by Mary Daheim
“It makes me sad, too,” agreed Renie, feeling somewhat vindicated. “I was so looking forward to tonight’s performance. Everybody was. I couldn’t believe our good fortune when they announced the season last year. How did we get so lucky?”
The question was rhetorical, but Inez took it literally. “Mario asked me to sing this Traviata with him. Six years ago, I believe. I agreed.” A touch of bitterness was in her lilting Spanish voice.
Renie tried not to stare. At that moment, Judith came back into the room with a tall, widemouthed cut-glass vase. “Here, I’ll put the flowers in this and then fill it with water.”
But Justin Kerr clutched the bouquet against his broad chest as if it were a shield. “No!” The mellifluous voice was sharp. “That is, you mustn’t bother. They’re already in water.” He shifted his grip on the bouquet to reveal a plastic container. His tone grew more mellow and a charming smile spread over his handsome face. “Just tell me where Mrs. Pacetti’s room is located. Please.” He made it sound as if Judith were granting him a great favor.
Judith shrugged. “Okay. It’s the middle door at the near end of the hall.”
As Justin Kerr headed for the front stairs, Renie returned her gaze to Inez Garcia-Green. “I have a Cherubim recording of you and Pacetti doing Tosca. That must have been some years ago.”
“That is so. In 1982, I believe. We cut two more complete works after that—L’Elisir d’Amore and Faust. That must have been 1983 and 1984.”
“No Verdi?” Renie was like a terrier, worrying a bone.
“Only Rigoletto in 1981,” replied Inez, a hand touching her right eye. “A pity, I think.” With a graceful motion, she got to her feet. “Pardon me, I must adjust my contact lens. The bathroom is upstairs?”
“Yes,” said Judith, who had remained standing by the rocker. “But you needn’t go all the way up to the second floor. There’s one down here, right off the entry hall…”
But Inez had glided out of the room and headed straight for the staircase. She was almost on the first landing before Judith finished speaking.
The cousins eyed each other curiously. “What’s the thrill about going upstairs?” demanded Judith in a low voice.
Renie frowned. “I don’t know. Could they be checking something out?”
Judith shook her head. “It’s odd. In fact, it’s distinctly odd that these two have come at all. Why not just send the flowers from the florist? Obviously, that’s where they bought them.”
“Should we check on them?” asked Renie as the rain began to fall harder.
Judith’s mouth twisted in an expression of uncertainty. “I don’t want to be rude. They may be innocent—of whatever we suspect them of. What do we suspect them of, coz?”
Renie fingered her short chin. “Damned if I know. Looking for a short white nightie, maybe?”
“And so what if they are?” Judith shifted from one foot to the other.
“Are all the bedroom doors unlocked up there?” Renie gestured in the vicinity of the ceiling.
“I imagine. I ask guests to leave them unlocked while they’re out so that I can clean or deliver or do whatever. It saves me having to carry around a bunch of keys.”
“But if any of these people had anything to hide, they’d lock up, right?” Renie was looking very serious, wearing what Judith always referred to as her boardroom face.
“True.” Judith pricked her ears for the sound of foot-steps. She heard a creak above her head, possibly in the area of Mrs. Pacetti’s room. “Unless they start carrying out Grandma and Grandpa’s headboard, it’s none of our business, right?”
“I suppose not.” Renie replanted herself on the sofa. “You got anything to eat? All of a sudden, I’m hungry. It’s after nine-thirty, and time for my elaborate snack.”
“Sure,” said Judith. “Let’s forage in the fridge.”
Renie eyed the prosciutto, the kielbasa, and the truffles. “I could make a sandwich out of that. Where’s the cheese?”
“That stuff’s not mine,” replied Judith. “Tippy got it for the others up at Falstaff’s, along with the green peppers, the red cabbage, and the goat cheese. They’ve been doing a spot of between-meal cooking on their own. I’ve got Havarti, though. How about slapping it on some pastrami and a French roll?”
“Sounds good,” said Renie.
It did to Judith, too. With Joe gone, she had not bothered to make herself a full dinner. She rummaged in the refrigerator, trying to find the mayonnaise, and let out a small curse when she discovered it had been shoved far to the rear of the bottom shelf.
