This Old Souse (21 page)

“So what did Alan do?” Judith queried, neglecting her own plate in her anxiety over Bill's visit to the Blands.

Another digestive pause. “He contended that the squirrels were all outside, that several years ago a squirrel remover had trapped a couple of them in the attic and sealed up the whole house. The squirrels had never come back inside.” More ribs for Bill.

Renie twitched in her chair before leaning toward her husband. “So?”

“So,” Bill replied a moment later after another wipe-down with the towel, “I asked to see where the work had been done. Alan started to stonewall again. That's when the alarm went off.”

Judith stared at Bill. “What alarm?”

“They have an alarm system,” Bill explained. “The control panel is inside one of the kitchen cupboards. Alan shut it off, but he had to make sure no one was trying to get in the front door or somewhere else in the house.”

“He left you alone in the kitchen?” Judith asked.

Bill nodded. He was eating more cabbage.

“What did you do?” Judith urged.

“The rest of the house seemed very dark,” Bill replied after another pause. “I went into the next room, the dining room, and saw that all the drapes were pulled and seemed stiff with age. Musty, too. I assumed they hadn't been opened in years. I could make out the table and chairs—good, solid stuff—along with a buffet, a breakfront, and a couple of floral paintings on one wall.”

“What was in the breakfront?” Judith asked. “I didn't notice it when I was there.”

Bill shook his head. “Dishes, I think. It was hard to tell. I was trying to focus on the house itself, the ambience, the atmosphere. Understand a house, and you understand the people who live there. My initial reaction was that the residents live in fear. But fear of what? Of other people in general? No, that's not necessarily the case.” He paused to chew on another rib.

“Towel,” Renie murmured, handing the soiled linen to her husband.

Bill shook his head again. “I need a clean one. That's a mess.”

With a heavy sigh, Renie returned to Judith's kitchen drawer.

Judith was growing impatient. “They have eye problems,” she pointed out. “Or so I heard. Light bothers Jane and Sally.”

Bill took the fresh towel from Renie. “I'm not talking about physical ailments. I'm trying to get inside their heads. They're in hiding. They don't want in
truders. Are they hiding themselves—or hiding something else?” He stared into space. “That's what I'm trying to work through now. It'll take some time.”

“Oh, don't stop now,” Renie said with a sneer. “Why don't you dissect your analytical process? We're hanging on every word.”

“You have cabbage hanging on your lower lip,” Bill noted. “Want to borrow the towel?”

Renie declined and used the back of her hand.

“Isn't there more to the story itself?” Judith urged.

“Let me think,” Bill said, then ate some more potato. “Yes,” he finally continued, “I heard Alan moving around, so I went back into the kitchen. He didn't sound as if he were coming any closer, but I decided to play it safe and waited. That was when I noticed the mail sitting on the counter.”

“What sort of mail?” Judith asked eagerly.

“Three pieces,” Bill replied. “A bill, a circular, and”—he paused, presumably for dramatic effect—“a letter from Kopfstein, Austria.”

The cousins both gasped. “Who was it to? Was there a name on the return address?” Judith asked.

Bill nodded again. “Very shaky handwriting. The return was from a Franz Steiner. The letter was sent to Frau Franz Steiner. Do you know who that is?”

F
RAU
S
TEINER HAS
to be Sally,” Judith declared, “Jane's sister. The so-called Uncle Franz could be her husband. That's her married name, Sally Steiner.”

“Then she's not a widow,” Renie noted. “But why have she and her husband lived apart for so long?”

Judith turned back to Bill. “We're getting sidetracked. What happened after you looked at the mail?”

Bill wiped his hands on the towel. “Alan returned to the kitchen. He apologized for the interruption, adding that somehow the alarm had been tripped by accident. ‘A squirrel, perhaps?' I said. He assured me it wasn't a squirrel, but that they did have an occasional mouse in the basement. ‘A squirrel,' I repeated. I know squirrels, dammit. Nobody knows squirrels like I know squirrels.”

