by Mary Daheim
“It was only yesterday,” Judith said dryly. Tippy didn’t react to the remark, so Judith continued speaking. “How is Mr. Schutzendorf? Is he coming back tonight?”
“No,” responded Tippy, chewing hard on the gum. “He’s spending the night under…what do you call it? Observation, I guess. He was pretty cut up by Mr. Pacetti dying and all that.”
Judith didn’t comment, hoping that her silence would give the hint to head upstairs. But Tippy seemed inclined to linger, ostensibly admiring the old schoolhouse clock, the religious art calendar from Our Lady, Star of the Sea, the pasta cookbook that lay open on the kitchen counter.
“I could use a drink,” Tippy said, giving Judith an ingenuous look. “You know, like some gin.”
Judith, who had been thinking in terms of hot milk or cocoa, suppressed a little sigh and went to the liquor cabinet. “Okay, I’ll fix it and you can take it upstairs with you. Ordinarily, I discourage guests from drinking in their rooms, but this is certainly an unusual situation, so I’ll make an exception.” Judith was being truthful about cautioning visitors against consuming food or beverage abovestairs, but for all she knew, half of her guests had a flask taped to their thighs and were freebasing cocaine in the bathrooms. Schutzendorf had, after all, been guzzling his German wine, and as far as Judith could tell, he must have brought a case with him. Empty tumblers appeared on the sink counter at regular intervals. It had occurred to her that his jocular air might be induced by an overdose of Sekt. But she had to admit he never seemed drunk, which was more than she could say for some of her guests in the past. Except for keeping ever-vigilant, there was no way to stop them. But for insurance purposes and Judith’s peace of mind, they had been warned. “Ice? Tonic? Vermouth?” asked Judith.
“Just ice,” said Tippy. She took the glass from Judith but made no move to leave the kitchen. “You have a nice place. This is a nice city. I like the water and the mountains and all the greenery.”
“Thanks,” said Judith. “Is this your first visit?”
“Yes.” Tippy’s eyes again roamed about the kitchen, studying the high ceiling, the collection of pots and pans that hung from hooks above the stove, the new green mixer Judith had recently purchased on sale at a downtown cookware shop.
Judith considered returning to bed, but made one last attempt at being gracious. “Are you from the East Coast?” It was a guess, based on the hint of a New England accent in Tippy’s voice.
“Boston.” Tippy snapped her gum and sipped her drink. “I went to Harvard.”
Judith’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“For a picnic. It was during semester break.” Tippy gazed again at the ceiling.
Judith had to exert considerable effort to keep from grinding her teeth. “I wonder what Mr. Plunkett was talking about, regarding the police. Did you go back to the opera house tonight?”
“What?” Tippy looked more vague than usual. “No. I came from the hospital. I took a cab. Mr. Plunkett had to go back to collect Mr. and Mrs. Pacetti’s personal things.” At last, Tippy seemed ready to go upstairs. “Mr. Plunkett is nice enough to work for, but he’s a real fussbudget. I’ll bet the police were just getting valuables together. Or making sure nobody stole anything in all the excitement. It was pretty wild backstage after Mr. Pacetti collapsed.”
Judith could imagine the scene, with the turmoil among the singers, supers, stagehands, and other opera house personnel. Then the arrival of the emergency crew, the announcement by Creighton Layton, the dispersing of the audience. She was still mulling over the aftermath when she finally headed back to her bedroom.
Tippy was right, of course. It was unlikely that anyone would want to murder Mario Pacetti. Winston Plunkett must be mistaken about the police carrying off evidence from the backstage area. Judith switched off the light and tried to put her mind at rest.
But it wasn’t easy. Judith knew too much about people not to realize that murder was always a possibility.
With only the two Americans on hand for breakfast, Judith kept to her usual Sunday morning menu of waffles, eggs, ham, juice, and coffee. Tippy gobbled up her food as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks, but Plunkett picked at his, apparently forcing himself to take nourishment in order to keep up his strength.
