by Mary Daheim
She took one last look around the office. Atop a filing cabinet was a thick notebook that almost but not quite obscured the tops of a double picture frame. Carefully, Judith reached around the notebook and picked up the photos. Lynette and her companion from the café were standing on a windswept beach. They were both much younger, perhaps not yet thirty. Judith had guessed correctly. Lynette had lunched with her husband, Luke. They looked much happier in the picture than they had in the café.
The other photo was of a handsome young man in commencement regalia. He was blond and wore an engaging smile. No doubt it was their son, Alan. Judith looked more closely. There was something familiar about that face, especially the smile. She tried to picture him ten years older.
Judith knew him. Not as Alan Bland, but as Adam Blake, KINE-TV reporter.
Excuse me,” said a rich masculine voice. “Are you looking for something?”
Startled, Judith almost dropped the picture frames. She turned around to face Luke Bland in the office doorway.
“I was admiring your photos,” Judith replied, struggling with her composure. “Your son’s on television, isn’t he?”
Luke moved closer to the desk. “Yes, but he uses a different name. I’m sorry—do I know you?”
“No,” Judith admitted, recovering from her surprise. “But I recognized you from the photo with Lynette.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Luke replied, looking bemused. “Do you work with Lynette?”
“No.” Suddenly Judith remembered something Renie had told her about seizing control in a business situation. Abruptly, she sat down in Lynette’s chair. Now, according to Renie, Judith was in charge. Or was it the other way around? Did the person who was standing up have the upper hand because he or she was looking down on a presumed inferior? Judith was befuddled.
“I’m the one with the body,” she blurted, casting power plays aside. “I brought Lynette some flowers because my cousin and I pestered her yesterday about what had happened at your parents’ house.”
Putting one foot on a visitor’s chair in front of the desk, Luke Bland chuckled. “I heard about that. You pretended to be writers. Well, that’s understandable. You must have been shocked when you discovered what was in your trunk. That would be enough to make anyone behave a bit recklessly. No hard feelings, I’m sure.”
Up close, Luke was good-looking in a worn, craggy kind of way. His manner was smooth, pleasant, and not quite sincere. Certainly his demeanor was much less austere than it had been with his own wife.
“Yes,” Judith said, “I was stunned when I opened my car. I hope this whole situation hasn’t been too hard on your parents.”
Luke smiled softly. “We’ve played it down with them. With Aunt Sally, as well. At their age, it wouldn’t be right to let them get upset. And really, it has nothing to do with them. It was just one of those freakish accidents.”
“But the man was murdered,” Judith said.
Luke shrugged. “I gather that may be so. But he was some sort of impostor, probably running from the law. That type of person is often done in by his own kind. The fact that he may have been killed near my parents’ house is irrelevant. It’s no different than if a pedestrian had been run over out on Moonfleet Street.”
Judith didn’t argue. “I’m glad your parents haven’t been too affected by the tragedy,” she remarked.
“A blessing,” Luke replied, removing his foot from the chair and moving around the room to straighten the Grand Canyon painting. “Still, it’s one more reason why they shouldn’t stay in that big old house. In a way, it’s a magnet for crime.”
Judith figured she might as well stand up. “How is that?”
Luke’s smile struck Judith as disingenuous. “Teenagers, mainly. They see a place like that and think maybe it’s abandoned. They try to climb over the fence, throw rocks at the windows, party out in the alley. I’ve been trying to talk Mom and Dad into moving to a retirement home. They’re at a point where they need assisted care.”
“There must be stairs,” Judith remarked, “and quite a distance from one room to another in such a big house. It must be difficult for them to get around.” She put aside her own fears for the future, when her hip might not allow her to manage the four stories of Hillside Manor. “I assume they must be rather crippled at their age.”
“They have their bad days,” Luke allowed. “There are plenty of other problems. The gas furnace is very old and the heating bills are outrageous. They’ve had problems with animal life, too—raccoons chewing on the exterior and getting into the basement, squirrels entering the attic to set up housekeeping, bees making nests in the walls, even the occasional rat—and mice, of course. The grounds are a sanctuary for small creatures. Still, my parents don’t want to leave.”
