by Mary Daheim
“Don’t forget the Bhatts,” Arlene said. “It can be a housewarming party for them as newcomers, even if it isn’t at their house. But it’s certainly warm.”
Judith started to protest but stopped. The evening had already gone as far downhill as it could go—unless Hillside Manor suddenly slid off its moorings and landed at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Murder case be damned—she was retired from sleuthing. It was time to party. “Don’t forget the Dooleys!” she cried. “We can’t leave them out.”
And party they did. But Judith had no inkling that part of the solution to the cold case was in a comment her mother made about the too-hot oven.
Chapter 8
Judith had no idea how many people had congregated all over the main floor of Hillside Manor that November evening. She counted at least eleven Dooleys, and along with the Bhatts and the rest of the longtime cul-de-sac residents, she estimated at least forty people. Renie had ordered more food and Arlene had pitched in with her usual efficient energy. When the grandfather clock struck the quarter hour before ten, Judith realized she’d better disperse her company before the paying guests returned from their own revels.
It was no wonder that she awoke the next morning with a headache. “Did I really drink that much?” she asked Joe as he came out of the bathroom.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “I didn’t notice anybody who was really gassed. But I do need to replenish the liquor cabinet.”
“I guess it was all the noise and so many people at once,” Judith said, getting out of bed. “I’ll admit I’ve never seen Mother dance the polka with Woody. Especially when she stayed in her wheelchair. Or did she?”
“I missed that. I was too caught up watching Bill do his Clint Eastwood imitation while Gabe Porter juggled some of your English bone china on top of the piano.”
“Was that when Corinne Dooley was trying to find one of her grandchildren under the piano?”
“That wasn’t her grandkid,” Joe said, putting on his pants. “That was Mr. Dooley. In all these years, I’ve never known his first name. Does he have one?”
“I guess so,” Judith said vaguely, heading for the bathroom. “He’s always kept a low profile.”
“Maybe that’s why he was under the piano,” Joe suggested.
“Could be.” Judith closed the bathroom door and looked in the mirror. She practically scared herself. If I didn’t drink too much, I sure did something to look this awful, she thought. Maybe I should stick to sleuthing. It’s less stressful.
But after taking two Excedrin, she was feeling somewhat revived by seven o’clock. Joe was already in the kitchen, having offered to make his own version of the original Joe’s Special egg dish for the B&B guests. By the time Judith took breakfast to her mother just before eight, the old lady was all smiles.
“That was some whoop-de-do you had last night,” she said. “Why don’t you do that more often? It’s a good thing I wrecked that bunch of stuff you had in the oven.”
“You practically wrecked the oven,” Judith retorted. “And could’ve burned down the house. We’ve already had one fire here in the past few years. It’s a good thing no serious damage was done.”
Gertrude shrugged. “You got something against having fun?”
Judith didn’t feel like arguing. “It was great to have Woody and Sondra here. Yes, it was good to get together with the neighbors, too. Running an inn makes it hard to entertain anybody but family.”
Gertrude nodded absently while she forked up Joe’s Special. “Mmmm. Not bad. Is this Gloria McDonough’s recipe from the parish cookbook?”
“It’s the one you like so much,” Judith replied. She’d always fibbed about Joe’s recipe, knowing her mother wouldn’t touch anything he’d cooked with a ten-foot two-by-four. “Got to feed the real guests,” she said, and hurried back to the house.
By the time Phyliss Rackley arrived at nine, all of the guests had come down for breakfast. Although Joe, Arlene, and Carl had done an adequate job of helping Judith clean up from the party, the living room and parlor still required more work than usual.
“We had some neighbors in last night,” Judith informed her cleaning woman. “You might want to start in the living room. I wasn’t able to tidy up everything. Some of the neighbors brought their children.”
Phyliss shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Youngsters need to be in a wholesome family get-together now and then. Our new pastor has some kiddies of his own and he often preaches about enclosure.”
“Enclosure?” Judith echoed. “I don’t get it.”
Phyliss looked a trifle perplexed. “Maybe that’s the wrong word. Pastor Smugsworth meant they needed inclusure—to be included in picnics and barbecues and swimming in the lake. But not go off the deep end—of the lake, that is. They can get baptized there, too.”
