This Old Souse

by Mary Daheim

  Renie was holding her head.

  “Have another mocha,” Judith advised. “We’re in for the long haul.”

  “So Philip French owns that very expensive yacht?” Renie inquired, dumping the contents of her fourth raw sugar packet into what was left of her mocha.

  “Philip French of French’s Fleet,” Judith replied, looking a bit smug. “It’s a tugboat company. I’ve heard of them. Haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” Renie replied. “My dad worked for a big tugboat company after the war.”

  “That’s right,” Judith remarked. “But it wouldn’t be French’s outfit. The person who answered the phone said Philip was the owner and founder.”

  “He must have found some money in it along the way,” Renie said. “He had to come up with a bundle to buy that baby brand new.”

  Judith was staring out the window. “Here they come. Glenn and Trash don’t look very happy. Phil, however, seems unperturbed.”

  “And sinister, no doubt,” said Renie, resolutely not looking toward the window behind her.

  “I can’t really say that,” Judith replied. “He’s fairly tall, balding brown hair, goatee, Nordquist’s finest men’s casual wear. I’d opt for ‘urbane.’”

  “People who own big yachts have to act urbane.” Renie slipped her credit card inside the leatherette folder. “You know, ascots and captain’s caps and navy blazers with gold buttons.”

  “Right,” Judith said vaguely as she watched the men move out of sight. “I hope French’s Fleet calls back soon. It’s almost two-thirty. I have to get home to prepare for my guests.”

  “Viewing the yacht is your idea,” Renie responded. “If we stay here long enough, I can order seconds.”

  “Glenn and Trash must have been interviewing Phil,” Judith surmised. “Cops can’t afford yachts. You have my word on that.”

  The server came to collect the bill. Renie refrained from ordering another mocha. “Are you really going through the charade of being a potential buyer?” she asked. “Surely Phil French must know who you are by now.”

  Judith considered. “Only to toss out the bait. After I reel him in, I’ll be candid,” she said as her cell phone rang.

  It was Phil himself who was making the call. “Yes,” Judith said. “In fact, I’m already here. In the restaurant, that is. Ask for Jones. The reservation is in my cousin’s name.”

  Renie waited for Judith to disconnect. “Is he biting?”

  Judith smiled. “He said he could be here in two minutes.”

  “Did he recognize your name?”

  “I don’t think so,” Judith said as their server returned with Renie’s receipts. “I’m not the only Mrs. Flynn in town.”

  Renie’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “At least one Mrs. Flynn is in Florida.”

  “Thank heavens,” Judith murmured. “That’s the worst thing about summer. Herself usually comes back to town for a few months.”

  “Phil should sit on my side of the booth,” Renie declared. “You’ll want to face him.”

  “Yes.” Judith looked up as the hostess arrived with Philip French.

  “Good afternoon,” he said with a congenial smile. “Which of you is Mrs. Flynn?”

  The hostess moved away. Judith raised her hand. “That would be me. Please call me Judith. This is my cousin, Serena Jones.”

  “Take a seat,” Renie said, patting the place next to her in the booth. “Can we order something for you?”

  Phil eased himself onto the upholstered banquette. “A martini would do, but it’s on me. What will you two be having?”

  “Drambuie, straight up,” Renie said without hesitation.

  “Galliano on the rocks,” Judith responded.

  Phil, with a subtle show of long practice, signaled for the server and relayed the drink orders. “So,” he said, after the server had gone off to the bar, “you’re interested in the Moonfleet.”

  Judith gave a little start. “Ah…yes, I am.” Confused about whether Phil was referring to the yacht or the family home, she decided that silence was her best ally.

  “Great ship,” Phil said. “I wouldn’t sell it, but we need something a bit larger. I use the Moonfleet for company business. Two staterooms aren’t enough when you take her out with a group of potential business prospects.”

  The drinks arrived. Now that she knew which Moonfleet Phil was talking about, Judith decided it was time for candor. “I’m not a buyer,” she confessed. “I’m trying to keep out of jail.”

  Apparently, Phil thought she was joking. “So are a few of my business associates. Do you want to buy the Moonfleet to sail to some country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States?”

  “No,” Judith replied, vigorously shaking her head. “I mean it. Those detectives you were with this afternoon think I may have killed the man who apparently died on your family property. He ended up in the trunk of my car.”

  Phil threw back his head and guffawed. “This,” he said when he finished laughing, “is a unique approach to bartering. I’m not coming down in price, Mrs. Flynn. It’s firm and it’s fair.”

  Renie was looking irked. She was swinging her feet under the table, and accidentally kicked Judith. “Sorry,” Renie apologized before she turned to Phil. “I’m just sitting here listening to an incredible conversation and wondering if I should set my hair on fire to put an end to it. Please take my cousin seriously. Or do you honestly not know about the murder of Frank Purvis?”

