Vi Agra Falls (15 page)

“During the day,” Renie said. “Every night at eight-thirty he goes into his cage and waits for us to tuck him in.”

“Gack.”

Renie glared at her cousin. “You know it's true.”

“Yes. That's why I said ‘gack,'” Judith retorted. “You and Bill are idiots.”

“You just don't get it,” Renie muttered, setting the cage on the kitchen counter and putting a finger between the wires to touch the bunny's soft gray fur. “I figured we could let Clarence roam in your garage during the day. Joe's MG is locked up in there, isn't it?”

Judith sighed. “Okay, that might work. I'll admit, Sweetums never goes in there unless the garage door is open.” She placed the envelope and box she'd been carrying on the kitchen table. “I'll give you the key so you can take him out there now.”

“Good.” Renie glanced at the table. “Is that yours?”

“No,” Judith said, taking the garage key off of her chain. “It's for Frankie Buss. He's not here at the moment.” She handed the key to Renie before studying the return address. “This is from somebody named Loren Ellsworth in Tushka, Oklahoma. Ever heard of the place?”

Renie had picked up the cage. “Nope. But then I've never been to Oklahoma. I've only flown over it. I think it was Oklahoma. Maybe it was Okinawa. I was kind of bleary from drinking a pint of Wild Turkey.”

“Of course you were,” Judith murmured, well aware of her cousin's need to get blotto before boarding an airplane. Shaking her head at Renie's folly—or follies, including Clarence's pampered existence—Judith went into the entry hall to put the FedEx deliveries in the old-fashioned bronze mailbox reserved for guests.

Ten minutes later, Renie returned to the kitchen. “Clarence
is settled, and I took everything else except for my purse upstairs.”

“Good.” Judith shot her cousin a caustic glance. “Does your bunny like the garage?”

“He's exploring,” Renie replied, getting a can of Pepsi out of the fridge. “Or will be when he makes up his mind if it's safe to come out of the cage.”

“At least you didn't bring Oscar,” Judith said.

“I couldn't,” Renie responded. “He went fishing with Bill. It's a bad idea. Oscar gets seasick. The last time—Oh, shoot! I almost forgot!” Renie grabbed her huge purse from the counter and rushed out of the kitchen.

Judith called after her. “What are you doing?” Not getting an answer, she followed her cousin into the living room. Renie was putting a framed photograph of Bill—and Oscar—on the mantel.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Judith cried. “Take that down!”

Renie gazed innocently at her cousin. “Why? I've always thought you were fond of family treasures.”

“I am,” Judith snapped, “but I'm not fond of you being an idiot! I have guests using this room. They'll think I'm unhinged.”

“No, they won't,” Renie said calmly. “They'll be intrigued.”

“How? By trying to figure who is who in that damned picture?”

“Bill's the one wearing the suit and tie,” Renie replied.

“Oh, good grief!” Judith shook herself and leaned a hand on the back of the nearest sofa. “If you must, put it in the guest bedroom, where nobody else can see it.”

“Don't be so sensitive.” Renie was beginning to sound testy. “This is a studio portrait.”

Judith glowered at Renie. “What studio? Metro-Goldwyn-Moron?”

Sadly, Renie shook her head. “You seem to have lost your sense of whimsy.”

“You seem to have lost your mind.” Judith studied Renie's mulish expression. It was a bad sign, as well as a bad start to her cousin's visit. “Okay, leave it there for now. Come on, I want to show you something.”

Back in the kitchen, Judith explained how Arlene had found the sheet of paper in the hedge. “What do you think ‘HH' at the bottom stands for?” she asked after handing the guest list to Renie.

“Hubert Humphrey?”

“Get serious.
Please
.”

“Okay.” Renie pointed to the top of the page. “I take it these are the guests?”

Judith nodded. “You'll notice, though, that the neighbors in the cul-de-sac aren't listed. I suspect we were an afterthought.”

“Not necessarily,” Renie said. “If this paper was floating around at the party, it may have been used to indicate who was or wasn't attending. All the neighbors would be here—if not actually at the party—because this is where you live. Herself sent you the invitations because she wanted to be darned sure you all heard her big announcement about the condo project.”

“You may be right,” Judith allowed. “Back to ‘HH.'”

“There are only three names,” Renie murmured. “Maybe there was another page.”

“Yes, I wondered about that, too. It may've been tossed in all the mayhem and confusion. Do the first two names sound familiar?”

Renie shook her head. “No. Neither does the third one, the woman. What kind of a name is…this is hard to read. The bottom of the page is wrinkled. Flora Something-or-other.”

“Bando or Bundy, maybe?”