“Oh. Inclusion. Yes, that’s . . . all good.” Judith nodded once for emphasis.
Phyliss went off on her rounds while Judith checked to make sure her guests were enjoying their breakfast. They were a fairly subdued, almost complacent group, but seemed more than satisfied, especially with Joe’s contribution.
By eleven, they had all dispersed to check out or start their day’s activities. Luckily, none of them were still around when Phyliss stalked into the kitchen with an empty wine bottle and two cigarette butts.
“What kind of debauchery did your neighbors have last night?” she demanded. “This looks like a godless orgy to me! And don’t tell me they’re all some of you wanton Catholics!”
“They’re not,” Judith responded with fervor. “They’re not only good Catholics, but equally good Lutherans, Methodists, Jews, Presbyterians, and Hindus.”
“An unholy polyglot!” Phyliss cried. “Where were the Muslims and the Buddhists and the Baptists and the dreaded Episcopalians?”
“The dreaded . . . ?” Judith felt her headache coming back. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “Yes, we had some adult beverages and maybe a couple of people smoked cigarettes. Satan, however, was not invited.”
“He might as well have been,” Phyliss grumbled, throwing the offending items into the garbage under the sink before self-righteously heading for the guest rooms.
Ruby came downstairs shortly before noon. “Ohmigod!” she groaned, holding her head. “Did I tie one on last night or what?”
Judith, who was an old hand at calculating when people had drunk too much liquor, smiled. “You had four drinks. I suspect you usually can handle that, but you’ve been on an emotional roller coaster. Your defenses were down last night.”
Ruby’s hand fell away. “I guess. I had some weird dreams, too, but I don’t remember them.” She slumped into a kitchen chair and looked at the schoolhouse clock. “It’s almost lunchtime!”
“You can still have breakfast,” Judith said. “I saved some of Joe’s Special. I’ll warm it up for you. I have to get Mother’s lunch anyway.”
“Where is Joe?” Ruby asked.
“He went to the liquor store to replenish our supplies,” Judith replied. “That reminds me—I never did go over Naomi’s statement last night. Joe made a copy for himself. I forgot to ask him why.”
“Does he do insurance investigations?” Ruby asked.
“Yes, fairly often,” Judith replied, putting the last of Joe’s egg dish into the microwave. “Would you like some toast?”
“Sure,” Ruby said. “I can take your mother’s lunch out to her when it’s ready. She was a hoot last night.”
“She can be many things,” Judith murmured. There was no need to inform Ruby that a “hoot” usually wasn’t one of them as far as her daughter was concerned.
While waiting for the toast to pop up, Judith scanned the e-mail printouts from guests. A file folder was under the last two she’d received that morning. She glanced inside to find Joe’s copy of the accident report and Naomi’s statement marked with an FYI Post-it note.
“I didn’t notice this earlier,” she said after removing the egg dish from the
microwave and taking out the toast. “I’ll go over it before I start Mother’s lunch.”
Her jaw dropped as she saw the victim’s name: Bernard Frosch, 31, Caldwell, ID. “My God!” she cried. “It’s the neighbors’ son!”
“Which neighbor?” Ruby asked.
“The ones in the rental—the only neighbors who weren’t here last night. Not only is the mother in the hospital, but now the son must be there, too. How horrible.” She quickly read through the rest of the information. “He was taken to Norway General with multiple contusions and possible broken bones.”
Ruby leaned forward, staring at the report. “Are you sure it’s the same guy? I thought his first name was something else.”
“It was,” Judith said, turning to Naomi’s statement. “He had an odd name, like . . . I forget. Arlene would know. Whatever it was, it sounded like a nickname.” She summed up the eyewitness information for Ruby. “Male pedestrian crossing Heraldsgate Avenue in legal but unmarked crosswalk. Northbound car on Heraldsgate Avenue suddenly sped up. Dark-color medium sedan, state license plate, not vanity type, but no recollection of numbers or letters. Driver may have been male and alone. After hitting pedestrian, car picked up speed and disappeared after reaching the top of the hill.”
