,” Judith said. “We'll invite him over for drinks. That ought to lure him into our lair.”

“Sheesh,” said Renie, leaning against the wall.

Judith reached the security guard on the first ring. Her ploy worked, though it took some coaxing and a great deal of blarney: Moody would stop by Creepers as soon as he finished his shift.

“We'll entertain him in the drawing room because that's where the bar is,” Judith said on her way out of the master suite. “Nobody else should be up and about except the detectives and maybe Ada Dietz.”

Renie, however, balked. “You entertain him. I'm going to bed. My left eye feels like it's drooping down to my chin.”

Judith examined Renie's face, and immediately felt sym
pathetic. “You don't look so good now that you mention it. Okay, see you later.”

The entry hall was empty, and except for the soft sighing of the wind, Judith couldn't hear a sound inside the house. Wall sconces still burned in the hallway that led to the library, the game room, and the kitchen. Instead of the table lamp, which had been removed as evidence, a torchiere lamp glowed near the door that led to the parlor. The main lights also remained on.

Judith's gaze wandered from the entry hall to the open area at the bottom of the central staircase. She tried to envision the scene from the previous night: Presumably, Dr. Moss had let himself in with his own key, then used the intercom to call up to Mrs. Burgess. She then would have switched on the main lights from the second floor. The table lamp might or might not have been on. The doctor would have started for the stairs. At about the halfway point, the lights would have been turned off from the first-floor switch. Judith searched the wall for the panel and found it just inside the main entrance.

Where had the killer been standing when Dr. Moss entered the house? Probably just on the other side of the short wall that jutted out some three feet between the entry hall and the area at the bottom of the staircase. The doctor wouldn't have seen him—or her—because his back would have been turned as he headed for the stairs.

A quick reach around to the switch on the other side of the wall would have plunged the entire area into darkness. The killer must have advanced, weapon in hand. The blow was struck, with Leota Burgess hurtling down the stairs. She crashed to the floor as Dr. Moss fell down on top of the her.

Something was wrong with the scenario. There had to have been a second or two when the staircase area was in full light. If the killer had stood by the inside wall, Leota could have seen him—or her. If the killer had stood on the other side of the wall, she would have seen only Dr. Moss. That meant that as he entered the house and used the in
tercom, the doctor saw his murderer. It was someone he knew, probably the person who had summoned him to Creepers. Perhaps he had chatted with his would-be assailant. They might have talked about why he'd been called. The other person might have reinforced the idea that Mrs. Burgess was ill.

That made sense. Judith shivered as she thought of the kindly physician speaking to the person who was about to kill him. He trusted whoever it was. The face was familiar, and it masked a deadly intention.

But another possibility was equally plausible. Dr. Moss never saw the killer—but Leota Burgess did. If that was the case, she was protecting someone. It had to be a family member, Judith reasoned. Mrs. Burgess wouldn't lie for an outsider, particularly for someone of inferior social class. Loyalty was reserved for shared blue blood.

For the first time, Judith was convinced that Dr. Moss had been the intended victim all along. Why else lure him to Creepers?

But Mrs. Burgess was still in great danger. The reason for the doctor's killing might also be the motive for getting her out of the way. A person who deliberately killed had crossed the line. Judith knew from her own experience, as well as what she'd learned from Joe, that once that line had been crossed, there was no going back. It might be difficult, even agonizing, to kill the first time. To kill again was almost easy.

If the alleged attempts on Leota Burgess's life had only been imagined, Judith now knew that any threat to the old lady must be taken seriously.

The problem was that the next time might very well prove fatal.

J
UDITH COULDN'T REMEMBER
the last time she'd gotten drunk. Maybe it had been when she'd found out that Joe had eloped to Vegas with Herself. Perhaps it was on her wedding night with Dan. Or it could have been the morning after her wedding night with Dan. She honestly couldn't recall. The days and weeks and months of abandonment by Joe and the rebound marriage to Dan were a blur. For all she knew, she might even have been sober the whole time, and wished she'd been drunk.