“I can't tell.” Renie propped her chin on her hand and looked thoughtful. “Where's your famous logic? This is for a party, with guests listed first. Who are these other people? Potential party crashers?”

“Maybe,” Judith conceded. “I think the two men
might
be Herself's sons. Joe lost track of them after the divorce. He's always said they were headed for trouble. They'd be in their forties by now.”

Renie shook her head. “I don't recall anything about them. Wasn't there a stepdaughter, too?”

“Yes. She spent most of her time with her father, Vivian's first husband. I can't remember her name.” Judith grimaced. “I should've shown this list to Joe.”

“You can ask him when he calls,” Renie pointed out.

“The problem is,” Judith said slowly, “I don't want him to think I'm getting embroiled in this murder.”

“Oh, Coz,” Renie said, leaning back in the chair, “you already are, and he knows it. You can't help yourself. You're an addict. There's no rehab to cure your urge to solve a crime. Unfortunately, your addiction can be just as dangerous as mainlining heroin.”

“It's not as if I don't have faith in the police,” Judith asserted, on the defensive. “I do. Why wouldn't I? Joe was—still is—an excellent detective, so's Woody Price, and several other cops I got to know over the years. They're professionals. I'm only an amateur. They get paid for what they do. I don't. But I still have to—” She stopped. “‘HH,'” she said softly. “Could it stand for Hired Help?”

Renie grinned. “Ah. Your logic just kicked in. I'll bet you're right.”

Judith ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. “The band, the waiters, the caterer, a trio of skimpily clad waitresses. Who else?”

“Mercifully,” Renie said, “I wouldn't know because I wasn't there. The florist? The bouncer?”

Judith shook her head. “There weren't any flowers. That's why finding the rose petals by Vivian's gate seemed odd. If there was a bouncer, I didn't see him. I figure that job was left to Billy because he looks as if he works out.”

“On the sofa watching car crashes?”

“Downtime?” Judith said sarcastically. “Billy does have muscles, if no brains.” She paused. “There was supposed to be a stripper. Luckily, I missed her. Maybe she's Flora Dora or whatever.”

Renie gestured at the list. “If you're right, the stepsons—Barry and Doug?—could have been waiters.”

Judith nodded. “Yes. I saw Joe talking to them. I guess they're not in jail after all.” She got up to consult the phone directory. “Let's see if they're listed.”

Renie snickered. “Listed by the phone company or wanted by the police?”

“Both maybe,” Judith murmured. “Hunh. No Henckel inside the city.” She flipped back to the C listings. “A bunch of Camp-bells with names that start with D, including two Douglases.”

“What was the stepdaughter's name?” Renie asked. “Was that old chum of Uncle Al's her father?”

“I think so, but I vaguely recall that she moved away or got married,” Judith said, closing the directory. “Joe lost track of her years ago. I wonder if Johnny is still around.”

“Ask Uncle Al,” Renie suggested. “He keeps up with a lot of his old cronies from his restaurant days.”

“You know that restaurant was only a front for an illegal gambling operation,” Judith said. “The real action was in the back room.”

“Right,” Renie responded. “We were too young to go back there. Instead, we got free malts at the counter. I fell off the stool twice.”

The doorbell rang. Judith stood up. “Now what?” She headed out of the kitchen, followed by a curious Renie.

To Judith's chagrin, Mavis Lean-Brodie stood on the front porch. The rest of her crew was getting out of a KINE-TV van parked at the curb.

“You're at it again,” Mavis said, faintly amused. “Whodunit?”

“Mavis—” Judith stopped. “You can come in if you don't bring your creatures with you.”

“Thanks.” Mavis, impeccably coiffed and attired as always, turned to her cohorts. “Go over to the second house from the corner and see if you can get any good shots. Try for the tree where the stiff was found.”

Judith led the way into the parlor. “How come you weren't here yesterday?” she asked as Mavis sat down in one of the two matching high-backed chairs in front of the stone fireplace.

“I was on vacation,” Mavis replied in her usual brittle manner. “I'd just come back from hiking up to Machu Picchu in Peru when I got a call from KINE telling me to get my butt back here. I didn't get in until nine o'clock this morning.”

“How was Machu Picchu?” Renie asked from the narrow window seat that looked out onto the driveway.

“I wouldn't know,” Mavis replied. “Too damned much cloud cover. For all I know, it's made out of Legos.”

Judith had sat down in the other high-backed chair. “Let me warn you, Mavis,” she said sternly, “I don't want to get involved in this one. Forget about the FATSO site, forget about some of the other murders I've gotten roped into, forget that I exist.”

