by Gloria Dank
Bernard was puzzled. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s a little ticked off about that talk you had yesterday,” said Maya.
“The talk?”
“What you said about it afterward. He didn’t feel you appreciated it very much.”
“Oh.” Bernard thrummed absently on the typewriter keys. “I hope this doesn’t mean I have to apologize. I hate to apologize.”
“I know you do.”
“I’ve never had to apologize to Snooky. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? It’s not like I did anything wrong.”
Maya pursed her lips and went back to her book. Bernard sat typing “shit shit shit shit shit” over and over. Finally, with a sigh, he heaved himself out of the chair. “We are his guests.”
“Yes.”
“I guess I have to be polite.”
Bernard stood in front of Snooky’s bedroom door for a few minutes, wrestling over what he should say. Finally he raised his voice. “Snooky?”
There was no answer.
“Snooky, you shouldn’t be so sensitive. You’ll get your feelings hurt all the time. It’s not right.”
There was silence.
“That’s excellent, darling,” said Maya encouragingly. “First hurt his feelings, then attack him for being too sensitive.”
“Snooky, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I did enjoy our little chat yesterday. It made my day. It was the single most profoundly moving discussion I’ve ever had with anyone in my life.”
Silence behind the door.
“Snooky, I’ve done what I can. I’ve apologized, and that’s enough. I’m going back to my seat now. You’re acting childish, in my opinion. You can come out whenever you want to. I’m not going to beg. There are limits to everything.”
“That was a good apology,” said Maya, turning a page. “You did say somewhere in there, when you weren’t yelling at him, that you were sorry?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that’s enough. It’s up to him now.”
The silence continued behind the door for the next hour, at the end of which Snooky appeared sleepy-eyed and yawning, his hair tousled over his forehead. “What time is it?”
Maya glanced at her watch. “Nearly twelve-thirty.”
“Eeks. It’s time for lunch. Maya, will you give me a hand?”
“First I think you should say something to Bernard,” Maya said pointedly. She gestured with her book. “He’s been waiting out here for an hour.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“For you to respond to what he said.”
“I’m sorry, My. I’m not following you. What did he say?”
“Come on, Snooky. He stood outside your door and apologized very nicely for what happened yesterday.”
Snooky smiled. “Did he? Did you, Bernard? That’s kind of you. That’s really nice. You have a good heart, Bernard. That’s what I’ve always said about you in case anyone asked, did you know that? You have a good heart. That’s what your name means, you know, ‘bear’s heart.’ Brave and stalwart as a bear.”
Bernard was scrubbing at a page with an eraser shaped like a bunny rabbit.
“I was sleeping,” Snooky said to Maya. “I was so tired when I got home that I took a nap. You know I can never be angry at anyone for long. Remember that time William killed my turtle by accident? I was talking to him again within the year. I have a forgiving nature, Maya. You know that.”
“Yes, I do, Snookers.”
“Of course,” said Snooky, a sly expression stealing over his face, “since I slept right through Bernard’s magnificent apology, perhaps he wouldn’t mind repeating it? Just for me. Now that I’m awake.”
Sullenly, Bernard repeated it. “I said I was sorry.”
Snooky looked let down. “That’s all?”
“I said I was sorry for hurting your feelings.”
“That’s nice, Bernard. That’s it?”
“Yes.” At a glance from Maya, Bernard continued grudgingly, “I said I enjoyed our little talk yesterday.”
“He said it was the most profound conversation he’s ever had,” supplied Maya.
“It was. I feel like a different person. Now can I get back to work?”
“Of course you can,” said Snooky. “Was that it? That was the apology?”
“It was a good apology,” said Bernard stiffly. “It was a fine apology.”
“Nothing more abject than that?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I missed it. It sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime experience. My, will you help me with lunch?”
“Okay.”
In the kitchen, Maya said disapprovingly, “You weren’t asleep, were you?”
“No, of course I wasn’t.”
“You heard everything he said?”
“Every last word.”
“And you just wanted to hear it over again?”
