by Mary Daheim
Ruby’s expression was ironic. “Do you think her killer has a conscience?”
Woody’s dark eyes glittered. “Had might be the key word. I’ve often wondered if the perp is dead, too.”
“Could be,” Ruby murmured. “What’ll you have? I’m serving. Mr. Flynn—I mean, Joe—has probably told you I ended up in a bar. But I’m a waitress, too. I’ve tried to be respectable.”
“That’s commendable,” Woody said, smiling. “You didn’t get off to a very good start. A lot of people who’ve been through what you have go off the rails and never get back on track.” He nodded at the buffet. “I’ll have some of that Canadian Club with soda. Make that two—Sondra will have the same. We’ve been married so long that we’re starting to look alike.”
Ruby smiled wistfully, glancing beyond the Prices to the Flynns—and finally to the Joneses, who had stopped berating each other and sat down on the sofa next to Judith. “Happy couples,” she said softly. “I’m not used to that. I mean, I hope you’re all happy.”
To prove the point, Bill kissed Renie. “Who says we’re not happy?” she asked. “We work really hard at not being dull.”
“You got that right,” Bill shot back. “We even argue about how happy we are. Unless we’re mad.”
Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Are we mad now?”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked at Ruby. “Make mine bourbon. Same for my ornery wife.”
“Two Scotch rocks,” Joe chimed in from his place across the hearth from Judith. “Sounds like we’ve all been married too long.”
“Joe . . .” Judith said. “We haven’t been married nearly as long as . . .”
Her husband waved a hand. “No, but it seems like it. I mean,” he said quickly, “we were supposed to have been married longer than anybody else here has been. We just got . . . to borrow a phrase from Woody, derailed. But we got back on track. Finally.”
Ruby filled the drink orders and sat in a side chair Joe had pulled up for her by the coffee table. “I feel like I’m at a meeting,” she said.
“You are,” Judith said. “You’re meeting your past.”
Joe raised his glass. “Then here’s to the future. And justice.”
With solemn expressions, the others echoed his toast. Woody’s first statement acknowledged that some of the people on the list were dead. “Luella Crabbe and Hector Sparks, both deceased, neither ever under suspicion. Jimmy Tooms was in prison,” he went on with a swift look at Ruby, “but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have had an accomplice. You told us at the time of your mother’s murder that you didn’t think your father had a motive.”
Ruby fingered her chin. “He wasn’t all that upset about the divorce. He was supposed to pay Mom child support, but that didn’t happen very often, especially when he was in jail. Mom didn’t play around on him, so it wasn’t like he was jealous. And he wouldn’t have made any money off her death because all she had was the house and a small life insurance policy that went to Ozzie and me.”
Woody nodded. “So you told us at the time. I never seriously considered your dad as a suspect.”
Judith couldn’t keep from asking the question that had been on her mind all afternoon. “Do you remember much about Erma Schram?”
Woody looked thoughtful. “The aide? Fairly young, sort of defensive. I interviewed her because she was working the day shift that Opal often had. Usually, they both had the same schedule, so I thought maybe Erma might know something about Opal’s private life. She didn’t.”
“Did she mention anything about her own?” Judith asked.
Woody frowned and sipped from his drink. “No. Mrs. Grissom—the manager—told me she was in the process of getting a divorce.”
Judith briefly related the coincidental connection between her Frosch neighbors and Opal. Joe, who hadn’t yet heard about the revelation, looked fit to spit. “How,” he demanded as his wife finished her tale, “could my ex-wife rent to somebody who was mixed up in a murder case that’s landed in the lap of my present wife? Vivian never lived in the Thurlow District.”
Judith took umbrage. “She lived right next door to the neighborhood with Johnny Agra, probably less than two miles from where Dan and I lived.”
“Just my luck,” Joe muttered. “Why didn’t I stay single?”
“Hey!” Judith cried. “Watch it!” She saw the sheepish expression on her husband’s face and calmed down before turning back to Woody. “I’d like to know where this Beaker Schram was at the time of Opal’s murder. He may’ve been in jail. Can you check?”