Mavis burst out laughing. “Yeah, right, sure. Don't con me, Judith. This one's a natural. Somebody told me the woman who owns the house where the body was found used to be married to your husband. How can I resist?”

“If I can, you can,” Judith declared with a straight face.

Mavis smirked. “That's crap. If you want to play ‘Let's Pretend,' I've got a game of my own—‘To Tell the Truth.' Let's hear about the party.”

Judith sighed. “I wasn't there. We had our own Block Watch party that night. I was in and out of our house.”

Mavis winced and leaned her head against the back of the chair. Remarkably, every hair of her perfect blond pageboy stayed in place. “I can't stand it! You'd know more about what was going on at the Buss party even if you were ten miles away.”

Judith remained silent.

“Want a Pepsi?” Renie asked Mavis, holding out the can she'd brought with her into the parlor.

Mavis shot Renie a sharp glance. “Only if you put truth serum in it and I could make your obstinate cousin drink it down.” She leaned forward in the chair. “Come on,” she coaxed Judith, “give me the good stuff that I can't find in the official police report.”

Judith stared straight ahead at the fireplace. “No.”

“Okay.” Mavis straightened up. “How's this? I'll tell you something you don't know.”

Judith's eyelids flickered in Mavis's direction. “No deal.”

Mavis shrugged. “Fine. I'll tell your cousin.” She smiled thinly at Renie. “Have you heard the one about the body stolen from the morgue?”

Renie looked blank. “Whatever happened to the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the minister going into the bar?”

“This one's better,” Mavis said, looking smug. “The body stolen out of the morgue last night was your cousin's latest murder victim.”

I
t's not
my
body!” Judith cried. “Damnit, I'm not on the case!”

“Maybe you should be,” Mavis said calmly. “If it's occurred to me, it's also occurred to the police that stealing a body out of the city morgue could only be accomplished with help from a city employee. Like…oh, let's say…a retired police detective with a vested interest in a corpse found on his ex-wife's premises?”

“That's outrageous!” Judith got to her feet. “Joe's not even here. He left town last night.”

Mavis eyed Judith with a complacent expression. “Left town, huh? That's convenient. The body was snatched sometime between eight and ten. What time did Joe leave?”

Judith's strong features expressed righteous indignation. “We left for the airport at seven-thirty, a couple of hours before his scheduled flight around nine-thirty.”

Mavis's etched mauve lips curled upward. “Flight? How fitting!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Judith exclaimed. “You know Joe wouldn't get mixed up in this!”

“I may know it,” Mavis said, “but those newbie cops don't.
This is their first homicide. Not smart of the higher-ups to put a couple of rookies on the case.” She reached out a hand in appeal. “Come on, Judith, stop being a pain in the butt. Was I or was I not a guest at your B&B when you got mixed up in your very first murder? Not to mention the music guy who got killed last year. We cooperated pretty damned well on that one. We make a good team. Why not go for the sequel?”

Judith sighed heavily and sat down. “The problem is, I promised Joe not to get involved. I promised
myself
not to get involved.”

Renie threw her hands up in the air. “Stop! How many times have I heard that one? Just do what you always do and find the wretched killer. You know perfectly well you've already started your sleuthing thing. These lengthy preludes to your adventures drive me nuts.”

“Serena's right,” Mavis said. “Now, let's start with the neighbors' reaction to this big project Vivian Buss announced at her party.”

Judith wished she didn't feel she had to defend herself as well as Joe. “We hated the idea,” she admitted, and stopped right there.

Mavis looked reproachful. “There was more to it than that. Didn't the party break up because it turned violent?”

“The party ended somewhat later,” Judith said, grateful for the chance to omit Arlene's wooden spoon attack. “The Busses' guests got drunk and unruly. Yes, I understand there was some brawling, but I honestly wasn't there.”

“Too bad,” Mavis murmured. “Was Joe on hand for the fisticuffs?”

“He took no part in them,” Judith asserted, “and as far as I know, none of the neighbors did, either. In fact, the next day Mrs. Rankers and Mrs. Porter and I went over to offer our condolences for the tragedy.”

“Hey,” Renie yelped, “I went, too.”

Mavis turned in her direction. “You aren't a neighbor. Keep it down, Jonesy.”

“Don't call me Jonesy,” Renie warned, looking pugnacious, “or I'll call you Leansy.”

Mavis ignored the threat and turned back to Judith. “According to the nine-one-one records, you made the call about the dead guy. How come?”

Judith explained about Herself's frantic arrival in the middle of the night at Hillside Manor. Upon conclusion, she pointed a finger at Mavis. “I've given you everything you want. Now tell me more about this body-snatching.”