But if Jack Moody didn't loosen up after two stiff drinks, Judith was going to start watering down her Scotch. She should have started with vodka. That way, Moody couldn't have known if she was drinking along with him or not.

“Awful nice of you to invite me in,” Moody said from his place in one of the loden club chairs. “You sure picked a bad time to come visit.”

Judith had embroidered her story about how she and Renie had been invited to Creepers. In her revised version, they were distant, impoverished kin, having been taken in by a kindly Mrs. Burgess. The fib, Judith felt, would make Jack Moody feel more at ease.

Her ploy seemed to work. Moody looked relaxed as he guzzled his gin and tonic. “These are great smokes,”
he remarked, waggling a long cigar between his teeth. “Cuban, huh?”

“I think so,” Judith said. For all she knew, they could have come from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. She'd found the box in a glass-fronted cabinet in back of the bar.

“I've never been inside one of these fancy houses until today,” Moody said for the fourth time. “Seven years on the job, and not one invite. Then some poor old coot gets whacked, and here I am, in and out like a freakin' yo-yo.”

Judith offered Moody a tight little smile. “Still, you must have gotten to know the residents quite well. Seven years is a long time.”

Moody chuckled. “You can't say as if we're chummy. But yeah, sometimes you get to shoot the breeze, especially if they're not being driven by a chauffeur. Take Mr. Hillman. He's almost a regular guy. I don't golf, see, but when the big names come here to play, I get to wave 'em through. Then Mr. Hillman tells me stories about 'em, like who's a good egg and who's a jerk. Two years ago, they had this celebrity tournament, and some of those Hollywood types came up to…”

Moody droned on. Judith had already heard about various big names who had birdied, bogeyed and boogied around the golf course. Her eyelids were getting heavy. She saw that Moody was almost done with his third gin and tonic. Maybe, just maybe, by number four, he'd loosen up so that she could learn something pertinent to the case.

“So as a rule,” Moody continued, apparently having wound down his account of actually seeing Kevin Costner and Charles Barkley in the flesh, “I get off work and head for the highway. It's my way, ya see—my way's the highway.”

“Ha-ha,” Judith laughed lamely. “Would you like another G&T?”

Moody held out his glass. “Sure, why not? I probably won't hit the highway tonight. I usually stick to beer when I play cards.”

Judith went behind the bar. She was drinking icewater
this time, and hoping Moody wouldn't notice. “Poker?” she asked in a tired voice.

“I would if I could.” Moody chuckled richly. “You can meet some foxy ladies at some of those places. Not real young, but who wants 'em just out of kindergarten? I like a woman who's a real woman. You're not so bad yourself, Mrs. Finn.”

“Flynn,” Judith said absently, handing Moody his fresh drink. “I'm afraid that's the last lime.”

Moody began to hum. “The last lime I saw Paris…”

Judith held her head. “Uh…Do you often win? At cards, I mean?”

Moody nodded. “Texas Hold 'Em—that's my game. I do just fine. In fact,” he went on, lowering his voice and leaning closer to Judith, “last night, I cleaned out Carrot Top.”

“Who?” Judith didn't understand the reference.

“You know—the redheaded rich kid, Bop Burgess. I won over three hundred bucks on one hand. Bluffed him out of his jock. He had a straight flush, too.” Moody chuckled uproariously.

“Bop plays poker out on the highway?” Judith asked.

“Damned near every night,” Moody answered, the chuckles turning into a cough as he took a deep drag on his cigar. “'Course I don't usually play with him. He tries to get into the high-stakes games. That's outta my league.”

“Is Bop lucky?” Judith inquired, finally sensing that she was about to get some interesting, if irrelevant, information out of Jack Moody.

Moody, who was still coughing, shook his head. “No,” he finally managed to say. “The kid's a lousy poker player. He's got one of those faces that telegraphs everything in his hand. Jeez, he even grins when he gets the hole card he wants. But he loves the game. I'll say that for him.”

“Compulsive?” Judith suggested.