“I can’t help it, My.” Snooky unloaded the groceries onto the counter and began to sort through the vegetables. “I figured it was an unprecedented opportunity to have a once-in-a-lifetime experience twice in one day.”
“I see,” Bernard said later. Snooky was filling him in on the police interview with Irma. While he listened, Bernard aimlessly typed Mrs. Woolly is a jerk over and over again on the page. “So she was out of the house for part of the time that day?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Mrs. Woolly is a jerk Mrs. Woolly is a jerk. “So she could have driven out to the woods and killed her fiancé herself.”
Snooky looked disgusted. He was stretched out on the sofa, one hand absently rubbing Misty’s head, the other hand supporting a cup of hot coffee on his stomach. Misty was splayed out on the floor in a position of ecstasy. “Yes, Bernard. Oh, yes. That would make a lot of sense.”
“All right. So your friend Sarah doesn’t have an alibi for the entire afternoon, either.”
“That’s right.” Snooky looked faintly despondent. He scratched Misty’s head thoughtfully. Misty made a low rumbling, scratchy, hiccuping sound. “Do you hear these sounds Misty’s making? I think she’s trying to purr. Are you sure she knows she’s a dog?”
“Do you think your friend is telling the truth?”
“Sarah? Yes, I do. I don’t think she left the house, and I know she didn’t kill Bobby.”
“How do you know?”
Snooky shrugged. “How can you say whether or not somebody is a murderer? I don’t think she’s capable of that. No matter how angry she was, or how much she wanted her aunt’s money, I can’t see her stealing that gun and pulling the trigger.”
“Thank you for that character analysis, Snooky. We all know how accurate your readings of the women you date are.”
“I still don’t think she would have done it.”
“I wonder who did,” mused Bernard. Mrs. Woolly is a jerk Mrs. Woolly is a jerk Mrs. Woolly is a jerk.
“What about Roger? It was his gun, after all.”
“That brings us back to the same question. If you’re going to kill somebody, is it smart or stupid to use your own gun?”
“In this case, it doesn’t seem to matter. Detective Bentley wouldn’t know who it was if they had written their name in blood in the snow nearby.”
“You underestimate him. I think in that case he would know.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Some coffee slurped out onto Snooky’s shirt and he gave a muffled yelp. “What about Gertie? She was in the woods that day, too.”
Gertie is a jerk Gertie is a jerk Gertie is a jerk, typed Bernard absently. “Maybe.”
“That’s all? Just, ‘maybe’?”
“I don’t know, Snooky. If she had done it, wouldn’t she have made some effort to have an alibi?”
“I guess so.” Snooky rubbed at the coffee spot on his shirt. “How do you get coffee out? Is it soap and water, or lemon, or baking soda, or what?”
“I don’t know. Ask Maya.”
“All right. How about Dwayne? I agree
he seems a little dim to have planned this, but it’s a straightforward kind of murder. He says he’s going out with his camera, takes Roger’s gun out of the closet—he would know where it’s kept, he lives there, for God’s sake—goes out into the woods, finds Bobby and blows his brains out. He leaves the gun in the woods to implicate Roger, then comes home and pretends that nothing has happened. It would be easy for him.”
Dwayne is a jerk Dwayne is a jerk Dwayne is a jerk, typed Bernard. He was lost in thought. “It’s possible. Whoever left the gun there definitely wanted to get Roger into trouble. Could there be somebody else? How about somebody outside the family?”
“Outside the family? A neighbor, you mean? What would their motive be?”
“I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know,” Bernard said humbly. Mrs. Woolly is a jerk Mrs. Woolly is a jerk Mrs. Woolly is a jerk.
“Well, there’s one thing I do know,” said Snooky. He tipped his long legs over the side of the couch and stood up, stretching. “If I don’t put this shirt in hot water or lemon juice or baking powder or something, this spot will never come out.”
Detective Bentley came out of the Grunwald sisters’ house and strode manfully down the walkway, his short legs pumping like pistons. He got into his old yellow car, which after some preliminary reluctance came to life and moved jerkily away down the village street.