Judith paused, checking out the notes that had apparently been made by Smith or Wesson. “Visibility impaired due to darkness and rainy conditions. Victim wearing dark clothing. No other eyewitness except for above.” There was also a diagram of where the accident had occurred.
“It could be an accident,” she said. “People go faster when they get halfway up the hill because the top part isn’t as steep as the bottom. Once they reach the flat, drivers often run the four-way arterial.”
“It’s sure steep,” Ruby said. “I’d never been on what you call the Counterbalance until I came here. There’s a terrific view of the bay from there between the tall buildings.”
Judith nodded. “Some Midwestern visitors are scared to drive on that street. They zigzag all over the place to get to the bottom.”
“Good thing I’m used to living in a mountain town,” Ruby remarked. “Maybe it really was an accident.”
“Maybe.” Judith knew she didn’t sound convincing. “It’s ironic that the son was hit soon after Mrs. Frosch was taken to the hospital. The driver kept going, which is suspicious, though maybe out of shock . . .” A knock on the back door interrupted her. “Who could that be?” she said, getting up. “Family and friends usually just walk in.”
Judith opened the door, saw the dark-haired teenager, and immediately guessed his identity. “You’re Tyler Dooley, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “I missed the party last night. I had choir practice. But I wanted to say hi. Mom told me you didn’t have any mysteries to solve because you’ve retired, but I think I solved one for you anyway.”
“Come in,” Judith said, wishing she hadn’t left the accident report and Naomi’s statement on the kitchen table. “Meet a friend of ours from Little Bavaria, Ruby Tooms. Ruby, this is one of the Dooleys—Tyler.”
Ruby got halfway out of her chair to shake hands. “Hi, Tyler. I met some of your family last night. Quite a crew, enough for a football team.”
Tyler grinned. “We could fill a small stadium.” His gaze traveled to the paperwork on the table. “You reviewing some old cases, Mrs. Flynn?”
“Ah—no, Mrs. Stein witnessed an accident on the Avenue last night,” Judith replied. “Did you hear the sirens?”
Tyler shook his head. “Darn—I missed that. I hear them fairly often around here.” The comment was made matter-of-factly. “Any injuries?”
If Judith wasn’t candid, she knew Arlene would get the word out soon enough. “Here,” she said, handing over both sheets of paper. “Have a seat. But first, what’s the mystery you solved?”
“I know who put that purse in our garbage can,” Tyler said, looking at Ruby. “It belongs to you, right? Mom met you last night and your name’s on the driver’s license. It was the lady who lives in the house next to the Ericsons.”
“Mrs. Frosch?” Judith said in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“Because,” Tyler said, very seriously, “when I left for band practice that night, I saw her driving by in the Ford Explorer with Idaho plates parked at their house.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I like to observe stuff. A lady was driving and I saw the Explorer when I delivered the newspapers the next morning. A piece of my sheet music was stuck to a tire. I must’ve dropped it after I left home because I didn’t have it when I got to practice. It couldn’t have gone further than the curb. The wind had died down, though it was still raining. I figured she must’ve pulled over and stopped after I kept walking.”
Judith was impressed, despite having a quibble. “You’re sure it was Mrs. Frosch? She was the one who had to be taken to the hospital.”
Tyler grimaced. “Could I pick her out of a lineup? No. It was too dark.”
“The Explorer belongs to the Frosches’ son,” Judith said. “It might have been his wife or girlfriend visiting from Idaho. The son was the one who got hit by a car last night.”
“Whoa!” Tyler cried. “They’re in a world of hurt. What’s with them?”
“Maybe nothing except bad luck,” Judith said. “But I wonder how one of them got hold of Ruby’s purse in the first place.”
Ruby lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “Don’t ask me. I never heard of anybody by that name. Is there any way we can find out?”
Judith fingered her chin. “Well . . . there may be. Let me think on it.”
Tyler’s expression was eager. “Should I do surveillance on their house? That telescope my brothers used is still in place.”
“Go ahead,” Judith replied. “You might see . . . something.”