“These food-crazed fiends I’m hosting have got this thing so crammed full of their own stuff that I can’t find mine,” she complained. “I shouldn’t have let them do their own cooking. I knew it was a bad idea.” Wrestling with jars of mustard, barbecue sauce, salad dressing, and horseradish, she finally managed to extricate the mayonnaise. As she stood up, a sheepish look crossed her face. “Oh, dear—there I go again, being mean-minded. Most of this was for Pacetti, and now he’s dead. I wonder if they’ll all move out tomorrow.”
Renie, who had found the French rolls in the bread box, considered the idea. “They might. Certainly they won’t stay for the whole two weeks. There’ll be a funeral, in Italy, I imagine, and that’ll be handled by Mrs. Pacetti and Plunkett. So there goes Tippy, too. As for Schutzendorf, there’s no reason for him to stick around. He’ll probably attend the funeral.”
Judith was trying very hard not to think greedy thoughts. “If they leave,” she said carefully, “maybe I could call some of those regulars I had to turn down. Otherwise, I’m out a bundle. I can’t expect them to pay if they take off early.”
“Did you get a deposit?” asked Renie, buttering the rolls.
“For the first night only,” replied Judith, slicing pastrami. “They were supposed to pay up at the end of their stay.” Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she went out into the dining room. Justin Kerr was in the entry hall, his broad shoulders hunched.
“Is everything all right?” asked Judith.
“What?” He turned with a jerky movement, then straightened his carriage. “Oh, yes, fine, thank you. I’m not much good at arranging flowers, though. I’m afraid they don’t look very artistic.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Pacetti will appreciate the thought,” said Judith in a soothing voice.
Inez Garcia-Green was descending the stairs, also looking troubled. Seeing Judith in the entry hall, she composed her features and smiled faintly. “Thank you. My vision is much improved. Your bathroom is charming. I like the Spanish galleons in the wallpaper. You do not show the English sinking them, gracias a Dios.”
“Oh, right, I don’t. I mean, the wallpaper doesn’t.” The comment caught Judith off-guard. Judith actually hated the galleon motif, but had had a hard time matching the border of clipper ships in the bedroom itself. The galleons had been on sale as a remnant.
“We go now,” announced Inez, latching onto Justin Kerr and making for the door. “We thank you for your graciousness.”
“Certainly,” said Judith, her brain still not quite on track. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Justin Kerr opened the front door. The rain was falling hard and fast, in straight heavy drops. “Would you like me to walk you to your car with an umbrella?” asked Judith.
“No, no,” replied Justin Kerr, looking faintly uncomfortable as Inez nestled closer. “Our car is right there, in front.” The two singers made a dash for it. Judith stood in the doorway, waiting to wave them off. The headlights came on and the car started down the cul-de-sac.
Although it was hard to see through the heavy rain, Judith was almost sure that the car was gray.
“Great pastrami,” commented Renie, chomping on her sandwich. “So what’s this about a gray car?”
Judith reminded Renie that Arlene Rankers had seen a man sitting in a gray car on Thursday afternoon, presumably watching the house when the Pacetti party arrived at Hillside Manor. Renie was
not impressed.
“There are probably about ten thousand gray cars in a city this size,” Renie pointed out between attacks on her sandwich. “Tony’s car is gray, the Dooleys’ van is gray, Father Hoyle drives a gray Mercedes, our previous Chevrolet was gray, and Mike used to have a gray Honda. Need I go on?”
“Please don’t,” said Judith, surrendering. “You’re right, I’m hallucinating. And I don’t even know why. A famous singer comes to stay at my B&B, he gets a couple of goofy messages—or somebody does—then he dies of a heart attack, and suddenly I’m trying to make a big deal out of it. I’m probably being overly suspicious about Justin Kerr and Inez Garcia-Green showing up. Where else would they take flowers?”
“Right. They wouldn’t deliver them to the hospital because they didn’t know Mrs. Pacetti might be staying overnight.” Renie popped the last bite of pastrami into her mouth. “Say, didn’t I see a lot of German beer in the fridge? Do you think Herr Schutzendorf would mind if I borrowed one? It would wash this down pretty good.”
