This Old Souse

by Mary Daheim

  “I’m sure I do,” Phyliss declared with a heavy sigh. “It’s my chest. It feels as if an elephant sat on it.” For emphasis, she pressed her hands to her flat bosom and gasped several times.

  “Then take it easy,” Judith cautioned. “I’ll let you get started right away.”

  The Methodist minister and his wife left immediately after breakfast. A few minutes later, the couple who had forgotten their keys also departed. But the honeymooners from Oregon lingered upstairs and the grad students from UCLA decided to have coffee in the living room. As for the teachers, they were biding their time, waiting to see if their colleague with the cold felt like sightseeing.

  At a quarter to ten, Glenn and Trash showed up at the front door. Judith ushered them into the parlor, making sure that both doors were shut tight.

  Trash eyed the empty fireplace. “Damned near cold enough for a fire. Hell, October’s warmer around here than June.” With a grunt, he sat down on the settee and looked at his partner. “I suppose you’re going to tell me how it’s always seventy degrees and sunny in L.A.”

  Glenn ignored the other detective and assumed his place on the hearth, one elbow casually resting on the mantelpiece. “I have some questions about your car,” he said to Judith, who had sat down in one of the two matching armchairs. “When did you last look in your trunk before arriving at the grocery store?”

  Judith answered promptly. “Tuesday morning. I shopped for groceries to fill up the larder.”

  “Did you take the car out again that day?” Glenn inquired.

  “Let me think—no, I didn’t.”

  Glenn glanced at Trash. “Are you taking this down?”

  “Down where?” Trash’s expression was ingenuous—until he scowled at Glenn. “Yeah, sure, smart guy. Why do you think I have this notebook and pen? Or am I signing autographs?”

  Glenn scowled right back before resuming his queries. “Why did you go to the Bland house yesterday?” he asked Judith.

  “My cousin told you why,” she retorted. “Mrs. Jones has been obsessed with the house for years. She used to live in the neighborhood. I went along with her Tuesday to humor her. But I’ll admit, the place made me curious, too.”

  “Hey,” Trash interrupted, “you got any coffee around here?”

  “Yes,” Judith said. But she’d be darned if she’d offer it to the detectives.

  “How well do you know Mr. and Mrs. Bland?” Glenn inquired.

  “I don’t know them at all,” Judith replied. “I didn’t even know their names until day before yesterday when my cousin and I asked one of the neighbors who lived across the street.”

  “But you went back by yourself yesterday,” Glenn remarked.

  “Yes. I told you, I had to go to Langford to my uncle’s. While I was in the area, I decided to have another look at the house. My cousin and I’ve already told you this.”

  Glenn gazed up at the ceiling. “Let’s see. Mrs. Jones claims she’s been fascinated by the Bland house since her early teens. Fifty years go by, but despite her alleged all-absorbing interest, she does nothing. Suddenly she convinces you to join her in surveying the premises. A day later, you go back—and end up with a dead man in your trunk. Tell me,” he continued, his tone now deceptively benign, “does this make sense?”

  “Of course not,” Judith snapped. “I mean, it wouldn’t make sense to most people. But it’s simple curiosity. My cousin and I are both interested in people. And you have to admit, just looking at the house and its condition, it’s certainly unusual.”

  “Unusual, perhaps,” Glenn conceded. “But hardly a subject of repeated visits and querying of deliverymen. We understand you and Mrs. Jones also accosted the postman on Tuesday. He claims you’re both very peculiar, particularly Mrs. Jones.”

  “Renie and Morty have a history,” Judith said, exasperated. “They go way back. How did you happen to run into him so late in the day? You must not have gotten to Moonfleet Street until four o’clock.”

  “Mr. Mortimer told us he was running a little behind,” Glenn replied.

  “I like the guy,” Trash put in. “He seems like good people.”

  You would, Judith thought.

  “Let’s go over yesterday’s visit one more time,” Glenn said.

  “What’s wrong?” Judith retorted. “Did Detective Trashman spill beer on his notes?”

  “Hey!” Trash cried, looking offended. “It wasn’t beer, it was a pork chop!”