“Huh?” Moody stared. “Oh—you mean he can't quit. That's right. He's one of those guys who never knows when to fold. When he gets good cards—which ain't often—he
freezes. No killer instinct. That's how I beat him last night. A straight flush, for God's sake, and when I raise him, he throws in the hand.”

“But he doesn't fold when he gets poor cards,” Judith noted, wondering how long she could stay awake.

Moody nodded. “You got it. Seven-card stud, and he don't ever fold till the last damned, card. You got nothin' after the third card, you're out. That's my rule, anyways. He ain't lucky, he's a chump.” Leaning down to rummage in a large paper bag that sat beside his chair, Moody pulled out a pizza box. “But Bop's a nice guy, considering. He's always giving me free pizza. Want some? I didn't quite finish it tonight.”

“No, thank you,” Judith said, eyeing the box, which had a large letter “F” written on the front. “What kind do you like?”

“Most any kind,” Moody replied, returning the box to the bag. “This one's anchovies and onions.”

Something tripped in Judith's brain, but she was too tired to grasp its significance. Besides, she had one last, important question to put to Jack Moody.

“I know that rich people have a reputation for being tight with their money,” she said, forcing a smile, “but I'll bet they can be generous in some ways. If you know what I mean.” Somehow, she managed a wink.

With a sly look, Moody set his cigar down in a marble ashtray. “You bet. See, these folks have one thing more precious than their money. And you know what that is.”

Judging from the vague expression that suddenly came across Moody's face, he knew, but couldn't come up with the word.

“Their reputations?” Judith offered.

“That's it. Their reputations.” Moody took a long sip from his drink. “They got secrets, see. They come in, they go out. Mostly, it's innocent stuff, but not always. I could tell you some tales, Mrs. Flinch.”

“Flynn,” Judith said under her breath. “You could? Please do. I'm all ears.”

“Take this bunch,” Moody said, making a circular motion with his index finger to include the entire household. “That Mrs. Burgess, for instance. The younger one, I mean, who lives at Evergreen. She and Mr. Hillman have something going, if you ask me. See, I didn't let on to the cops about it, 'cause it's none of their beeswax. But last night, just before I went off my shift, the two of them headed out in his car. They done that before, maybe a dozen times since Christmas. Fergie—he's the guard who takes over from me at midnight—says he's seen 'em come back around four, five in the morning. But I think Mrs. Hillman is on to them—she was hot on their trail last night, and I'll bet she followed 'em out to one of the motels on the highway. I'd hate to have been in Mr. Hillman's shoes—Mrs. Hillman's got quite a temper.”

“Dorothy Burgess and Russ Hillman,” Judith murmured. “That's extremely interesting. Are they the only ones from the family who…ah…carry on?”

“That depends,” Moody replied, removing the lime from his glass and placing it in the ashtray next to the cigar. “Bop has girlfriends, but usually he takes them to his own pad. At least as near as I can tell, since I've seen him pick up a babe now and then at the card rooms. 'Course he's single, so what? I'll tell you one thing, though—I don't think he wants his folks to know he goes to those card rooms. He slips me a few bucks now and then to make sure I don't let the cat out of the bag.” Moody paused, apparently collecting his thoughts which, judging from his unfocused eyes, were scattered in several directions. “I can't speak for Mr. Burgess. Wayne Burgess, that is. Or Mrs. Hillman. The young one—Caroline or Carrie or whatever—hasn't had any men friends since she and her husband split up. The only female Kenny Hillman ever brought in was a bear he rescued from the circus. Name was Daphne.”

Judith was hardly surprised, but Moody's hilarious reaction jarred her. “This bear, see, looked kinda like Mr. Van Buren from Twelve Cedars, over by the creek. He's a real hairy guy with a big beard. Face it, I'd had a coupla
swigs—it was early March, and Mrs. Hillman had given me a case of Wild Turkey as a late Christmas present. I was freezin' my nummies off, and that hundred-and-one proof went down real good. Anyways, I shouldna been surprised—the night before Kenny came through with three beavers.”

“You certainly have the lowdown on the people in Sunset Cliffs,” Judith said, fighting back a yawn. “I mustn't keep you. I'm sure you need to get your sleep.”