“So it would,” agreed Judith. “Actually, I bought that for him, though he seems to prefer his Sekt. Want to split one?”
Renie allowed that would be just fine. Judith went back to the kitchen, got a bottle out of the refrigerator, opened it, and poured the contents into two small glass steins. As she came back into the living room, she posed a question to Renie.
“Was I imagining things, or did Inez display a proprietary air toward Justin?”
Renie smirked. “You bet. It looked to me like Inez was making the passes, but Justin didn’t think he was the intended receiver. She must be at least ten years older than he is.”
“Older women, younger men—it’s in,” Judith remarked. “It’s smart, too, if Justin wants somebody to help him with his career. Do you know if he’s any good?”
Renie shrugged, a dollop of mustard just missing the front of her red wool crepe. “I told you, we skipped his performance last season. But they wouldn’t hire a no-talent to back up Pacetti. Potentially, the understudy may have to sing with Inez and with Sydney Haines.”
Judith reflected on Renie’s words. “Big stuff, huh?” Judith mused, then gestured with the last bite of her sandwich. “Say—it just dawned on me. Where does the Green come from in Inez’s name? That doesn’t sound very Spanish.”
“She married an Englishman a long time ago,” answered Renie, hoisting her stein. “Or maybe it was an American. I think they split up. He was some kind of businessman, whose money helped get her launched. I suppose that’s why she kept the name.”
“Green,” mused Judith. “I remember enough of my Spanish to know that translates as verde. And in Italian, as verdi. That’s kind of odd, isn’t…oh!”
“What?” Renie stared at Judith over the rim of her stein.
“That’s what was bothering me—not Green, but Spanish, I mean,” said Judith rapidly. “Inez was remarking about the Spanish galleons in the bathroom upstairs. That’s the front bedroom, where Mario Pacetti was staying. Now why would she go in there instead of Mrs. Pacetti’s room, where Justin Kerr was doing his floral bit?”
“Coz…” Renie spoke as if to a small, dumb animal. “Stop. Maybe she wanted to piddle and preferred more privacy. Don’t tie yourself into knots over nothing.”
“Right,” said Judith. “Absolutely right. I’m being a goose. More beer?”
Renie declined, saying she should head home. Feeling guilty about the spring bulbs still sitting on the back porch, Judith offered to split them with her cousin.
“I told you, I signed an unconditional surrender with the squirrels,” said Renie. “But I’ll take some of those pips.”
“They’re for Mrs. Dooley,” said Judith, then gave a wave of her hand. “What the heck, I’ll give you the ones in the fridge and pull up some for her tomorrow. If nobody’s around, and it’s not coming down like cats and dogs, I might even get the damned bulbs in. Hold on.”
But Judith’s initial perusal of the refrigerator produced no lily-of-the-valley pips. She started to search among the shelves, but Renie told her to forget it.
“You’ll have to haul most of that stuff out to find them,” said Renie, indicating the B&B guests’ horde of gourmet treasures. “Frankly, I might never plant those pips if I have to do it around the holidays. You know what a madhouse it’s like. I’ll get some starters from Nottingham’s in the spring.”
Judith didn’t argue. After briefly musing on what their husbands might—or more likely might not—be doing in New Orleans, the cousins said good night. It was still pouring, but the wind had picked up. Leaves swirled around the yard, tree branches groaned, shrubs rustled against the side of the house. Judith waved Renie off, then locked the front door. It was going on eleven o’clock. Perhaps she’d treat herself to a good book.
Shortly before midnight, Judith put down the spy thriller she’d never found time to read five years earlier when it had run amok on the best seller list. Her eyes were tired and so was her body. Judith turned out the light. The house seemed very empty. Not only was Joe gone, but it was rare that Judith had any rooms vacant, let alone all of them. The rain pelted her window; the wind blew through the eaves. Judith struggled to find a comfortable position in the queen-sized bed that suddenly felt enormous without Joe beside her.
The old house creaked and groaned as it always did, especially on a stormy night. At first, Judith thought the noise she heard was merely the wind. Then she realized there was someone downstairs. She sat up, listening. Had one of her guests returned after all? If so, should she get up?