  Judith sighed. “Okay, but I’m going to tell you exactly what I told you yesterday.” And she did, though again omitting a couple of details.

  “I don’t think you’re telling us everything,” Glenn said when she’d finished. “The crime scene people found damp earth in your tires, the same kind of dirt that’s in the alley at the Blands’ house.”

  “I told you—I backed up into the alley,” Judith admitted. “With all those delivery people, I didn’t want to take up a parking place on the street.”

  “Why did you get out of the car?” Glenn asked.

  “I’m a gardener,” Judith asserted. That much was true. “There’s some very interesting vegetation on the property, including a camellia bush that’s gone wild.” Also true. “I was wondering what it looked like when it bloomed earlier in the year.” Still true. Judith had noticed the tall, gangly bush, along with a couple of trees she couldn’t identify.

  Glenn’s face was impassive. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “A ten.” Judith knew what was coming next. “I was wearing these shoes yesterday.” She pointed to her black loafers. “Do you want them?”

  “Yes,” Glenn said. “We’d like to make a cast.”

  Judith started to refuse, then reconsidered. The cast would prove that she’d gone to the front door. But she hadn’t walked behind her car while it was parked in the alley.

  “Go ahead,” she said, slipping the shoes off and handing them over. “But I want these back as soon as possible. I have an artificial hip, and there are only certain kinds I can wear because I can’t bend down too far.”

  “Pity,” Glenn commented in an indifferent tone. He turned to Trash. “Bag them.”

  “Do you want me to shine ’em, too?” Trash grumbled.

  “See here,” Judith said, “the least you can do is tell me about the Blands. Are they elderly? Are they ill? Why have they let that house go to pot in the last half century? They had to be young when they moved in.”

  A gleam of amusement shined in Glenn’s gray eyes. “My, my, Mrs. Flynn, you seem to be holding up remarkably well for a woman with a dread disease. Are you sure you don’t want to rest now?”

  “I’m having one of my good days,” Judith asserted. “Come on, please tell me what they’re like. And,” she added a bit slyly, “who lives with them.”

  “They’re quite old,” Glenn replied.

  “Older than dirt,” Trash muttered, stuffing Judith’s shoes into an evidence bag.

  “But,” Glenn went on, “they seem in relatively good health.”

  “For a couple of drunks,” Trash put in.

  Glenn gave his partner a warning look. “I believe Mrs. Bland may have a drinking problem. Or perhaps it’s her inner ear. She doesn’t have very good balance.”

  “And what about the third party?” Judith pressed.

  “That would be Mrs. Bland’s sister,” Glenn replied. “She’s elderly, too, though in rather good shape. Sprightly, you might say.”

  “Does she have a name?” Judith asked.

  “Yes.” Glenn gave Judith a nasty smile. “We’ll be going now, Mrs. Flynn. Thank you for your time.” He started for the parlor door that led into the entry hall. “And remember, stay within reach. Easy reach, that is.”

  “I have to,” Judith said. “You’ve got my shoes.”

  SIX

  AS SOON AS Glenn and Trash had left, Judith called Renie. “How’s Bucky?”

  “He went away,” Renie replied. “He said he didn’t give a dam. Ha-ha.”

 
“So you’ve finished the Wirehoser project?” Judith inquired.

  “For now. They may require some changes. Most executives do, if only because they want to think they’ve made a contribution, other than cheating at golf or cooking the books.”

  “Can you come with me to Moonfleet Street? I want to meet the Blands.”

  “Jeez.” Renie paused for almost a full minute. Stentorian moans and groans could be heard in the background. Bill uttered a few feeble monosyllables. “Which pills?” Renie inquired, away from the phone. “The mauve, the baby blue, the orange, or the yellow one shaped like a PEZ?”

  Bill’s voice grew stronger. “That was a PEZ you gave me,” he shot back.

  “Did it help?” Renie asked.

  Some obscenities emanated from Renie’s husband; Judith filtered them out to hear that Bill wanted the orange pill. Two, in fact.

  “I’m not sure I can get away right now,” Renie finally said to Judith. “Bill is near death. Can you hear him?”