“I take it Aunt Sally doesn’t want to, either?”
“Aunt Sally doesn’t know what she wants,” Luke said with a hint of disparagement. “But she’s certainly not fit to stay there.” He stopped roaming around the office and approached the desk. “Excuse me, but I have to get Lynette’s keys out of the drawer. I’m borrowing her car this afternoon. Mine’s in the shop.”
“Oh.” Judith came around to the other side of the desk. “I mustn’t keep you. In fact, I’m late for a luncheon appointment.”
Luke had opened the drawer. “It was nice meeting you. By the way, I should give you one of my cards.” He reached inside his jacket. “Here. If you’re ever in the mood to buy or sell, give me a call. Enjoy your lunch.”
As soon as Judith was in the main hallway, she looked at the card. It read:
LUKE BLAND
REAL ESTATE AND PROPERTY INVESTMENT
COMMERCIAL AND RESIDENTIAL
Our Professionals Meet All Your Needs
Judith should have guessed that Luke Bland was some kind of salesman. Knowing that, it was easy to understand why Luke wanted his parents out of the big house on Moonfleet Street. Despite its state of disrepair, the family home with its three legal lots would fetch a bundle on the real-estate market.
I was beginning to worry,” Renie said as Judith was shown to their booth at the Crab House. “You’re twenty minutes late.”
“I’ve had a few encounters,” Judith said, noting that Renie had thoughtfully ordered her a Scotch rocks. “But not necessarily of a beneficial kind.”
“Tell me all,” Renie urged.
Judith did, although it took a quarter of an hour and several sips of Scotch. When she finished, she leaned back in the booth and, for the first time, looked out at the marina next to the lakeside restaurant. The sun was shining and the water sparkled. Suddenly it looked like the first day of summer. The yachts and catamarans and smaller craft bobbed gently at their moorage while a four-man crew plied the lake. A floatplane landed close by; another took off farther north. From this vantage point, Judith could look straight ahead to the Langford neighborhood some three miles away.
“In other words,” Renie said drolly, “you struck out.”
Judith took umbrage. “What do you mean? I found out several things, especially about the Bland family.”
Renie paused as their server arrived to take their orders. Judith hadn’t had time to read the menu, so she asked for the same entrée Renie requested—Dungeness crab and melted cheddar on an English muffin, with coleslaw and fries on the side.
“What I mean,” Renie explained, “is that they sound pretty normal. Old folks who don’t want to give up their home, a son in real estate who’d like to make a big profit off the house, a grandson in TV news, a daughter-in-law who works for the phone company, and a daughter who’s a buyer for Nordquist’s. Her husband—Phil, is it?—probably holds down a perfectly normal job, too. They hardly sound like candidates for committing homicide.”
Judith eyed Renie over the rim of her glass. “Come on, coz—you know that we’ve come across plenty of so-called normal people who’ve turned out to be murderers. I’ll admit, on the surface, everything sounds ordin
ary. Even the house itself, if you accept the fact that some people are reclusive by nature and don’t give a hoot about appearances. But you’re the one who got me started on all this in the first place. I expect more support.”
“True.” Renie sighed. “I blame my overactive imagination.”
“Your imagination didn’t kill Frank Purvis.”
“No.” Renie was looking somber, the expression that Jousin’s “boardroom face.” “Let’s leave the Blands out of this for a minute. They’re old, they’re feeble, they’re eccentric. But that doesn’t make them killers. So who would want to murder a phony milkman?”
Judith pondered Renie’s question. “What was Frank Purvis doing there in the first place? Why was he pretending to be a milkman?” She wagged a finger at Renie. “Purvis was doing the same thing I was doing. He was watching the house. I was there by chance, but he wasn’t. He knew that a parcel was being delivered to the Blands. That’s why he was lurking around the grounds.”