By the time Judith returned from ten o’clock mass, there was no sign of her guests. She assumed they had taken a cab or hired a car to fetch Mrs. Pacetti and Herr Schutzendorf. Judith used the spare time to peruse the Sunday paper. Since Pacetti’s death had occurred so close to deadline, Melissa Bargroom’s front-page story was brief. Death was attributed to heart failure, according to the article. Pacetti had died in the ambulance en route to Bayview Hospital. A brief résumé of his career was given in the next to last paragraph, including his previous appearance at the local opera house six years earlier. Bargroom concluded the piece by saying that funeral services were pending.
Judith had just finished the front section when Renie called. The cousins had seen each other in church, but had been sitting on opposite sides of the altar. They had waved, but not spoken.
“Guess what,” began Renie. “I stopped to see our mothers and mine won this morning’s bout in the third round. It was a TKO, stopped by Mrs. Parker, who came by with a desiccated coffee cake she’d picked up off the day-old rack at Begelman’s Bakery.”
“What are they fighting about now?” Judith asked with a weary sigh.
“Whether Great-Aunt Opal had a boil on her butt in 1946. My mother said she did because when she came to my dad’s birthday party, she couldn’t sit down. Your mother said she didn’t because not only did she sit down, she won the cakewalk. Your mother said that wasn’t in ’46, it was ’47, and she remembered because that was the year your dad came down with the three-day measles over Thanksgiving. But my mother said…”
“Stop!” Judith shrieked into the phone. “I can’t stand it! Their bickering drives me crazy in person. Why do I have to listen to a secondhand account?”
“Do you want me to tell you what happened to the coffee cake?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Parker’s poodle, Ignatz, ate it. Serves the ugly little mutt right.” Renie chuckled evilly, then turned a bit more serious. “How are your guests, if any?”
Judith explained what had been going on since she and Renie had parted the previous evening. Renie, naturally, was mildly interested in Winston Plunkett’s report of alleged police activity. But, like Tippy, she dismissed it as procedural.
“I’ve got to pick up my new slacks from Nordquist’s alterations department this afternoon. If everybody takes off, why don’t you come over tonight and have dinner with me and the kids?” asked Renie.
“Maybe,” said Judith, pleased at the prospect. Even if she lost money on the deal, she wouldn’t be sorry to see the Pacetti party check out early.
But Judith had scarcely made it to the regional section of the newspaper before she heard a clamor at the front door. Winston Plunkett, Tippy de Caro, and Bruno Schutzendorf were on the porch, arguing over whether they had over- or undertipped the cabdriver who was just pulling out of the cul-de-sac. Judith let them in, then gaped through the rain as an ambulance came to a cautious stop in front of the B&B. Two uniformed attendants got out and went to the rear double doors.
Plunkett gave Judith an apologetic look. “Mrs. Pacetti,” he murmured. “She’s still very weak.”
“Uh…” Judith bit her lip. “Where are you going to put her?”
Tippy gazed blandly at Judith. “Why, in her room, of course! She has to recuperate. Here comes the nurse now.”
A beige compact had pulled into the spot vacated by the taxi. A tall, thin woman wearing a white uniform under her black car coat strode purposefully through the rain. She carried a valise in one hand, a suitcase in the other, and had a large handbag slung over her left shoulder. Judith felt herself go pale.
“This,” said Winston Plunkett in his eternally contrite manner, “is Edna Fiske. She’s a registered nurse, and comes high
ly recommended.”
“By who, Hitler?” murmured Judith as she took in Edna Fiske’s homely features and stern expression. But as the nurse tramped up the front steps, Judith moved to greet her. “I’m Mrs. Flynn. How do you do?”
Edna Fiske ground Judith’s hand like a nutcracker. “In the pink. You look peaked. Do you want me to take your blood pressure?”
“No, thanks, I’m just swell,” croaked Judith, giving her fingers an experimental shake to make sure they were still attached to the rest of her arm. “You’re moving in?”
But Edna already had. At least she had penetrated the entry hall and was surveying the stairwell. “I’ve been advised to take the deceased’s room. Don’t fret; I’m not superstitious. My work has trained me to think of the dead only as former patients.” Edna stepped aside as the ambulance attendants wheeled Amina Pacetti into the house.