Alicia and Charlotte Grunwald stood at the window of their house. Finally Alicia said firmly, “What an awful man.”
“Awful!” echoed Charlotte.
“He’s too short to be so arrogant, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Of course it’s always the short men who are the worst,” said Alicia shrewdly. This was based on absolutely no knowledge of the opposite sex whatsoever.
“Yes, yes, that’s so true, Alicia.”
“Think of Napoleon.”
“Oh, yes.”
“He probably has some kind of complex about it.”
“Some kind of complex,” echoed Charlotte. “More tea?”
“Thank you, dear.”
Tea was poured out, and milk and sugar distributed generously. Alicia stood at the window, her eyes on the empty street.
“Lishie …,” faltered Charlotte.
“Yes, Lotty?” They never used their pet names in front of anybody else; it was too private and, in Alicia’s opinion, the names were too silly.
“Lishie, do you think we should have told him?”
Alicia sipped her tea absently, her eyes still on the street, where now nothing moved. Traffic did not often come through Lyle; it was far away from the usual tourist thoroughfares.
“No.” She put her teacup down on the saucer with a firm clink. “Why should we tell him, that terrible man? Let him find out for himself, if he can. We found out by ourselves, didn’t we?”
“Oh, yes … yes, we certainly did.”
“It would kill Irma if she knew,” Alicia said with grim cheerfulness. “She’d have a heart attack, poor dear. That reminds me, Lotty. We still have to pay our condolence call.”
“Condolence call. Yes …”
“Poor Irma. Poor dear Irma.”
“Poor Irma …”
“Perhaps we could drop by tomorrow morning, and still be back here in time for lunch.”
“Tomorrow morning …”
“Yes, that’s what we’ll do. And I’ll go by the florist’s bright and early and pick up some nice flowers. Poor dear Irma!”
The next morning Snooky was at the Ditmar mansion again. He had become a sort of unofficial butler to the house. Sarah was busy upstairs with her aunt, and Gertie was (as always) out in the woods frightening the wildlife. When the doorbell rang, Snooky answered it.
Two tall, painfully thin, gray-faced old ladies confronted him on the doorstep.
“Hello,” said one of them, shouldering her way forward with authority. She carried a small bunch of chrysanthemums and roses. “Is Irma here? We wanted to pay our respects.”
“You’re the Grunwalds, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m Alicia.”
“Charlotte,” faltered the other one, pronouncing her name like an apology.
“I think we’ve met briefly before. I’m Sarah’s boyfriend Snooky Randolph. You remember—in the market a few weeks ago …?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alicia. “Is Irma in?”
“She’s upstairs. I’m afraid she’s not feeling too well. Why don’t you let me tell her that you’re here?”
“Thank you, that would be kind.”
“Please come into the living room.”
Snooky saw them safely settled in the living room, then went upstairs. He came down a few minutes later with Irma on his arm and Sarah trailing after them. “I’m going to come in with you,” Sarah had told him. “I don’t trust those two old bats. I don’t want them upsetting Aunt Irma.”
“All right.”
Irma clasped her hands together in delight at the sight of her two old friends. “Charlotte … Alicia … how kind of you to come.”
The three old women kissed awkwardly. The flowers were presented, and Irma took them with what seemed to Snooky exaggerated cries of delight. “Thank you … so beautiful … very kind of you.” He helped Irma settle down on a green-and-white striped divan, and he and Sarah sat nearby. The three ladies faced each other. There was a long, agonizing pause.
Finally Alicia broke the silence.
“Irma, my dear, it’s so awful. We feel for you so much. What a loss … a tragic loss.”
“Tragic loss,” murmured Charlotte.
Irma lifted her chin proudly. “Thank you. So kind of you. Yes, you’re right. It is a great loss to me.”
“He was a fine young man.”
“Yes, he was.”
“And how are you doing, dear Irma?”
