Nutty As a Fruitcake (24 page)

“Oh,” Judith said innocently. “You still have it, then?”

“No, I don't.” Mrs. Swanson took another sip from her drink. “The Salvation Army came by the other day. Before Christmas, I always contribute whatever I don't need. Along with clothing and a small cash donation, I gave them some tools. Including the hatchet.” She looked straight at Judith. “What good is a hoe to an old woman my age? Or a heavy shovel or metal cutters—or a hatchet?”

“I see.” Judith lowered her eyes. The residents of the cul-de-sac seemed to be avoiding the truth. It was impossible not to wonder why.

 

Somehow, Judith and her mother managed to make their candy without killing each other. There were injuries, however, including Gertrude smashing a plate along with the walnuts, an unnerved Judith spilling melted chocolate bits on the floor and slipping onto her backside, and Sweetums scorching his whiskers when he jumped into the sink to lick the still-hot divinity pan.

But by noon, the candies were finished. Judith fixed her mother's lunch, hurriedly ate a tuna sandwich, and checked with Phyliss Rackley to see if she was ready to head to the Goodrich house. Phyliss was—almost. The cleaning woman needed another ten minutes to retrieve the laundry from the dryer. Judith spent the time going over her bookings to make sure she hadn't made any more mistakes.

“Your cat's in the dryer again,” Phyliss said as she came into the kitchen. “I'm spinning his satanic ways out of him. Cats have always been a witch's familiar, you know. Terrible
animals, cats. Ever see a picture of Our Lord offering a ball of yarn to a cat?”

Judith didn't respond. Assuming that Phyliss was kidding about Sweetums being on spin, Judith led the way to the Goodrich house.

“Well now!” Phyliss exclaimed in self-righteous triumph as she surveyed the stripped-down twin beds. “Like always, the Lord works in mysterious ways. The only thing that got Enid out of her bed was the Grim Reaper. As for George, he never let me touch his bed. Now I'm going to do just that—but will he ever lie in it again? That's in the Lord's hands, too.”

“Actually,” said Judith, who had fetched clean linens from the hall closet, “it's up to the police and a court of law. If George is innocent, he may want to come home.”

“But I thought those worthless kids of his were going to sell the place,” Phyliss said, taking a plain white set of sheets from Judith.

“They intend to,” Judith answered, starting in on Enid's bed, “but the final say is up to George. He owns the house. Once he pulls himself together, he might want to live here again. I think Glenda and Art are jumping the gun. Especially Glenda. I don't think JoAnne wants George staying at their house forever.”

Sausage curls bobbing, Phyliss tried to get the fitted bottom sheet on George's mattress. “Art and JoAnne probably hope George will go to jail,” the cleaning woman said, still wrestling with the bedding. “It'd be easier and cheaper. In fact, it's as good as bumping off both the old folks. The rest of the family will get what money there is, plus the house. From what I hear, they can all use—Bless me! What's that?”

Phyliss stopped trying to tug the sheet's fourth corner into place. She had dislodged the mattress, and with it, a large rectangular item.

Judith came around from Enid's bed. “It's a book,” she said, as Phyliss raised the mattress a scant inch. “I'll get it.”

In full view, Judith was able to identify George's ledger at
once. She flipped through the pages as Phyliss lowered the mattress and finally secured the sheet.

“Dirty ditties?” Phyliss inquired, stuffing a pillow into a case. “Lewd pictures, maybe?” She tried to lean over Judith's shoulder.

“It's the account book for Pacific Meats,” Judith said, her initial excitement dwindling. “George must have kept it under his mattress. I wonder why?”

Seeing the long columns of figures, Phyliss lost interest. “Why not? What else did he have to call his own except the bed? Even there, he wasn't safe from Mrs. G.'s nagging.”

Judith started to sit down on Enid's bed, thought better of it, and perched on the cedar chest instead. For once, Phyliss was making sense. George—and his work—had been confined to the bedroom. As Judith paged through the ledger, she noted that the last entries were dated December first.

“He must have worked on this during the night,” she said in a curious voice. “O.P. said the house was dark at nine-thirty Tuesday, the thirtieth. But sometime after midnight, George got up and made his entries. The question is, when did he drink his antacid?”