Judith tried to catch a glimpse of the stricken widow, but a plastic hood had been put over her face to ward off the rain. Her hands were encased in the sable muff, which looked incongruous against the background of the coarse brown ambulance blanket. Expertly, the two men carried the stretcher upstairs with Winston Plunkett at their heels. Edna Fiske waited a respectful moment, then also ascended to the second floor.
“Vell!” boomed Herr Schutzendorf, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet until now. “Vat next? My heart, it is still racing! I must sit.” He charged past Judith into the living room where he dropped onto the nearer of the two sofas.
Tippy, meanwhile, apparently had just discovered the front parlor, which faced the street. Judith usually reserved it for small private parties.
“Oooh!” exclaimed Tippy. “This is cute! More bay windows! Another fireplace! Darling furniture! Why can’t we sit in here?”
“It hasn’t been cleaned in a week,” Judith responded tersely. Given Phyliss Rackley’s ongoing ill health, it was closer to two. Judith stood in the doorway, beckoning to Tippy. “I’ll make some hot cider. Why don’t you join Mr. Schutzendorf in the living room?”
Reluctantly, Tippy left the parlor. Kicking herself for resorting to bribery, Judith went into the kitchen to make the cider, adding a few spices and a lot of wine. By the time she was finished, the ambulance attendants were leaving and Winston Plunkett had joined the others. Edna Fiske, apparently, was tending to her patient.
For once, Judith had decided to join her guests. Waiting for the cider in her mug to cool, she tried to probe tactfully. “How long will it take for Mrs. Pacetti to recover?” she asked, realizing she didn’t sound so tactful after all.
Plunkett gave a slow shake of his head. “It’s hard to say. The difficult part is that no funeral arrangements can be made until she’s able to cope with them. We hope to ship the…body to Italy in the next day or two. Of course it will have to go by train and ship. Mr. Pacetti didn’t fly, you know.”
“But…” Judith began, then gave herself a little shake. It would do no good to argue that a dead Pacetti wouldn’t know the difference between a 747 and Noah’s Ark.
“So,” Plunkett continued, carefully stirring his cider with a cinnamon stick, “Mrs. Pacetti will have the luxury of regaining her strength over the next week or two. Ms. de Caro and I will stay on to conduct her affairs and that of the late…great…Mario…Pacetti.” Plunkett’s voice cracked; he seemed close to tears. It occurred to Judith that Winston Plunkett was the sort of person who either showed no emotion at all—or too much. There was no in-between.
Judith turned away. “And you, Mr. Schutzendorf?” she asked a bit breathlessly.
Schutzendorf was guzzling his cider as if it were a cold beer. “Me? I, too, recuperate. But of course there are business matters I must attend to. Tuesday, Wednesday, I must fly to your East Coast. Arrangements will be made tomorrow.” He glanced at Plunkett who gave a faint nod. “My recording company had recently signed Signor Pacetti to a new contract. We must do the sorting out, rescheduling, all the rest. That I must take care of in Hamburg. But first…” He had set the cider mug down and was spreading his beefy hands. “…There are the more delicate affairs, in this country. Such a tragedy! Will this sadness ever leave my soul?”
“Oh, probably,” chirped Tippy. “I remember when my Aunt Willa died and I thought I’d never stop bawling. But a couple of hours later, I was at the mall, scoping guys. You just have to be strong.”
Schutzendorf glowered at Tippy. Plunkett wiped his eyes with a white handkerchief. Judith was relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Excusing herself, she hoped it was Renie, making a rare appearance at the front, rather than the back door.
To Judith’s surprise, Woodrow Price stood on the porch, wearing a navy blue all-weather jacket over maroon sweats. His tan Nissan was parked in front of the nurse’s beige compact.
“Woody!” Judith gave her husband’s partner a warm hug. “Come in! I haven’t seen you since the Labor Day picnic. Speaking of labor, how’s your wife? Two weeks to go, right?”
Woody smiled, revealing very white teeth. His skin was the color of cocoa, his walrus mustache was jet black, and his manner, as ever, was stolid, taciturn, and somehow disarming. “November 6 is the due date. Sondra’s pretty uncomfortable.”
“I’ll bet.” Judith ushered Woody inside, noting that he seemed a bit reluctant to follow her. She paused in the entry hall and cocked a quizzical eye in his direction.