Renie nodded. “That makes sense. You say Purvis arrived before the package did. He couldn’t be sure when the UPS van would show up. Purvis pretends to deliver the Blands’ order. Maybe he looks inside the milk box, thinking the delivery might already be there. It’s not, so he has to wait. He parks the truck around the corner and down the street, where Garth Doyle spotted it. Then he hangs out around back, maybe in the alley. He must have been killed there, though the police certainly haven’t verified that information.”
Judith nodded slowly. A cabin cruiser was being untied from its moorage, getting ready to sail. Judith noticed that there were several “For Sale” signs along the piers. That was not uncommon. As someone had once said, the two happiest days in a boat owner’s life were the day of the purchase and the day of sale. Boats were expensive to buy and expensive to maintain. Judith was glad that Joe had never had a hankering to ply the local waterways.
But the concept of luxury made her wonder what was so valuable about the package that had been delivered to the house on Moonfleet Street. Yachts weren’t the only costly items that people coveted. Jewelry, art, rare coins, even postage stamps were of great value. And drugs, of course. But somehow, Judith still couldn’t see the Blands involved in dealing illegal substances.
“No one notices a milkman—or a mailman or a UPS deliveryman—coming and going,” Judith finally said. “Not even at the Blands’. Purvis used a good cover for whatever he was up to. Except somebody figured it out. Who?”
“I suppose,” Renie ventured, “the police interviewed the other neighbors, especially the people who live in the houses across the alley. Of course they’re both cut off from the Bland house by all the trees and shrubs as well as the fence.”
Judith finished her drink and took a sip of ice water. “You’re suggesting those neighbors might be involved?”
Renie shrugged. “It’s not impossible. Maybe we should talk to them.”
“The ones on the east side weren’t home the other day,” Judith noted. “They probably work. I really didn’t pay much attention to the house on the other side of the block.”
Renie was silent for a moment. “Austria,” she said at last. “Why Austria? I looked up Kopfstein on a map last night. It’s located in the Bavarian Alps, and it’s tiny. In fact, it’s not even listed in my Webster’s Geographical Dictionary.”
“Tiny or not, somebody must live there,” Judith pointed out as their orders arrived. “Did you turn up anything of interest at the newspaper morgue?”
After her first bite of crab and cheddar, Renie was looking ecstatic. “A few small items,” she finally said. “Richard and Jane—her maiden name was Goss—took out their marriage license August third, 1947. They were married two weeks later in the old Langford Lutheran Church, which, I believe, was torn down and is now the site of an East Indian restaurant and a used-book store.”
Judith smiled wistfully. “Think how this city has grown in just over fifty years. Back in the forties—and into the sixties—the newspapers ran all the marriage licenses, birth announcements, and even the divorce decrees. Not to mention that almost everybody could get their wedding notice—including photos—into what was called the society section.”
“Engagements, too,” Renie recalled, “though I didn’t find one for the Blands. However, the wedding story was fairly complete. The bride wore silk trimmed with seed pearls, a fingertip veil, and so on. Her maid of honor—Lucille Almstead—had a pink dress with a sweetheart neckline. They both carried roses—white for Jane, pink for Lucille. She was the only attendant.”
“That’s odd,” Judith commented. “What about Sally, Jane’s sister? It’s unusual when sisters aren’t included in the wedding party, especially as attendants. Cousins we may be, but you were mine and I was yours.”
“That’s true,” Renie said. “Jane and Sally were local girls. Maybe Sally had moved away and couldn’t make it to the wedding.”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed, “but I still think it’s strange. Who was the best man?”
“Steven Carnofsky.” Renie spelled the name out loud. “He was from Wichita, Kansas. That’s where Dick Bland grew up, right? Steven was probably a boyhood chum.”
“That’s it?” Judith inquired.
“Not quite,” Renie responded, removing a piece of shredded cabbage from her sleeveless chartreuse sweater. “Remember how they used to list college degrees and current employment of the bride and groom? Jane was a secretary for the Great Northern Railroad. No college, but a secretarial school was mentioned. Dick attended the University of Kansas for a year before he went into the service. He was discharged as a first lieutenant in ’46 after serving with the Seventh and Third Armies in Europe. The article said he was self-employed.”