Tyler saluted. “Keep me posted. I have to walk my dog, Barkley, now that it’s stopped raining. If you see me with him in the cul-de-sac, pretend you don’t know me. I should probably keep a low profile, right?”
“First, you should be careful,” Judith warned. “As for your low profile, you are the neighborhood paper boy.”
“Right,” Tyler said, heading for the door, “but how many people notice me that early in the morning? That means I’m sort of anonymous. I think of myself as a kind of phantom.”
Judith laughed. “I’ve only seen you once or twice. Thanks, Tyler.”
“I’ve just begun to sleuth,” he said over his shoulder before heading out the back door.
Ruby had finished eating and stood up. “Is he reliable?”
“The other Dooley boys certainly were,” Judith replied, taking out a loaf of bread to make Gertrude’s sandwich. “Tyler seems bright, just like most of his family. But I doubt it was Mrs. Frosch driving the Explorer. She may’ve already been ill. More likely, it was the younger woman.”
“Could it tie in with Mom?” Ruby asked, putting her plate and silverware into the dishwasher. “It’s weird that Mrs. Frosch knew her.”
Judith put lettuce and two slices of baloney on Gertrude’s sandwich. “True, but sometimes I truly believe that the six-degrees-of-separation theory is a couple of degrees too many. Renie and Bill unknowingly bought their house just around the corner from where her great-uncle and his wife had lived before she was born. You still want to deliver Mother’s lunch?” she asked, adding a dill pickle, chips, and a slice of blueberry pie to the plate.
“Sure,” Ruby replied. “I’ll bet she’s got more stories about her flaming youth. I liked the one about the guy with the biplane who made a pass at her while they were in the air upside down.”
“Ah—yes, he got fresh, as she always puts it. But he didn’t get far before she grounded him.”
Chuckling, Ruby headed for the toolshed while Judith went to check the mail. Overhead, the noonday sun was trying to peek through the clouds. After retrieving the mail that was mostly advertising, she gazed thoughtfully at the rental. It occurred to her that as a good neighbor she should show her
concern for Mrs. Frosch and the injured son. Putting the mail on the small desk in the entry hall, she crossed the cul-de-sac and rang the doorbell.
The young woman with curly black hair who opened the door was Lainie, Brick’s girlfriend or wife.
“Yeah?” she said, dark eyes suspicious.
Judith introduced herself, pointing to the B&B. “I wanted to ask how Mrs. Frosch and her son are doing. I hear they’re in the hospital.”
“Not anymore,” Lainie replied, her jaw tightening. “Mrs. Frosch is in the morgue. She died this morning.”
Lainie slammed the door in Judith’s face.
Chapter 9
Judith was so upset—and annoyed—that she almost walked in front of Renie’s Camry as her cousin raced into the cul-de-sac. Renie applied the brakes before rolling down the window.
“Are you sleepwalking?” she demanded. “You want to be Hit-and-Run Victim Number Two from this neighborhood?”
“No, of course not,” Judith said, trying to collect herself and make sure all her body parts were still in place. “Mrs. Frosch died this morning.”
“No kidding,” Renie said drily. “What a shock. ‘Death Comes to Mrs. Flynn’s Neighbors, Chapter Nineteen.’ What else is new?”
“Don’t be so callous,” Judith said. “Pull into the driveway and come in the house.” She noticed a large floral display in the passenger seat. “Where did you get that big bouquet?”
“At the florist’s, where else? You think I stole them out of somebody’s greenhouse?”
“You might. What are you doing with them?”
“They looked bored in the florist’s cooler. I thought I’d take them for a spin.”
“Seriously . . .” Judith began.
Renie waved an impatient hand. “They’re for the O’Connor-Braun wedding this afternoon at Our Lady, Star of the Sea. I designed the invitations and other stuff for Meg O’Connor. Thus, I also got stuck choosing the flowers.”
Inspiration struck Judith. “Can you get more just like them?”
Renie recoiled in the driver’s seat. The cousins were more like sisters, both being only children and raised two blocks away from each other. They could often read each other’s mind. “Why? What are you talking . . . oh! No, I can’t. Instead of yakking it up with you, I’m turning around and going right up to SOTS,” she declared, using the parish’s nickname.