Bill was getting very red in the face and looking grim. But he collected himself and continued. “Definitely a mouse, Alan insisted, and looked at me as if I were weird. In any event, he went on, the alarm
had frightened his grandparents and his great-aunt. They were very upset. This wasn't a good time to check out the house. Perhaps I could come back later? Or better yet, he suddenly added, he'd call the city and make the proper arrangements.”

“Eyewash,” declared Renie.

Bill shrugged. “Probably. In any event, I had no choice but to leave. But,” he added with an intense glint in his blue eyes, “by God, I still say it was a squirrel.”

Frowning, Judith picked at her food. Except for the Steiner letter, she was disappointed in Bill's adventure. “Could you see what was beyond the dining room?”

“Just barely,” Bill said. “It appeared to be the living room. Leather chairs, a fireplace, more closed drapes. I only got a glimpse.” He stopped speaking to finish his last rib, but waved a finger as he chewed. “Wait,” he said after he'd swallowed and wiped his chin. “There was one other thing about the dining room. A statue of the Blessed Virgin. It caught what little light there was coming from the kitchen. I didn't think about it until now because you expect to see religious artwork in a Spanish-style house like that.”

Judith looked puzzled. “The Blands aren't Catholic as far as I know. Dick and Jane were married in a Protestant church. Lutheran, as I recall, in Langford.”

“But Steiner could be a Catholic name,” Renie pointed out. “Maybe Franz is Catholic. Sally could be a convert. That might explain why Sally wasn't an attendant at Jane's wedding. In those days, it was frowned upon for Catholics to participate in Protestant ceremonies.”

“But it wasn't always enforced,” Bill said. “It depended a lot on the parish priest. Some of them winked at those outmoded ideas.”

“Maybe Sally was living in Austria at the time,” Renie suggested.

“That makes the most sense,” Judith agreed. “But when she came back to the States, why didn't she bring Franz with her? Were they estranged by then? If so, why didn't they get a divorce?”

“Because,” Bill put in, “Franz is a Catholic? Maybe Sally converted. Hence the Blessed Mother statue.”

“But they stayed in contact,” Judith murmured. “Morty the Mailman told me that over the years, there'd been letters for someone not named Bland. Sally's lived there forever, according to Elsie Bruce.”

“That's a long estrangement,” Renie remarked, handing Bill another towel.

Judith stood up, starting to clear the table. Renie joined her cousin in the cleanup process. “I shouldn't have—excuse the expression—ribbed Bill when he started to drone on,” Renie said after her husband went out to stretch his legs on the front porch. “He's right. What are the Blands hiding or hiding from?”

“You don't hide when you live in a house for over fifty years,” Judith pointed out. “You can be found, even if you're not listed in the phone book. So if it's about hiding, and not just being crazy, then what have they got in the house that they don't want anybody to see? Glenn and Trash must have gotten a search warrant. They must know what's in there.”

“They won't tell you,” Renie said. “You seem to be completely out of their loop.”

“What's for dessert?” Bill asked as he strolled back into the kitchen. “By the way, it's starting to drizzle.”

“I made Grandma Grover's cream puffs,” Judith replied. “Your favorite.”

“Sounds good,” Bill said.

To Judith, the cream puffs might sound as well as taste good, but they also brought back memories of the first time she'd encountered murder. Some of her guests had invited a fortune-teller who was subsequently poisoned. The cream puffs had undergone their share of suspicion.

During dessert, the topic changed from murder to marriage, specifically the unions of Mike and the three Jones offspring. The cousins did most of the talking, while Bill consumed every last crumb of his cream puff. He was thinking, of course, and as he pulled away from the table, he made his pronouncement.

“I'd suggest therapy for Mike and Kristin,” he said, “but I don't believe in it. What they need is a good kick in the butt.”

“Amen,” said Judith.