  “I could probably hear him without the phone,” Judith remarked. “Dare I ask how he’s feeling?”

  “No,” said Renie. “What’s worse, he didn’t like the snack I bought for him. He fed it to Oscar.”

  Oscar was the Joneses’ stuffed ape, who had sat in splendor on the arm of their sofa for going on thirty years. Bill and Oscar shared a special bond, including Victoria’s Secret catalogs and X-rated movies on premium cable. Renie humored both husband and ape. Her own in-house obsession was Clarence, a dwarf lop bunny that roamed free in the basement. The bunny had a varied wardrobe, including an angel costume with wings, a tutu, a smoking jacket, and bathing trunks. The only problem was that Clarence preferred eating his clothes instead of wearing them.

  “Can you drive us?” Judith inquired.

  “No,” Renie replied as Bill bellowed from the living room. “I’m getting the damned pills,” she informed her husband. “I’m on my way upstairs. Can’t you see me? The moving feet on the steps are attached to the rest of my body.” She spoke again into the phone. “Bill has a doctor’s appointment at one. Why can’t you drive Joe’s MG and pick me up?”

  “It scares me to drive that car,” Judith admitted. “He’s had it a lot longer than he’s had me. He’s so fussy that I don’t think I’ve driven it more than twice since we got married. Besides, it’s got a stick shift.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Renie said. “Driving a stick is like riding a bicycle. You never forget how to do it. We’re only going a couple of miles to Langford. But what makes you think you’ll be able to meet Dick and Jane Bland?”

  Judith told Renie about the visit from Glenn Morris and Jonathan Trashman. “It’s not fair,” Judith griped. “They didn’t even know about the Blands until yesterday, and now they can see them anytime they want. I’d be surprised if either of those two jerks has any idea of the house’s history.”

  “Or its atmosphere,” Renie noted. “Okay, I’m more or less conscious since it’s well after ten. You know the old song—‘Waking Up Is Hard to Do.’ What time do we go?”

  “An hour? I still have guests. By the way, did you see the brief article in the paper this morning?”

  “Yes,” Renie replied. “It didn’t say much, just that a deliveryman from the Langford neighborhood had been found dead in the trunk of a car on Heraldsgate Hill. No names, including yours.”

  “They didn’t even say he was murdered,” Judith said. “I suppose they hadn’t finished the autopsy before the newspaper deadline. All they mentioned was that foul play hadn’t been ruled out.”

  “Now that we have two morning papers instead of only one and no evening edition, we get short-changed,” Renie complained. “The deadlines must be for around six in the evening. Maybe I should start watching the news on TV. Of course, I’m not up early enough to see it.”

  “But you’re definitely awake now?” Judith queried. We’re going to have to be on our toes when we try to see the Blands.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Renie answered. “I have been, for about the last fifteen minutes. It took a while, though. I poured milk on Bill’s grapefruit. Unfortunately, he was eating it at the time.”

  The cousins agreed on leaving at eleven-thirty. When Renie got into the MG, she broached the obvious question.

  “How are we going to meet Dick and Jane? By claiming that Spot and Puff are running amok in their yard?”

  “I’m working on it,” Judith said, struggling with the MG’s gearshift. “Just follow my lead.”

  The sun, which had sneaked a peek at the city earlier in the morning, had now gone behind dark clouds. Renie, however, kept her sunglasses on. Not only did she have a chronic eye problem, she was a typical Pacific Northwest resident who insisted she was so unused to the sun that its irregular appearances bothered her eyes. Judith never argued. They lived in a city that bought more sunglasses per capita than any other place in the United States. Renie referred to the locals—especially the natives—as Mole People.

  As the cousins crossed the bridge over the ship canal, they could barely see the foothills, let alone the two mountain ranges that flanked the metropolitan area. Summer was only a day away, but it felt more like January.

  Judith drove slowly and carefully along the narrow residential streets. To her surprise, orange cones and wooden sawhorses barricaded both ends of Moonfleet Street, blocking off the property from east to west. There was yellow tape starting at the wire fence and apparently encircling the entire grounds.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” she said with a grim expression. “I’m trying to think of a plausible excuse to get us inside the house.”