“When he needed it,” Phyliss asserted, finishing George's bed.

“True,” Judith replied in a thoughtful tone. “He told me that he liked to nibble when he worked late. Maybe he ate something that set him off.” She began working her way backward, trying to make sense of the numbers. After scanning a few pages, Judith realized it was fruitless. She had no point of reference. But she did notice a half-dozen question marks in the margin. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself rather than to Phyliss.

“Don't we all,” Phyliss said as she finished Enid's bed for Judith. “Take you Catholics—heathen ideas, if you ask me. What's this business about carpet cleaners? In my church, we don't have such a thing. Where do you find carpet cleaners in the Bible?”

The question wrenched Judith from her speculation about the account book. “You've been talking to Arlene Rankers?”

“You bet.” Phyliss tried to pull her housedress down over the uneven lace of her slip. “I know Wise Men and camels but not those carpet cleaners. Do you Catholics worship them or what?”

“Certainly not,” Judith replied firmly, though she was forced to smile. “Arlene sometimes…gets carried away. Like saying that George has a nest egg, when, in fact, there's no sign of…” Inspiration struck, if not precisely in the form of carpet cleaners, at least in the concept of carpets. Judith spun out of the bedroom.

“Give me a hand with this living room rug,” she called to Phyliss who had gone into the bathroom, presumably to start cleaning. “I think there's something under it.”

Wearing a dubious expression, Phyliss entered the living room. “What would Enid think? We roam all over her precious house, then we start tearing up the carpeting?”

“That's right,” Judith said, on her hands and knees. “Let's see if we can lift the part of the rug that's under the plastic runner.”

Lifting the two-foot-wide segment proved easier than Judith had expected. Slipping her hand between the carpet and the pad, she felt an envelope, then another, and just beyond her reach, a third. Sitting up, Judith opened the first, which was a standard manila type with a metal clasp. She gave the envelope a little shake.

At least twenty one-hundred-dollar bills fluttered to the floor. Phyliss gasped with amazement; Judith clapped in triumph.

“The nest egg!” Judith cried. “It was here all along, under the carpet! No wonder Enid wouldn't let anybody walk on it!”

“How much?” asked Phyliss, counting the fallen bills.

“Who knows? There are at least two more envelopes under the rug. There could be forty of them between here and the front door. I guess George didn't trust banks. Or maybe it was Enid's idea.”

Phyliss waved the bills under Judith's nose. “Twenty-two
hundred dollars, right here! Did they tithe? That's two thousand for them, two hundred for God.”

“They never went to church, as far as I know,” Judith answered vaguely. She was still overcome by the discovery. She was also dismayed. The Goodriches had a small fortune under their carpet, but it was doubtful if Enid ever allowed them to spend a penny of it to help anyone, including their own children. “What a waste,” she sighed.

“What are you going to do about it?” Phyliss asked, obviously reluctant to let go of the bills.

“Nothing,” Judith responded, gently taking the money from Phyliss and putting it back in the manila envelope. “Except tell the police.”

“The police?” Phyliss's gooseberry blue eyes widened. “What about George? And those kids of his?”

Replacing the envelope under the rug, Judith got to her feet. “George knows. His kids don't need to—yet.” She glanced at the desk. “There was never any money in there, I'll bet. So why did Art…” Her voice trailed off as her brain began to whirl. She looked sharply at Phyliss. “What did you say about killing off both old folks when we were in the bedroom?”

Startled, Phyliss jerked her head back, causing two of the sausage curls to stand straight up, like horns. “What did I say? Oh—if George goes to jail, he might as well be dead, as far as his kids are concerned. Is that what you meant?”

Judith nodded. She also knew what Phyliss meant. At last, she felt she understood the killer's intentions.

J
UDITH HATED TO
admit it, but Gertrude gave her the idea for Joe's special Christmas gift. On Tuesday night, when Judith went out to the toolshed to decorate her mother's tree, Gertrude was watching an old World War II movie.