Moody picked up the cigar and finished his drink. “It's early by my clock. One, one-thirty? I'm usually just getting settled in at the table by now.”

“Maybe you can still find a game,” Judith suggested with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm. “Oh, by the way—when Dr. Moss drove through last night, did he say anything to you?”

Moody shook his head. “Nope. I knew the poor old guy real well. I always let him cruise right by. Dirty rotten luck, him getting killed. Do they know who did it?”

“I'm afraid not,” Judith said, inching her way to the edge of the chair.

Moody stretched and yawned. “Maybe I will hit the hay. It's been kind of a rough day, talking to the cops, being extra careful on my shift tonight. In fact, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me on this job since the night Charlie Ward got himself run over.”

“That's right,” Judith said. “You would have been working at Sunset Cliffs then, too.”

The security guard stood up, his paunch bulging over a wide leather belt with a Longhorn buckle. “That was a mess. Poor Dr. Moss, he found Charlie out there beside the road. Mrs. Burgess was sick, and he'd come tearing over from the hospital to see to her, and about a quarter-mile up the public road by the golf course, there was Charlie, lying in the ditch like a pile of dirty laundry. I never seen Doc so upset.”

“I don't blame him,” Judith said, also on her feet. “It must have been a shock.”

“It was one damned thing after another,” Moody murmured, swaying slightly. “I always figured it was some drunk coming from one of the taverns on the highway. Some people don't know when to quit.” He took three steps and tripped over an ottoman.

“Maybe you shouldn't drive,” Judith said, feeling guilty.

“Maybe I should,” Moody replied, picking himself up. “I sure as hell can't walk.”

“Please,” Judith begged, “let me call a cab.”

Moody hesitated. “I got a better idea. I'll get Fergie to come get me. I only live a half-mile from Sunset Cliffs.”

“But he's on duty,” Judith protested.

“It won't take fifteen minutes,” Moody insisted.

“Won't he get in trouble for leaving the gatehouse untended?” Judith asked.

“Naw.” Moody wove his way out of the drawing room. “It's late, it's a weeknight, it oughtta be quiet.”

There was no point in arguing. Judith couldn't wrestle a two-hundred-pound tub into submission. But she did wonder how often the gatehouse guards were derelict in their duty.

After Moody had been picked up by the other guard, Judith went back into the drawing room to empty the ashtray and collect the dirty glasses. The pizza box lay on the floor next to Moody's chair. Judith was hungry. She decided to warm up the leftover pieces in the kitchen.

Ada Dietz was no longer at work, but Sarah Kenyon was sitting on one of the stools at the counter, drinking a cup of tea.

“You're up late,” Judith said with a tired smile.

Sarah turned on the stool. “So are you. Don't tell me you're keeping a twenty-four-hour vigil now that Nurse Fritz has gotten sick.”

“No, I'm headed for bed after I have a snack. Care for some pizza?” Judith put the highball glasses in the dishwasher, then showed Sarah the box. “Tell me—what does the ‘F' stand for?”

The housekeeper refused the pizza offer but studied the
handwritten letter. “Oh. Is that anchovies?” She saw Judith nod. “Then ‘F' is the menu code for Fisherman's Friend. That's how Bop marks the boxes—a different letter for each pizza type. ‘S' is Sassy Sausage, ‘P' is Pepperoni No Baloney, ‘A' is All There Is and More, which is the works. I forget the rest.”

“What's ‘M'?” Judith asked.

“Let me think—Mozzarella Bella.”

“There's only one ‘M'? What about mushrooms?”

“There's only one kind of pizza for each letter,” Sarah explained, looking somewhat puzzled at Judith's line of questioning. “The mushroom pizza is something else. Really, I can't remember them all.”

Judith put the two remaining pizza slices in the microwave. “That's okay, it's not important. I was just curious.”

Neither woman spoke while the microwave buzzed off the seconds. Then, as Judith put the pieces on a plate, she asked Sarah why she was keeping such late hours.

“I've been busy up until now,” the housekeeper replied. “In fact, I'm not done yet. I still have to pack.”