Judith frowned. “Or unemployed. According to Anna, her father was a nervous wreck after the war. Maybe he couldn’t work. In fact, somebody told us—was it Mrs. Harmon?—that Dick Bland had been wounded.”
“He had a disability pension,” Renie reminded Judith. “I don’t know how much that would’ve been—or still is—but they had enough money to buy the house on Moonfleet Street, apparently right after they were married.”
Judith nodded. “So far, all this fits with what we’ve heard about the Blands. Did you check birth announcements?”
“For Anna?” Renie speared a couple of french fries. “Yes. Born in April of ’58.”
“So Dick’s wound did, in fact, permit him to conceive a child,” Judith mused. “Unless…” She gave Renie a meaningful look.
“Always a possibility,” Renie said. “Dick doesn’t sound like the most exciting man in town. Jane may have strayed.”
“Jane doesn’t sound too exciting, either,” Judith said. Then, after finishing her coleslaw, she asked if Renie had found anything else of interest.
“No. Luke’s adoption wouldn’t be in the daily papers,” Renie said. “But it occurred to me that it might be worthwhile to check out the neighborhood weekly newspaper. It’s still around, and even if they don’t have microfiche, they probably have bound volumes. Do you think it’s worth the trouble?”
Judith considered. “Not really. There’s no secret about the adoption.”
“I was thinking of other things as well,” Renie said. “For instance, don’t you remember the police-beat column? It was written in a flippant but factual style. Even when they didn’t mention names or addresses, you could still get an inkling of who was doing what to whom.”
“I don’t remember it, in fact,” Judith admitted. “I guess I was too young when we moved to Heraldsgate Hill.”
“It was a comprehensive paper, too,” Renie said. “They covered everything in the neighborhood. When I was in fourth grade, I was on the front page for getting first prize in the city with my drawing of our chicken, Madame de Pompadour.”
“I do remember that,” Judith said with a smile. “You were so skinny that some of the readers thought you were a war refugee and sent food.”
“I was allergic to most of it,”
Renie said, “which was why I was so skinny in the first place. The only thing I could eat was the two dozen Hershey bars. I polished them off in three days and got hives.”
“But you still didn’t gain weight,” Judith said with an ironic expression. “I would have turned into a blimp. Of course I had my own set of allergies, but luckily—or not—to food. We were a pair of sickly—” She stopped suddenly, staring out the window. “Coz!” she cried, lowering her voice. “Look discreetly at the three men on the dock by that very large yacht. Do you see who I see?”
Casually, Renie turned in her seat. “Good Lord!” she whispered. “It’s Glenn Morris and the Trashman. What are they doing here? And who’s the other guy with them?”
Judith didn’t answer right away. The trio was going aboard the yacht, which had a “For Sale” sign on its starboard side.
“I’m guessing,” Judith finally replied. “The unknown person is in his forties, well dressed, and—this is a stretch—could have a sinister look. Do you suppose that could be Philip French, Anna’s husband?”
“It could,” Renie said slowly, “but are the three of them here for police business or boating pleasure?”
“A good question,” Judith murmured as the men disappeared inside the yacht. “I think I know how to find out.”
TEN
JUDITH WAS DIALING a number on her cell phone. Renie was licking mocha residue off of her upper lip.
“Hello?” Judith said with a thumbs-up sign for Renie. “Yes, I’m calling about the”—she paused, grimacing as she tried to calculate the length of the yacht that was for sale—“forty-foot yacht that’s moored by the Crab House. How much is it?”
Renie didn’t take her eyes off Judith even as she accepted the bill from their server.
“Three-fifty?” Judith said. “You mean…Yes, that’s what I thought. Three-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She gave Renie a look of incredulity. “How many previous owners?…Oh, just one. Good…Is that right? How interesting…Yes, I would like to look at it. If possible, I’d prefer that the owner shows me around. Mr. French would know the yacht intimately. When would be a good time?…He is? Can you reach him? I could be there in…ten minutes…Certainly. My cell phone number is…”