  Philip French’s olive skin turned pale; his hand shook as he put down his martini. “Frank’s been murdered? You’re kidding!” He reached inside his jacket, then suddenly withdrew his hand. “Damn! There’s no smoking here. I could use a cigarette. And another one of these.” He tapped his half-empty glass.

  “Did you know Frank?” Judith asked, recovering from her surprise at Phil’s reaction.

  “Yes. Yes, he was interested in the Moonfleet.” Phil’s color had returned, but he was starting to perspire. “We looked at the yacht Monday. He said he’d get back to me by the end of the week.”

  “It looks like you lost a potential buyer,” Renie said. “Didn’t the cops tell you his name just now?”

  After a gulp of his drink, Phil shook his head. “They didn’t mention a name.” He stared at Judith. “You are serious. Frank’s body was found in your trunk?”

  “Yes. I’ve no idea how it got there. I mean,” Judith clarified, “I don’t know who put it in my car. It certainly wasn’t me. The detectives seem to think otherwise, or at least haven’t eliminated me from their list of suspects. Did they mention my name by any chance?”

  Phil shook his head again. He still seemed dazed. “We didn’t talk long. They got kind of interested in seeing the boat.”

  “How long had you known Frank Purvis?” Judith asked.

  “Not long,” Phil replied, indicating to their server that he could use another round. “I met him a couple of months ago on the golf course. It turned out he was interested in buying a yacht. I hadn’t made up my mind to sell yet, so I told him to call me in a month or so. He did.”

  “He must have been well-heeled,” Judith said, wondering why Glenn Morris had referred to Frank as a “lowlife.” “How did he make his money?”

  Phil finished his first martini just as the second arrived. “Investments. I guess he was one of the lucky stiffs—excuse the expression—who didn’t bomb out in the market.”

  “Were you playing a private course?” Judith inquired.

  Phil nodded. “Broadwood. I’m a member.”

  Judith knew that Broadwood was one of the most exclusive—and expensive—courses in the area. “Did Frank belong?”

  “I don’t know,” Phil replied, lapping up some of the new martini. “I guess so.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith said, “you’d have any idea why Frank would impersonate a milkman?”

  “I sure don’t.” Phil devoured half of the olive. “It must have been a prank.”

 
Phil didn’t look as if he believed his own words, and Judith certainly didn’t. “You have no idea why Frank Purvis would have an interest in your in-laws’ house?”

  “Well…” Phil was beginning to look a trifle bleary-eyed. Maybe, Judith thought, these weren’t his first drinks of the day. She guessed that the Moonfleet had a well-stocked bar. For three hundred and fifty grand, it should come with a bartender and a case of Hangover Helper.

  “Yes?” Judith urged as Phil faltered.

  “The only thing I can think of,” Phil said slowly, “is that maybe he was interested in buying the house. Luke and Lynette—Anna, too—have been pressuring the old folks to move to a retirement home. Maybe Frank wanted to look around the place without being noticed. I mean, who pays any attention to a milkman?”

  “Because they can’t afford yachts?” Renie put in.

  “No, of course not,” Phil said, giving Renie an unpleasant look. “What are you—the semicomic relief?”

  “I’m not ‘semi’ anything,” Renie shot back. “And ‘comic’ doesn’t exactly describe my present mood. Besides, only a nutcase would wear a disguise to check out a house. Frank Purvis must have been up to something other than real-estate speculation.”

  Judith glanced at her watch. It was after three o’-clock. “We have to go, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about the deception, but it was the only way I could think of to meet you.”

  “Yeah, sure, fine.” Phil was more than halfway through his second martini. Grudgingly, he got out of the booth so that Renie could make her exit. “Say,” he said to Judith as she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder, “if you think you could swing it, you’d find yourself in a whole new world if you bought the Moonfleet.”

  “Like a world of debt,” Renie muttered.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Judith said.

  The cousins left Phil just as he signaled for a third hit.

  What’s wrong with that picture?” Judith asked as they walked to their cars. “As in how much coincidence can you accept?”

  “You mean Phil knowing Frank Purvis?”

  “That’s just part of it,” Judith declared. “Why did Glenn Morris say that Frank was a lowlife? Granted, there are some wealthy people who are sleazes, but that’s usually not the way they’re described. And how did Frank meet Phil? Did Frank plan it? Or was it the other way around? And why was Frank so interested in the Blands’ house?”

  “It is possible,” Renie said as they reached the Joneses’ Camry, “that he may have been checking it out as a potential real-estate project. If the place is as dilapidated inside as it is outside, it could be a teardown and at least three houses could be built on the property. Didn’t Phil say that Frank had made his money in investments?”