Reaching for the light switch, she noted that it was almost twelve-thirty. If someone from the Pacetti party had come back, he or she would not expect her to greet them. Indeed, whoever it was would no doubt be exhausted and head straight for bed. There was no reason for Judith to go downstairs.
Grabbing the blue bathrobe she’d bought for her trousseau, Judith got up and headed for the first floor. Winston Plunkett was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of mineral water. His gray pin-striped suit was rumpled, his solid navy tie was askew, and his face looked haggard. Judith offered her condolences.
“How is Mrs. Pacetti?” she asked, genuine sympathy in her black eyes.
“She’s sedated, as I mentioned. Or did I?” Plunkett stared at Judith as if he’d never seen her before. “I’ve made so many calls…all over the world…Good God, I still can’t believe it! Pacetti’s career was my life’s work! It should have gone on for years!” Plunkett swayed, then caught himself on the sink counter.
Judith grabbed at his arm. “Mr. Plunkett, please, come sit down. Wouldn’t you like something stronger than water?”
Discreetly, he shook her off. “I’m all right. I’m just…tired. Alcohol goes straight to my head. A little sherry, that’s all I can take, but not this late…” He collapsed onto the floor.
Judith knelt, feeling for his pulse. It was strong, if a bit rapid. She gave Plunkett a slight shake. He opened his eyes and gazed vacantly into Judith’s face.
“Just sit still for a few minutes,” she urged. “Then I’ll help you get upstairs. Or, if you prefer, I can make up a bed on one of the sofas down here.”
Plunkett exhaled a quavery sigh. “I’ll make it on my own. I just need…to collect myself.”
“Of course.” Judith stood up, wondering what else she could offer besides brandy. “What about a strong cup of tea?”
But Plunkett shook his head. “No. No, thank you.” He was gazing up at Judith, his eyes coming into focus. “I just can’t believe it. It’s so…horrible.”
“Yes, it is. But you and Mrs. Pacetti and his family have to go on. Think of the heritage he’s left. Someone will have to carry the torch.” Judith, looked away, feeling inadequate.
“Horrible,” muttered Plunkett. “Horrible.” He was clinging to the edge of the stainless steel double sink, trying to stand up.
“My father died of heart trouble,” said Judith. “My cousin’s father did, too. Very unexpected
in his case. He was always so fit.”
Plunkett was now on his feet, one hand trailing in the sink. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “Heart attacks aren’t so horrible—alas, they’re all too common.” His thin, ashen face seemed to crumple. “I’m talking about murder.”
SEVEN
TIPPY DE CARO scoffed at Winston Plunkett’s announcement. She had let herself into Hillside Manor just as the business manager made his startling statement to Judith.
“Honestly,” said Tippy, straightening Plunkett’s tie and looking as if she wished she could do the same to his backbone, “that’s just too crazy! Why would anyone murder poor Mr. Pacetti?”
Plunkett, valiantly trying to regain his aplomb, cleared his throat. “I agree, Ms. de Caro. But when I went back to the opera house after I left the hospital, the police were carrying away some things in evidence bags. I have to assume they suspect foul play.”
“Well, of course!” Tippy removed her short, chartreuse vinyl raincoat to reveal the feather boa and skintight scarlet dress. “That’s what the police do, don’t they? Police-type things, like…evidence,” she added brightly. “It probably doesn’t mean a thing. They were looking here and poking around there, but what’s to find? Poison in the champagne?” She giggled, on a jarringly high-pitched note. “The police have to earn their money, like the rest of us.”
Judith was about to point out that it didn’t work quite that way, but Winston Plunkett was in no shape to argue with Tippy. “I’m utterly exhausted. Perhaps,” he said dolefully as he went out of the kitchen, “we can learn more in the morning.”
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Tippy, flipping her feather boa over one shoulder. “He can be soooo stubborn! Have you got any gum? I ran out at the hospital.”
Judith rarely chewed gum, but she kept it on hand in case she got one of her urges to resume smoking. Opening her junk drawer, she offered Tippy a small pack. “How are you doing? I understand you were very upset earlier this evening.”
Tippy’s green eyes grew round. “Oh, I was! One of the nurses had to give me a good shake. But life goes on, you know. I’m okay now. Still, it seems like only yesterday that Mr. Pacetti was alive and singing.”