Woody inclined his head toward the living room. “Your guests?” Judith nodded. Woody pointed to the front parlor. “Could we go in there?”
“Sure,” said Judith, leading the way. The door that led into the living room was already shut; Judith closed the entry hall door behind them. Indicating one of the petit-point covered chairs, Judith sat down in its mate. As always, the cozy room seemed to wrap its arms around her. The small stone fireplace was flanked by converted gaslights. An English hunting print hung over the mantel, which was adorned by a pair of seventeenth century pewter candlesticks unearthed at a garage sale, a sterling silver crucifix Judith had bought at the Vatican in ’64, and an arrangement of dried autumn flowers from Nottingham’s. A brass warming pan of the same vintage as the candlesticks hung at one side of the hearth, where a trio of carved pumpkins showed off happy grins.
“Who’s here?” Woody asked, keeping his voice low.
Judith told him, lamenting that her guests were probably going to drive her insane before they all finally departed. “At least Schutzendorf intends to leave in the next couple of days,” she concluded. The German record magnate could be heard bellowing in the adjoining room. “That will bring the noise level down to almost bearable.”
But Woody was frowning. “Maybe he’ll leave—and maybe not.” Noting Judith’s look of apprehension, Woody gave her a weak smile. “That’s why I drove my own car here. I don’t want your guests to know I’m a policeman. An autopsy is being done on Mr. Pacetti tomorrow.” He paused, his gaze roaming to the big armoire where Judith stored extra linens, books, records, and tapes. “If you weren’t married to Joe, I couldn’t tell you this, of course.” His dark eyes were now fixed on Judith’s tense face. “In fact, if he were here, I wouldn’t do it. Probably he wouldn’t either, unless he felt it was absolutely necessary.”
“Right.” Judith compressed her lips. She wished Woody would get to the point.
“A routine check of the opera house was made last night. An empty vial of Strophanthin was found backstage.”
“What’s that?” Judith had never heard of it.
“It’s like digitalis or digitoxin, usually used in the treatment of heart patients,” Woody explained in his careful manner. “It’s much more common in Europe than it is in this country. Like most drugs, if too much is taken, it can be fatal. Given the fact that Mr. Pacetti had no history of heart trouble—and in fact had just had a physical last winter—his death from cardiac arrest was unexpected.”
“But it happens,” Judith put in, feeling a need to buffet herself against what was coming. “Renie’s dad, Uncle Cliff, seemed in per
fect health and just keeled over from a massive coronary.”
Woody cocked his head at Judith. “He wasn’t in his forties, was he?”
“No,” Judith admitted, “he was over seventy. But he’d had a physical a month before he died.”
Woody nodded, his dark eyes sympathetic. “Yes, but even an EKG can’t predict if you’re going to have a heart attack. The point is, Pacetti’s business manager—Plunkett, is it?—described his employer as a man who was concerned, even overly concerned, with every facet of his well-being. He was a great singer who pampered himself. So when he drops dead virtually in the middle of a performance, people are going to ask questions. That’s why our men took a look around the opera house. Sort of guarding our own backsides, as it were. If your Uncle Cliff had five million dollars’ worth of engagements in the next three months, had just signed a fifteen-million dollar recording contract, was going to get paid another two million for an Easter TV special on PBS, and was only forty-seven years old when he keeled over, wouldn’t your family have asked a few questions, too?”
“Uncle Cliff couldn’t sing a lick,” murmured Judith.
“There you go. Anyway,” continued Woody, still keeping his voice down, “finding that Strophanthin vial raised even more questions. Nobody laid claim to it, which made us ask questions. An analysis of Pacetti’s stomach contents will give us some answer.”
For a moment, Judith reflected on Woody’s words. The rain pattered against the small bay window; leaves from the maple tree in the front yard fluttered to the ground; a pair of squirrels leaped from branch to branch; and in the living room, Herr Schutzendorf rumbled on.
“Where,” Judith asked at last, “did they find this stuff?”
“The Strophanthin?” Woody paused again, apparently considering how far he could go without violating law enforcement ethics. “Actually, it wasn’t backstage. I misled you a bit there. It was onstage. The long table, with the food and drink? The bottle was lying there, empty.”