“Look at our boys,” Gertrude urged, poking Sweetums in the rump. “They're going to shoot the stuffing out of those Nazis! Off they go, into the wild blue yonder! Bang, bang, bang! Ack, ack, ack! Down in flames! Three cheers for the army air corps!”

Judith was standing by the door, trying not to get in Gertrude's line of sight with the TV. “Mother, where do you want your tree?”

“Right up Hitler's behind!” Gertrude cried, waving a fist at the screen. “On to Berlin! Get the little devil with his stupid bristle mustache! Yahoo!”

Judith edged into the room. A fir branch blocked the TV set. Gertrude howled. Judith grew impatient.

“Mother, it's after eight. I don't want to be decorating this thing at midnight. Where do you want it? In the corner next to the TV? By your chair?”

“I don't want it in front of our gallant fighting men,” Gertrude retorted, leaning so far to the left that she almost squashed Sweetums. “Look, here they come, back to wherever they left from about five minutes ago. See that
clean-cut young fella with the big grin? He's going to get shot down in the next ten minutes. He dies every time I see this moving picture.”

In spite of herself, Judith's eyes veered to the TV screen. Sure enough, a handsome actor Judith didn't recognize was striding across an airfield that resembled the Warner Brothers back lot. Judith had to admit that he looked very dashing in his army air corps cap, leather jacket, and long white aviator's scarf.

“Yikes!” Judith cried, almost dropping the tree. “That's it!”

“No, it isn't,” Gertrude snapped. “They've still got to pound those Nazi planes into the ground, get three more American boys killed, and figure out that they're a real team and not a bunch of flying cowboys. Oh, and kiss the blond girl who's waiting in a basement somewhere pushing little stick things around on a big map.”

Judith wasn't listening. She had propped the tree up against the sofa and was trying to fit it into a small stand. “Between your chair and the TV,” she said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “We'll have to move the set a bit, but it'll work.”

“I like my TV where it is,” Gertrude grumbled, but she didn't put up a serious fight.

Judith began to set up the tree in earnest. Gertrude ignored her efforts, concentrating on the American destruction of the German Luftwaffe. Unfortunately, that was accomplished before Judith finished decorating. It also appeared that the Nazi defeat might have been achieved with less bloodshed than the battle of the toolshed.

“You've got two red lights together,” Gertrude complained. “The bottom's all dark. Move 'em.”

Judith did.

“The angel on top looks like she's drunk,” Gertrude griped. “Fix her.”

Judith complied.

“That big blue ball always goes in the middle,” Gertrude grumbled. “Put it where that green bell is.”

Judith obeyed.

An hour later, Judith was finished. Or so she thought. Gertrude was eyeing the tree with displeasure.

“It looks crummy,” she said. “You've bunched everything up. I can't see any of the birds. They're all in back. Where's the Santa at the mailbox? There's money in that mailbox. Every year, I put in a couple of pennies. I'll bet there's sixty cents in there. Did you swipe the mailbox?”

“It's right here.” Judith pointed to a stout branch almost at the bottom of the tree. Then she started indicating the half-dozen hand-blown birds with their silver tails. “There's your parrot, here's the cardinal, there's the…”

Sweetums leaped off the sofa and nailed the parrot. Judith grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and gave him a good shake. Miraculously, the glass ornament rolled onto the floor intact.

“It's nine-thirty,” Judith announced. “I'm tired, you're impossible, and Sweetums is…a cat.” She took a deep breath, observed Gertrude's sour expression, and hurried to the sofa. “I'm sorry. It's ten days until Christmas, I feel faintly frantic, and your tree actually looks wonderful. Admit it, Mother. You're pleased.”

“What if I were?” Gertrude rasped. “What does that buy me? New legs? Better eyes? Real teeth?”

Judith sighed. “Of course not. It doesn't buy me anything, either. You can't ‘buy' the stuff that counts.” She leaned down and rested her cheek against the top of her mother's head. “We didn't ‘buy' each other. But that's what we've got. It's okay with me.”
Usually
, Judith thought, feeling Gertrude shake a bit.