Irma sighed and one hand went tragically to her face. “Not very well, I’m afraid. Not well at all. My heart, you know. It’s never been strong.”
The two Grunwalds murmured a sympathetic reply, buzzing together like a large kindly bee.
It occurred to Snooky that what he was seeing was a stage set, a scene being enacted for the benefit of the principal actors concerned. The Grunwalds were not really unhappy that Bobby was dead, and Irma was not overcome with joy at having to welcome them into her home. But all three were determined to play the scene through. The Grunwalds could then go home satisfied that they had done their duty, and Irma could take to her bed again, satisfied that she had upheld the family dignity. While musing on this, he missed a few questions and replies.
When he began to pay attention again, Charlotte was saying in her timid way, “But, Irma … it must be so difficult for you … how are you managing here alone?”
“I’m not alone,” Irma said proudly. “I have my family.” She turned to Sarah with a smile, and was greeted by an affectionate one in return.
“Yes … yes, Sarah, of course … and Gertie.”
“Yes.”
“And Dwayne?” asked Alicia in her deep voice. “Is he here, or is he off gallivanting? We live next door, but we see him so rarely these days.”
Irma stiffened. “Dwayne has been wonderful—simply wonderful. And Roger. They’ve all been so kind to me. As you would be to each other,” she added cannily, “if one of you had such a great loss.”
There was a pause while the Grunwald sisters reflected on the fact that neither of them had ever had a lover, and therefore no opportunity for such a loss. Charlotte sat up straighter and said, “You know … you must think that you truly are lucky … to have had the affection you shared.”
“Oh, yes, Charlotte. Yes, I do feel that, and it comforts me. At least we had that time together. Except for the early years with Hugo, it was the most special time of my life.”
Alicia and Charlotte, sensing somehow that their time was up, chattered on about trivialities for a short while longer and then rose to their feet as one. “Dear Irma,” said Alicia, bending down to giv
e her a sisterly kiss. “So good to see you. Promise you’ll drop by when you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you, Alicia.”
“Irma …,” murmured Charlotte, giving her a peck on the cheek. “So good to see you.”
“Charlotte. Kind of you to come. Thank you again for the lovely flowers.”
There was much fluttering and scarf arranging and shrugging on of coats and mufflers at the front door. Alicia settled her gray woolly cap onto her gray woolly curls. Charlotte put on an identical cap and they marched off down the driveway. Snooky closed the door behind them.
Irma came out into the foyer and tossed the bouquet of flowers onto the umbrella stand with a disdainful gesture. “Cheap,” she announced. “Cheap. Eighteen dollars and thirty-five cents at Mercer’s Flower Shop. The cheapest one they have. Those two old vipers! Can you help me up to bed, dear? I feel absolutely exhausted from the effort of seeing them.”
While Alicia Grunwald, marching down the driveway, turned at the same moment to her sister and said with spiteful satisfaction,
“That old bat. That old bat! If only she knew the truth … the most special time of her life, indeed! If she only knew!”
5
Snooky was at Harry’s Market a few days later, picking out lettuce and tomatoes and cucumber for a salad, when a shy tug on his elbow made him look up.
It was Charlotte Grunwald, her gray cap jammed firmly on her head, her hands encased in woollen gloves. She smiled at him shyly. “Hello.”
“Hello, Charlotte. Nice seeing you. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Is your sister here, too?”
“Oh, no, Alicia rarely does the shopping. I do most of the shopping and cooking for both of us. It works out better that way. Alicia’s so busy, you see,” she added in a flustered way, as if aware of a subtle reproach in her own words. “She has her work, you know.”
“Her work?”
“Oh, yes … yes. She’s an historian, you see. It’s what she trained for. She’s … she’s quite avid about it. Reads all the time. I can’t understand a word of it myself.”
“I see.”
“Her specialty is prerevolutionary New England. She’s deep into a biography right now of John and Abigail Adams. I think it’s terribly boring myself, but then, she always tells me I don’t have a brain in my head.” Charlotte picked happily over the tomatoes.