 

Joe didn't call that night. Judith assumed he was working long hours and was probably worn out. She was tempted to phone his hotel but resisted the urge. With any luck, he'd be home in twenty-four hours. Judith wasn't worried about his return now that she was no longer a murder suspect and had the Subaru back from the police impound.

But the phone rang around eleven-thirty, just as Judith was undressing. It wouldn't be Joe; it was one-thirty in Omaha. Maybe it was Mike. Judith grabbed
the receiver with one hand and her bathrobe with the other.

“Arthur,” Renie said. “What about Arthur?”

“Arthur?” Judith echoed, sitting down on the bed. “Oh! Anna's first husband. What about him?”

“That's what I'm asking,” Renie replied doggedly. “Did I wake you?”

“No, of course not,” Judith said. “You know I usually don't go to bed until around this time.”

“Neither do I,” Renie said, “which makes it very hard for me to understand how you can get up so early in the morning and actually function. But back to Arthur. I know it's off-the-wall, but did you really believe Elsie Bruce when she told us that Arthur drowned in the Blands' fishpond?”

“No, I didn't,” Judith answered after a pause to recollect the conversation with the Blands' neighbor. It had been less than a week since the cousins had called on Elsie. It seemed more like a month. “That is, I realized she was confused about some things, or making them up out of sheer spite. Luke, for example, being an inventor, rather than a developer. It also occurred to me that Arthur didn't drown in the fishpond. From the way you described it, the pond had been empty for ages.”

“It wouldn't have been deep enough to drown a grown man,” Renie pointed out. “I don't think it was more than a foot, if that. Someone would have had to hold Arthur down. Unless, of course, he was drunk and fell in. But you're right—Arthur's been dead for what? Fifteen, twenty years? I'd say that pond's been dried up for a good thirty. I don't remember seeing it more than a couple of times when I was a kid.”

Judith grimaced. “You're evil. You're trying to make sure I can't get a good night's rest. Frankly, I hadn't thought much about Arthur. But now that you mention it…” She paused, trying to recall something else Mrs. Bruce had said. “His last name was Craig. I remember asking if he'd drowned in a boating accident. Elsie Bruce sneered at that, and said something about ‘Where would Arthur get a boat?' I wonder if he got one from Philip French?”

“Ah.” Renie laughed quietly. “Phil, in love with Anna, maybe having an affair with her, takes Arthur out on his yacht—and pushes him overboard.”

“Assuming Phil had a yacht in those days,” Judith said as the rain began to come down hard enough to make splattering noises on the tree near the bedroom window. “He would've just been getting started in the tug business.” She turned to look outside at the rain. “Maybe we're going out on a limb.”

“We can check the records on Arthur Craig tomorrow,” Renie said. “That is, Bill can. He has to go to the courthouse to turn in his temporary license to make everything legal. It was good only for today.”

“If we find the date of death,” Judith put in, “we can look his obit up in the newspaper archives.”

“Unfortunately,” Renie pointed out, “the Internet archives don't go back that far. We'll have to go there in person. Unless, of course, I can con Bill into stopping on the way home from the courthouse.”

After Judith had hung up, she wondered why they were going to such trouble to find out about the demise of Arthur Craig. He'd been dead for over fifteen years. It'd be much simpler to merely ask Anna
or some other family member what had happened to him.

Judith finished getting ready for bed, and went to sleep with dreams about big orange koi swimming in an Olympic-size pool with Mark Spitz.

 

Tuesday was Allergy Morning for Judith. She was accustomed to allergies. Both cousins suffered from them. But on this particular gloomy day in June, four of her guests had submitted their lists of what they couldn't eat, including eggs, pork, wheat, and milk. Breakfast would have to provide alternatives. Rye toast, artificial eggs, hamburger patties, and fruit would fill the bill and, Judith hoped, the tummies.

“I need a vacation,” Judith complained to Phyliss Rackley. “Unfortunately, that's impossible until fall. I can't leave Hillside Manor in the summer.”