After a long pause, one of Gertrude's gnarled hands crept up Judith's back. “Yeah, right, why not?” Her old voice was very thin. “It's okay with me, too, kiddo. What else can it be but okay?”

Judith would have been the last to argue.

 

Somewhere under the window seat in the living room was a J. Paulson catalog. It was buried with all the other mail-
order Christmas books and brochures Judith had begun receiving in mid-August. Since Joe was upstairs in the third-floor family quarters, perhaps watching the same movies that entranced his mother-in-law, Judith took the opportunity to rummage through the storage area.

She found what she wanted on page eighty-six: a real leather World War II aviator's jacket, fully lined and complete with brass zippers. The price was three hundred and eighty-five dollars. For another forty-five, she could get the white silk twill scarf. Gritting her teeth, Judith dialed the 1-800 number. Joe would have his fantasy after all.

Except for the Luftwaffe. Even Judith's credit card couldn't buy him that.

 

Patches Morgan stopped at Hillside Manor the next morning around ten o'clock. He had the voucher for the completed work at the Goodrich house. Judith handed him the key. She also told him about the money under the rug.

Morgan didn't try to hide his astonishment. Staring at Judith from his good left eye, he clapped a hand to his head. “By the Great Hornspoon! What was the old boy doing, hood-winking the IRS?”

“Oh, no,” Judith replied, ushering Morgan into the living room. “He and Enid weren't earning any interest. I'm sure he reported his regular income. It's just that one of the Goodriches—or both—apparently didn't trust banks.”

Morgan brushed at his wet raincoat. The rain had turned to sleet overnight as the wind blew down from the north. Settling onto the sofa, Morgan picked up the coffee mug that Judith had offered upon his arrival.

“Well, I'll be keelhauled!” Morgan was still evincing amazement. “How does that stash figure into this case, I wonder? Mr. Goodrich is still proclaiming his innocence.” The detective winked with his good left eye. “I'm inclined to go along with him, as you've probably guessed.”

“Well…yes,” Judith said, avoiding the disconcerting single gaze. “If charges haven't been pressed by now, I have to assume you don't believe George killed Enid.”

“We've questioned the grandsons, the son, the daughter, the daughter-in-law, even the daughter's boyfriend,” Morgan said, now staring at the coffee table where the usual collection of books and magazines had been replaced by an alabaster Madonna and child encircled by holly. “Not to mention the neighbors, including yourself. Alibis, there's the thing. Everybody has one.”

Judith blinked. “They do?”

Morgan nodded. “More or less. Those grandsons were both at work by eight o'clock. So was the young Ms. Goodrich, Glenda. We've checked with the phone company—Art Goodrich placed the calls when he said he did. He also insists his wife was home in bed. The granddaughter—Leigh?—had moved into the Cascadia Hotel the previous night. She called room service just before eight Wednesday morning. That leaves the neighbors.”

Judith could guess where most of them were. “The Porters and Jeanne Ericson and Ham Stein had gone to work. Ted Ericson was buying a Christmas tree. Naomi Stein was doing errands; ditto Carl Rankers; Arlene was home; so were Mrs. Swanson—and me.”

Patches Morgan's grin was off-center. “As well as your dear mother. So where does that leave us?”

Judith admitted that she didn't know. “By the way,” she inquired, trying not to sound overly anxious, “did you positively identify the murder weapon as belonging to—who?”

With a hand at the knot of his wide purple-gold-and-black tie, Morgan regarded Judith with interest. “Did I say we identified it as belonging to someone?”

“No,” Judith said in an agreeable manner, “that's why I asked. It must have come from somewhere.” She lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug.

“Mr. Goodrich had a woodpile. Mrs. Goodrich was killed with a hatchet. Now, what would you deduce, Ms. Flynn?” Morgan smiled slyly.

“Well…yes, of course. It's obvious, isn't it?” Judith smiled back. She sensed that her expression was more vapid than sly.

“Nothing's obvious,” Morgan answered enigmatically.

It seemed to Judith that she and the detective were getting nowhere. She considered mentioning the poison book, but her hypothesis was too outlandish. George's ledger was another matter. Judith explained how she and Phyliss had found it under the mattress.