Woody assured her he could. “His name never came up while I was—” The sound of a siren interrupted him. “Is it coming this way?”
Everyone sat motionless, ears pricked up as the sound grew closer, followed by other sirens. But they stopped well short of the cul-de-sac.
“Hunh,” Joe said. “It must be an accident on the Avenue. Too many drivers run the arterials to beat the north–south stream of cars.”
“It could be a pedestrian,” Bill said. “Some of them just have to wear all black at night so they can’t be seen against a dark background.”
“They’re burglars,” Renie asserted. “You can tell from the black bag marked ‘SWAG.’ They should put those letters in fluorescent caps and instead of ski masks they could wear baseball caps with—”
“I hear the doorbell,” Judith broke in. “Excuse me.”
An out-of-breath Naomi Stein was on the porch with her big Labrador retriever straining at the leash. “Oh, Judith,” she said, “I just saw a terrible hit-and-run on the hill! I called 911 on my cell, but I thought I should tell you in case you thought . . . well, I mean . . . you have . . . that is . . .”
“Did you wait for the police?” Judith asked, ushering Naomi and the dog into the hall.
“No,” Naomi replied, shaking rain off her yellow slicker. “Uzi got scared and started for home. I couldn’t stop him. He’s a load.”
Joe had come into the hall. “Did you say a hit-and-run?”
“That’s right,” Naomi said, getting her breath. “The guy was right in the middle of a crosswalk at the corner. “I swear the car sped up and deliberately hit him.” She winced. “I was just as glad Uzi took off. I didn’t want to see . . . whatever happened to him.”
“You’re a witness,” Joe said quietly. “You’ll have to give a statement. By chance, the precinct captain is here.”
Naomi’s jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered herself and glanced at Judith. “Of course he is,” she said under her breath. “Does he always bring accident forms when he visits?”
“No,” Joe said with a straight face, “but he can contact the on-duty officers and they can come here to take your account of the incident. In fact,” he went on, stepping closer to the still-open front door, “it sounds like the ambulance is leaving, siren on. Maybe the victim’s still alive.”
Naomi put a hand to her breast. “I hope so.”
“Come into the living room,” Judith said. “Would you like a drink?”
Joe held up a hand. “Hold it. Wait until Naomi gives her statement. We don’t want anybody to think she was under the influence if this ends up in court.”
Naomi nodded. “Of course. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”
“I’ll get it while Joe brings you a chair,” Judith volunteered as she headed for the kitchen.
By the time she was putting ice into a glass, Arlene came through the back door. “I missed something,” she announced. “Carl said he heard sirens a few minutes ago when I was downstairs on the phone. I wish my children wouldn’t shout when they’re talking to me. My hearing is fine.”
Judith poured water into the glass and quickly explained what Naomi had seen on the main thoroughfare. Arlene was agog.
“How,” she asked when she and Judith entered the living room, “could I miss a horrible tragedy like that? I must be slowing down!”
“Arlene,” Naomi said with a hint of reproach, “
you’re a ghoul.”
“Nonsense!” Arlene retorted with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t have left the scene of the crime. I know my civic duty. And Tulip would never have tried to run off on me.”
“Tulip,” Naomi declared, “is a six-pound Boston terrier.”
“Eight,” Arlene said. “You should have gotten a smaller dog.”
“Ladies,” Joe intervened as he pulled up two more chairs, “sit down. We aren’t here to discuss pet pooches. In fact, let’s be quiet. Woody is trying to contact the patrol officers.”
Arlene stared at Woody, who was standing at the other end of the room by the French doors. “Goodness,” she said to Sondra, “I haven’t seen you two in ages! You should come by when we don’t have a crime in the neighborhood.”
“We thought we had,” Sondra murmured.
Arlene shrugged and sat down. “Timing is everything. But I don’t know why. When you stop to think about it, what does it really mean?” She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s seven thirty-four. What difference would it make if it was seven-fourteen or seven fifty-six?”