“Idle hands are the devil's workshop,” Phyliss retorted. “Speaking of which, I don't see your wicked cat anywhere.”

“I know,” Judith said with a sigh. “As soon as I clear up from breakfast, I'm going to make some signs.”

“Signs,” murmured Phyliss. “There are many signs in the Bible and one of the bad ones is your furry familiar.” She flipped a dustrag for emphasis and headed upstairs.

Renie called around eleven. Bill, who was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, had just gotten back from the courthouse. He'd found Arthur Andrew Craig's death certificate. He had died June 3, 1985, at the age of thirty-one. Cause of death was listed as accidental drowning.

“But not necessarily in a fishpond?” Judith remarked.

“Not necessarily,” Renie replied. “I think we can save a trip to the newspaper if I coax my buddy Melissa to check the archives.”

Melissa Bargroom was the newspaper's music critic. Judith had met her a few times, and considered her anything but the stodgy classical critic she had originally envisioned. If Melissa had to stand on her head, twirl like a dervish, and sing Lucia di Lammermoor's Mad Scene, she'd be up to the task.

“I'll let you know what she finds out,” Renie said, “wild-goose chase, or not. Come to think of it, there's an opera about a goose girl, but it's kind of obscure.”

“I should think so,” Judith said, and rang off.

She got six feet from the phone when it rang again.

“Late lunch break,” Joe said in a weary voice. “We've got a slight hitch. I won't be home until tomorrow.”

“Is the hitch a serious problem?” Judith asked.

“No,” he replied, “we're waiting for some expert to show up from New York and his flight was canceled. He won't get in until this evening.”

“You've never mentioned what kind of case you're working on,” Judith said. “Is it hush-hush?”

“Yes. That's why I never mentioned it.” Joe sighed. “I'll be able to tell you when it's finally wrapped up and I get home. No big deal. It's not exactly dangerous. What's going on at your end?”

Judith kept her recital brief, though she did relay the worrisome news about Sweetums.

“You know,” Joe said softly, “he's an old cat. He may have just crawled off somewhere and—”

“No!” Judith broke in. “Sweetums isn't
that
old! We got him after I moved back home. Some cats live to be in their twenties, especially the really pampered ones. And you can't say that Sweetums isn't that.”

“No,” Joe said in a musing tone, “I certainly can't. And he's tough. I'll give the little beast that much.”

The phone call galvanized Judith into making up some signs on the computer. She had a half-dozen photos of Sweetums, but two showed him asleep; two more showed only his rear end and plumelike tail. In the pair of remaining pictures, he looked so ornery that she was afraid he might scare off would-be finders. Indeed, she thought as she printed out the signs, if there had been a “Ten Most Wanted” cat gallery at the post office, Sweetums would be Human Enemy Number One.

After making Gertrude's lunch, Judith spent the next half hour posting the signs in the immediate neighborhood and along Heraldsgate Avenue all the way to the turnoffs for the two nearest bridges. She had another dozen left, so she headed to Langford and Uncle Al's.

Her uncle was home, watching a baseball game on TV. Or four baseball games, since Al Grover had two TV sets, both of which had picture-in-picture inset features.

“You've struck out, haven't you?” Al said, not looking away from the games in progress. “I feel terrible about it. I'm not used to having pets.”

“It's not your fault,” Judith assured him. “Sweetums has never been out of our neighborhood until this. The person to blame is that Mrs. Greenwalt, who insisted
on his absence from Hillside Manor. I didn't know what to do.”

“He may still show up,” Uncle Al said, grimacing as one of the four second basemen made a fielding error. “Did you know I've got an autographed ball from Jackie Robinson?”

“No,” Judith said. “How'd you manage that?”

“I asked him for it,” Uncle Al replied. “It's worth a bundle now, but I wouldn't part with it at any price. I keep it in a safe with my souvenirs from the war.”