“There were entries for December first,” she said. “There were also some notations in the margin.”

It struck Judith that Morgan's interest was feigned. “So Mr. Goodrich was capable of working in the wee small hours. That would indicate the sleeping pills didn't take effect until later.”

“That's right,” Judith replied, hoping that the eagerness in her voice would spur Morgan. “I understand that Gary Meyers told you and Detective Rael that Mrs. Goodrich answered the door Wednesday morning around seven-thirty.”

Morgan nodded. “Aye, so he did.” The policeman waited expectantly.

“Did he also tell you and Rael that Mrs. Goodrich said Mr. Goodrich ‘was sleeping his life away'?”

The good left eye roamed the ceiling. “Words to that effect. Are you implying that Mr. Goodrich was already drugged at seven-thirty?”

“I'd have to think so,” Judith said. “You may not realize that Enid Goodrich never went to the door.”

“Is that so?” Morgan's interest now seemed genuine. “Well, well.” He stood up, the black raincoat unfurling like the sails of a ship. “We'll have to tend to that booty under the rug. It looks as if the younger Goodriches won't be able to put the house on the market quite yet.”

It looked the same way to Judith.

 

Two days later, however, Art Goodrich appeared in the cul-de-sac with a dapper young man who was obviously a real estate agent. When the two pulled up in a late-model Lexus, Judith happened to be on the front porch, checking her evergreen swag for signs of dryness. Curbing her curiosity, she went inside to finish her household chores. Twenty minutes
later, on the pretext of seeing if the rain had turned to snow, she was back on the porch.

Art was talking to the agent in front of the house. Judith still tried to restrain herself. But a moment later, Arlene was sprinting across the cul-de-sac. Judith couldn't help but follow.

Having gone to get her jacket, Judith was a minute late into the conversation. The agent had retreated inside the house again, but Arlene had collared Art.

“You should have called our daughter,” Arlene was saying in a vexed voice. “Cathy's been with Peter Peach Realty for years.”

Looking intimidated and defensive at the same time, Art had his back up against the agent's Lexus. “I forgot. Really. I still think of Cathy as a teenager.”

“She's thirty-four,” Arlene snapped. “Why can't you keep neighborhood business in the
neighborhood
? One thing I'll say for your parents—they were always good neighbors. As long as your mother stayed inside, of course.”

With rain running off the end of his nose, Art now looked just plain miserable. “I'm sorry, Arlene. Like I said…”

But Arlene had turned away and was heading for the house. “Never mind. I'll talk to this interloper myself. He'd better make it a multiple listing.” She glared at Art over her shoulder. “You won't even have a lookiloo this time of year. January fifth, that's when prospective buyers start thinking about moving again. Cathy says so. And she's always right. Except when she's wrong.” Arlene stomped up the front stairs.

Art was holding his head. “Everything's a mess. Who'd want to buy a house where somebody was…murdered? It's all a nightmare. Now I can't even please the neighbors! Damn!”

“Don't worry about the neighbors,” Judith soothed. “Come over to my place, Art. We'll have a cup of coffee while Arlene and your agent duke it out. Okay?”

Art seemed to have no will of his own. Like a lost lamb, he followed Judith to Hillside Manor. It was midafternoon on a dark, chilly Friday. In the kitchen, Judith decided to offer her guest a Tom and Jerry.

Art brightened. “I'm no drinker, but that sounds good. Thanks, Judith.” He grew silent, sitting at the table while Judith heated the teakettle, set out mugs, removed the refrigerated Tom and Jerry batter, and got a bottle of rum from the shelf above the counter. “Where's this all going to end?” Art asked with a heavy sigh.

“Logically?” The word flew out of Judith's mouth. Indeed, she herself hadn't looked that far ahead. Waiting for the teakettle to boil, she sat down across the table from Art. “If your father's innocent, his future is up to him. Does he want to stay with you and JoAnne? Would he rather come home? Has he thought about a retirement place?”

Art looked askance at Judith. “He doesn't want to think about anything. Pappy's letting the rest of us make the decisions for him. It's like he doesn't care. The only thing that worries him is that he thinks he's losing his mind.”