Renie snorted. “Last week it would’ve been eight thirty-four because we were still on that stupid daylight saving time. Would somebody please tell me what we’re saving it for? It’s a waste of time and furthermore it costs more money to set and reset—”
Bill put a hand over Renie’s mouth. “That’s it.” With his free hand, he held out his glass to Joe. “I could use a half inch more if we aren’t going to eat until freaking midnight. If my ulcer hasn’t already come back, it’s on its way now. Boppin’!”
Joe took the glass—along with his own—and headed for the buffet. The doorbell rang again. Woody was halfway across the living room. “It’s Smith and Wesson,” he announced. “They pulled up as I rang off.”
Naomi shot Judith a puzzled look. “Are these people guests or gunrunners?”
“They’re the new evening patrol cops,” Judith said. “They’re a bit sensitive about their names.”
Naomi shook herself. “I should think so. Why not Arm and Hammer?”
“They’re the daytime police,” Arlene said, reaching out to pat Uzi.
“She’s kidding,” Judith said, standing up as Woody led the ill-named female and male officers into the living room.
Woody beckoned to Naomi. “We should probably do this in the front parlor, Mrs. Stein.”
“Please,” she said, getting up. “Call me Naomi. We’ve met before.”
“So we have,” Woody murmured. “I know this neighborhood better than I know my own.”
Arlene also stood up. “Do you need a witness for the witness? I volunteer.”
Woody’s smile was forced. “No, Arlene, but thanks. I’ll be the witness.” He moved on into the entry hall.
Arlene sat down again. “Judith, do you think I might have a glass of white wine while I’m waiting for the results?”
“The results?” Judith asked. “Of what?”
“Of whatever happened to that poor pedestrian.” Arlene seemed puzzled. “You’re the sleuth. If that person was crossing the street only a block away, we probably know him.”
Judith had started for the makeshift bar on the buffet. “With all the condos and apartment houses around here, we probably don’t.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arlene said, before turning to Joe, who was walking toward the parlor door by the grandfather clock. “You need a witness to the witness’s witnesses? Really!”
“For old times’ sake,” Joe said without looking at Arlene—and closed the door behind him.
“Where’s Carl?” Bill asked. “I’m the only man here.”
“Hey,” Renie said, “maybe Smith and Wesson could tell you their image problems with those names. Then you could give them some advice about self-esteem.”
“Like what?” Bill shot back. “Tell them to change their names to Humpty and Dumpty? To hell with it. I don’t give advice. I just listen and nod in a sage sort of way. I’m half asleep most of the time. Nobody takes advice anyway. They might as well throw their money down a manhole.”
Renie frowned. “Then we couldn’t pay our bills.”
Bill frowned right back. “Are you sure we’re paying them now? Why does my reading lamp keep blinking?”
“Bills!” Ruby suddenly exclaimed. “I just remembered!”
All eyes swerved to Ruby. “What bills?” Judith asked, handing Arlene a glass of wine.
“The light bill at our house,” Ruby replied, her own eyes shut. “A couple of days before Mom was killed, we’d gotten a shutoff notice. Mom didn’t get paid for another week and she was fussing about how to pay it. But she never did, and the lights weren’t shut off.”
Judith sat down on the sofa. “Did you call to ask about it?”
“No.” Ruby had opened her eyes and was staring at Judith. “I never even thought about it at the time. Not with Mom getting killed and everything else going on. When the next bill came, Ozzie was still on leave and he opened it. It was just a regular bill, with the payment posted the day after Mom died. I guess she must’ve paid it after all. But now it seems strange. I mean, she’d said we only had thirty-six dollars in the checking account, and that was right. Ozzie and I had to go through all that stuff.”
Questions leaped to Judith’s lips, but she reined in her curiosity. Ruby and her brother had been teenagers, virtual orphans in a broken, dysfunctional family. It was probably all they could do to get through the days that followed their tragedy. And then Ozzie would have had to return to duty while Ruby moved in with Freddy Mae’s family.
Renie, however, wasn’t so reticent. “You must’ve had someone to help you sell the house and get everything in order. How did you and your brother handle that?”