  “Termite inspectors?” Renie suggested. “Jehovah’s Witnesses? Campfire Girls?”

  Judith found a parking place around the corner of the block where the brusque neighbor lived. “I don’t see any police cars,” she said, “not even the unmarked kind. I can’t quite figure this. If Glenn and Trash believe me—big if—then they’re assuming that Vern Benson was killed on the Blands’ property. Or if he wasn’t murdered on the site, his body was put in my trunk while I was parked at the end of the alley. The Blands—as well as Mrs. Bland’s sister—could be suspects, too. It looks like the police are considering this a crime scene. But it doesn’t appear that any cops are on duty. They probably patrol frequently, though.” Judith chewed on her thumbnail, a childhood habit she’d never overcome. “Thus we become the police.”

  Renie shook her head. “That’s a crime. It’s called ‘impersonating a police officer.’”

  “I didn’t say what kind of police, did I?” Judith responded.

  “Swell.” Renie brightened. “Why police? Why not investigative reporters? You’re FATSO, aren’t you?”

  The nickname was a corruption of FASTO, Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders. Some locals who had admired Judith’s publicized skills in uncovering a murder on Heraldsgate Hill had created a Web site featuring her abilities as an amateur sleuth. Somehow, FASTO had turned into FATSO. It rankled Judith, who had fought a weight problem for years. The entire notion of the Web site also annoyed her to the point that she never ever looked at it. It was tempting, however, in that she had managed to lose twenty pounds in the past two years—not by dieting, but by wearing herself out while trying to recover from hip surgery and keep the B & B running.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she conceded. “Have you got a notepad?”

  “I think so,” Renie replied, digging and delving into her huge purse. “Yes. It’s kind of beat-up, but it’ll do.”

  “It’d help if we had their phone number,” Judith said as she got out of the MG.

  “We don’t,” Renie said. “It’s unlisted, remember?”

  “Of course.” Judith examined the car from every angle, making sure that there was sufficient space in front and in back of Joe’s precious classic automobile. “Does it look safe?”

  “You’re no more than an inch from the curb,” Renie noted.

  “Okay.” The cousins crossed the street. �
��Have you noticed,” Judith said as they started down the sidewalk, “how Glenn hardly lets Trash speak?”

  “Yes,” Renie said. “If Trash wasn’t such a bigmouth, you wouldn’t know Glenn had a partner. The man’s all ego.”

  “Plus, Trash seems like a screwup,” Judith pointed out. “I have a feeling he’s been passed around from partner to partner. I suppose you can’t blame Glenn in a way. The police have to be so careful these days about how they interrogate witnesses. And suspects, of course.”

  Approaching the yellow tape, Judith paused. “This may be a wasted effort. I have a feeling they won’t answer the door.”

  “Let’s hope they do,” Renie said, looking up at the low gray clouds. “It’s starting to rain.”

  Judith lifted the tape just enough so that the cousins could duck under it. By the time they went up the path and reached the porch, the rain was coming down much harder than usual.

  “This is a downpour,” Judith declared. “We certainly get some weird weather in June.”

  “It’s turning into hail,” Renie declared as frozen drops bounced off the porch steps and the barren ground. “It shouldn’t last long.”

  Judith banged the knocker three times. Nothing happened. She banged again. No response.

  “You’re not loud enough,” Renie asserted. Disregarding her bad shoulder, she whacked the knocker so hard that Judith’s ears rang.

  The cousins waited as the hail pelted down and the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

  “They won’t answer,” Judith said with a shake of her head.

  But she’d barely finished speaking when the door opened a scant two inches.

  “What it is?” a high-pitched female voice demanded.

  Before Judith could speak, Renie leaned closer to the door. “We want to offer you money,” she said.

  The door opened another inch. “For what?” the woman inquired, sounding suspicious.

  “For your story,” Renie replied. “We’re freelance journalists. We have an opportunity to sell an article about what happened here. Do you mind discussing our proposal?”