“Fair enough,” Mavis agreed. “Tuesdays are usually quiet at the morgue, unlike the weekends or holidays. Oh, people croak, but they're usually solid citizens dying from natural causes, so they get shipped off to their favorite funeral home. The backyard victim—whose identity is still unknown, according to the cops—was the only newcomer. The preliminary autopsy was performed yesterday, but the complete results won't be ready for at least a week. The coroner's office is short-staffed right now because of vacations.” She made a face. “I guess they don't get called back to the job like TV anchors. Anyway, the initial findings were released late yesterday. Cause of death was strangulation, time of death was somewhere between ten and midnight. He'd been put in cold storage, awaiting identification. This morning a member of the custodial crew noticed somebody hadn't closed the corpse's drawer all the way. He took a look and discovered Mr. Nameless was the man who wasn't there.”

Judith shuddered. “That's awful. Why, I wonder?”

Mavis smiled slyly. “Isn't that where you come in?”

Judith shook her head. “I certainly can't explain it.”

“Maybe not,” Mavis allowed, “but you can figure out who, and why this guy ended up on the property of your nemesis.”

Judith looked bleakly at Mavis. “Let's start with how he was strangled. Was it with the rope that was found in the garden?”

“The cops haven't given out that information yet,” Mavis replied. “Why don't you tell me how Mrs. Buss got so rich?”

“She married well,” Judith replied, paying no attention to Renie's groan. “Her wealthy husband died and left everything to her.”

“That is
so
unworthy of you!” Mavis cried. “Don't waste time. I can still get something on the noon news if you start dishing the real dirt.”

Judith glanced at her watch. It was ten to twelve. “All I have is hearsay. Do you want to get both of us sued?”

Mavis hesitated. “No. Let's call it deep background. Give, Judith.”

“Okay. I'll keep it simple. Vivian married a rich old coot who owned a big ranch in Oklahoma. He died about a year later. She inherited everything, and then married his son, Billy, a former minor-league baseball player. Billy didn't want to live in Florida or Oklahoma, so they moved back here to her house in the cul-de-sac. Billy and his brother, Frankie, got zip from their dad. Frankie and his wife, Marva Lou, are staying here at my B&B for a few days. That's all I know.”

“That's quite a bit,” Mavis said. “God, you've got it all! Money, sex, violence—now put it together and we'll both be geniuses.”

Judith shook her head. “I can't begin to figure it out until I know who got killed.”

“Do you know who was at the party?” Mavis inquired.

Judith could hardly refrain from smiling. “Well—I do have the guest list. I think. What's it worth to you?”

Mavis grinned. “Dinner at the Manhattan Grill?”

Renie slid off the window seat. “For that,
I'll
get the list.” She shot both women a dirty look. “I'm getting really bored sitting here like a stuffed dummy. I
knew
I should've brought Oscar. At least he's amusing.” She stalked out of the parlor.

“Oscar?” Mavis said with a curious expression.

“Please.” Judith spoke through tight lips. “Don't ask.”

“Nothing to do with the murder?”

“A long-standing bone of contention,” Judith replied. “Ignore my cousin. You don't want to get sidetracked.”

Mavis didn't pursue the subject. “Have you been questioned by the police?”

“No.”

“That's odd. Aren't they canvassing the neighborhood?”

“I assume so,” Judith said, “but Joe had already talked to them. I never saw the body. I don't know what the man looked like.”

“Caucasian, five-eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds, late sixties to mid-seventies, balding, black hair gone gray, brown eyes, small scars on left cheek and right arm, and seemingly in good health,” Mavis recited from memory. “No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle.”

“In other words,” Judith said dryly, “he could be anybody.”

“Exactly,” Mavis agreed as Renie returned to the parlor.

“Here,” she said, handing Mavis a sheet of paper. “I scanned the list and made copies.” She gave the original to Judith and kept a copy for herself. “Do you want me to make your mother's lunch?” she asked. “Or should I go help Phyliss clean the guest toilets?”

Judith started to apologize, but stopped. “Yes, Mother will be annoyed if lunch isn't on time. Thanks.”

Taken aback, Renie glowered at her cousin—and then nodded. “Will do.” She made her exit without another word.

“Hmm,” Mavis murmured. “I don't remember Serena as docile.”

“It's an act,” Judith said. “She must have her reasons.”

“No doubt.” Mavis studied the list. “Do you know these people?”

“Only Frankie and Marva Lou Buss,” she replied. “I think the HH stands for hired help. I also think there was another page. It ends abruptly, especially since the band had at least half a dozen musicians.”