“Legal Aid,” Ruby replied. “It was all we could afford. Ozzie thought maybe because he was in the navy, he could get a naval lawyer, but that was too much hassle. We lucked out, though. The house sold pretty fast. I suppose we got screwed, but we just wanted to be done.”
“You should have had our Cathy sell it,” Arlene said. “She’s a real estate whiz. Of course she was still in high school back then.” She paused, scowling. “Or was she? Goodness, how time flies!”
Judith heard voices in the entry hall, indicating that the patrol officers were leaving. Naomi entered the living room from the door by the grandfather clock. “That wasn’t much fun,” she declared. “Mind if I make myself a martini?”
“Go for it,” Judith said.
“Hey,” Renie called to Naomi, “make one for Uzi. I really like seeing drunk dogs make fools of themselves. It makes me almost like them.”
“Not funny, Serena,” Naomi shot back. “Have you ever gotten your bunny gassed?”
Renie looked puzzled. “Do you mean Clarence or Bill?”
“Knock it off,” Bill said under his breath.
Renie jumped off the sofa. “That’s it! I need a refill.” She stomped off to the buffet, almost stepping on Uzi. “What about you, Sondra?”
“Why not?” the other woman murmured. “Excuse me, Judith, but do I smell something burning?”
“The pork!” Judith struggled up from the sofa. A swift look at the grandfather clock told her it was ten to eight. According to the directions, the loin shouldn’t be done for another ten minutes. Hurrying as fast as she dared with her artificial hip, she nipped past a startled Joe and Woody on their way back to the living room. Smoke was pouring into the dining room. She pushed through the half doors, barely able to see her mother sitting by the stove in her wheelchair. The fire alarm went off before Judith could say a word.
Gertrude looked more annoyed than startled. “Turn that thing off!” she yelled. “I’m not that deaf!”
“What . . . ?” Judith coughed as she tried to wave away the smoke that was coming from what was left of the pork loin. Backpedaling to the sink, she filled a kettle and dumped it into the baking dish. The water splashed up, shattering the oven light. Glass scattered
all over the acorn squash and the new potatoes. But the smoke immediately began to disperse as the loin sizzled and sputtered in its death rattle. The heat, however, was still intense. Judith reached to turn off the oven and noticed it was set at five hundred degrees. “Mother!” she screamed. “Did you turn this up?”
“You bet,” Gertrude said, wiping her watery eyes with a hankie. “It’s almost eight. I like to eat supper at five. You want me to starve or should I go outside and graze on what’s left of the dahlias? I hear some fancy restaurants serve flowers nowadays.”
Joe, Bill, and Woody had charged into the kitchen. Judging from how fast the smoke was dissipating, someone had opened the front door.
And the back door, Judith realized as all the women entered via the hall. “Hey,” Renie said, “I think dinner’s over. We must’ve missed it when we went outside to catch a breath of fresh air. When do the firefighters show up? We haven’t heard a siren in almost an hour.”
“Get some pizzas,” Bill said. “It’s two hours past my dinnertime. Pizza boppin’!” He rubbed his hands in a familiar mock gesture of glee.
Gertrude sneered at Judith. “How come my squirrel-bait niece married a semisensible man? Why didn’t you do the same?”
Judith ignored her mother. The squash was ruined and so were the potatoes. “It’s a total loss,” she lamented. “I’m so sorry.”
“Cheer up,” Renie said, phone in hand. “I’m calling Punchinello’s. They’re only two blocks away and they owe me. They left off my mushrooms the last time. I’ll get salads, too, and French bread and . . . Hi, I’d like three large pizzas with the works, three with pepperoni, three with Canadian bacon and mushrooms—got that?—three with . . .”
“Make mine kosher,” Naomi said, holding up her martini glass.
“Your gin isn’t kosher,” Arlene pointed out. “Or is it?”
“Who cares?” Naomi retorted. “I made a double. Hey, Serena,” she called to Renie, who had just clicked off the phone, “let’s get Carl and Hamish and the Porters and the Ericsons over here and have a real neighborhood party!”