Mavis shook her head. “This doesn't mean squat to me. Have you checked out anybody on this list?”

“No,” Judith admitted, “though I wondered if Doug and Barry might be Vivian's sons. They're listed under that HH. There were two waiters in their forties, which would be the right age.”

Mavis looked incredulous. “You can't ask?”

“Of course,” Judith responded. “Joe's calling me around three our time. I suppose,” she continued, her eyes scanning the other names on the list, “I could ask one of the Busses.”

“You'd better,” Mavis said, getting out of the chair. “You're dragging your feet on this one, FATSO.”

“Don't use that nickname,” Judith snapped. “You know I hate it, and you also know it's an incorrect acronym.”

“So what? You think that as a kid I liked being called Slats and Skinny?” Mavis shot back. “I'd have dropped my maiden name of Lean long ago if I hadn't already become well known in TV before I married Lance Brodie. See you later…
FASTO
.”

The anchorwoman was down the front porch steps before Judith could catch up with her. The KINE-TV technical crew members were by the van, apparently having finished filming anything that might be worth five seconds of viewing time.

“Let's hit it,” Mavis called to her colleagues and pointed to Vivian's house. “We're going to see the Busses.”

Good luck,
Judith thought as Arlene slipped out from around the end of the hedge. “What's happening?” she asked, standing at the bottom of the steps.

“Just routine,” Judith said. “KINE's anchorwoman was out of town yesterday. Mavis Lean-Brodie's making up for lost time.”

“Ah.” Arlene watched the TV group head across the cul-de-sac. “Tell me,” she said, lowering her voice, “is that her real hair?”

“I think so,” Judith replied.

“It's too perfect,” Arlene contended. “It's got to be a wig. What about her eyes? Are those colored contacts? Is it true that when she's sitting at that desk giving the TV news she doesn't wear any pants?”

“She wears jeans,” Judith said, noticing there was no response to Herself's doorbell or Mavis's imperious knock.

Arlene was also looking in the direction of the Buss house. “Isn't anyone home over there?”

“I can't tell,” Judith said. “I don't think Billy's car has arrived yet from Florida. It's an Aston Martin.”

Arlene scowled. “A what?”

“Expensive, that's all I know. They sold their Cadillac Escalade before they moved.” She paused, watching one of KINE's crew go around to the side of the house, presumably to try the back door.

“Show-offs,” Arlene sniffed. “I'd never buy a car I hadn't heard of.”

“No,” Judith agreed, though she wasn't sure what her neighbor meant. Seeing Mavis and her minions return to the sidewalk, Judith turned back to Arlene. “I'm going inside before Mavis nails me again.”

She hurried into the house. There was no sign of Renie in the kitchen. A strange smell and a dirty saucepan in the sink were evidence that she'd cooked something on the stove. From
the back door, Judith saw her cousin carrying a tray into the toolshed. She decided to tend to business, using the phone in the living room to inform Ingrid Heffelman at the state B&B association that a sudden vacancy had opened up.

“Oh, dear God!” Ingrid howled after Judith identified herself. “I've been praying that I wouldn't hear from you! If that man who got murdered near Hillside Manor was another one of your doomed guests, you're getting your innkeeper's license stripped ASAP!”

“I don't even know who got killed,” Judith said indignantly. “This time, I had nothing to do with what happened. It's only a coincidence that the body was found in a neighbor's yard.”

“When it comes to you,” Ingrid snarled, “there is no such thing as a coincidence. Some people collect stamps. You collect corpses. I mean it. Another one of your homicidal adventures will shut you down for good. You won't pass muster with the review board like you did last time after that music guy who was staying at your B&B got whacked.”

“That's not what I'm calling about,” Judith said in her most self-righteous voice. “Two guests checked out early, and I wanted to—”

“Checked out in what way?” Ingrid demanded. “Were they carrying luggage or stuffed into body bags?”

Judith forced herself to stay calm. “They left in perfect health. I simply wanted to let you know that I have a vacancy, in case anyone asks. That's what you want innkeepers to do during the busy summer season. How much more professional can I be?”

“I get all shivery when I'm forced to recommend your House of Horrors,” Ingrid asserted. “I feel as if I'm sending visitors to Iraq.”

“Knock it off,” Judith snapped. “Your point is made. I'm hanging up now.” Putting the receiver back into its cradle on
the cherrywood table, she entered the kitchen as Renie arrived via the back door.

“Oh,” Renie said innocently, “you've finished your gig as a media star. Shall we TiVo the five o'clock news for posterity?”

“Don't be a smart-ass,” Judith retorted. “I've just gone a couple of rounds with Ingrid Heffelman.”