  “That’s what he told us,” Judith replied, “but it all sounded vague to me. I think Frank was casing the joint with a plan to steal whatever was being delivered to the Blands. Surely everyone in the family knows they get only one UPS delivery a year. They may not know what it is, but it would be the kind of thing you’d talk and speculate about.”

  “How could the younger generation know?” Renie asked, digging into her purse for her car keys.

  “Think about it, coz,” Judith responded. “Luke and Anna wouldn’t be any less curious than other kids. A big box arrives. Being children, they hope it’s something for them. But it never is. They’re disappointed. Not to mention that the family leads a very dull life. Eventually, they realize that the annual delivery is strictly for the grown-ups. But they never forget.”

  “That’s true,” Renie agreed. “The box always comes in June. Luke and Anna would be out of school. They played outside—I do remember seeing wagons and tricycles and other toys in the front yard. It was one of the few signs of life I ever noticed around the place. It’s likely that they might have seen the deliveryman come to the house.”

  “Exactly.” Judith squinted up into the bright sky. “I gather that Phil and Anna are childless. I wonder how they get along. Judging from what I saw at the café, Luke and Lynette seem to be on rather frosty terms. I couldn’t help but think that if Mike and Kristin stayed married for the sake of the children, they’d end up like Luke and Lynette—couples who are strangers to each other.”

  “Maybe you just caught the younger Blands on a bad day,” Renie said, opening the door to her car. “Remember, there are no easy answers.”

  “No,” Judith agreed. “Not for Mike and Kristin, not for any of us, really.”

  And, she thought, waving Renie off, certainly not when it came to the house on Moonfleet.

  The hors d’oeuvres were prepared; the first four guests had arrived; and Mike had left a message saying that he and Uncle Al and the boys were eating out. With one ear cocked for the doorbell, Judith dialed the Broadwood Golf and Country Club’s number. Having once dealt with residents of an exclusive community, she knew that protecting members’ privacy was a priority. Thus she was forced to invent a ruse.

  “I’m a friend of the late Frank Purvis,” she lied to the smooth-voiced woman who’d answered the phone. “I’ve lost his address, and I want to send a sympathy card to his family. If you can’t release that information, then I’ll send the card to you and you can forward it. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “One moment,” said the voice. “I’m sorry,” she said after a full minute had passed, “we have no Frank Purvis listed as a member. There must be some mistake.”

  “Is it possible that he lives in the gated community next to the golf course?” Judith inquired. “I know he has some connection to Broadwood.”

  “I’m sorry,” the voice apologized again. “I checked the residential listings as well as the membership rolls. We have no one named Purvis connected to Broadwood.”

  Judith thanked the receptionist and hung up. Frank had somehow finagled an invitation to play at Broadwood. Was it for the sole purpose of meeting Phil French? Was it possible that Phil was an accomplice in whatever scheme Frank had concocted?

  It was Friday. Joe would be home the following day, or Sunday at the latest. Judith had to act fast. Anna French was the only Bland family member with whom she’d established any sort of rapport. And Anna was about to leave town. She’d probably be working late. Six more guests—sorority sisters from Missouri—arrived and had to be settled in before Judith was able to dial Anna’s office just before six o’clock.

  Anna was in. “Yes, I’m stuck here until nine at least,” she informed Judith. “Can you make this quick?”

  “Actually, no,” Judith said. “May I buy you dinner when you get off work?”

  “Dinner?” Anna sounded surprised. “I don’t know…I’ll probably just want to go home and crash. I have to be back at the store by nine tomorrow.”

  “This is important, Anna,” Judith said. “I met your husband today. I’m worried about him. Did you know that he knew the man who was killed?”

  There was an audible gasp at the other end of the line. “No! I haven’t talked to Phil since breakfast. Okay, where shall we meet?”

  “Where do you live?” Judith inquired. “I’d like to make this easy for you.”

  “We live over in Hamilton Park,” Anna said, referring to the upscale neighborhood near Broadwood. “We have a condo on the lake. It would be just as easy if you met me downtown. How about Julio’s? It’s close to the street I take to go directly to Hamilton Park.”

  “Fine,” Judith said. “I’m on the south slope of Heraldsgate Hill. It’ll take me less than ten minutes to get there. How about nine-fifteen?”

  That worked for Anna. It didn’t work quite so well for Judith, since she wouldn’t be at Hillside Manor to lock up at ten. But time was of the essence. And if Anna was worn out, her defenses might be down.

  “You call this dinner?” Gertrude demanded, looking at the tray Judith had brought to her. “I don’t recognize anything but the plate.”

  “I made a casserole out of the leftover chicken from the other night,” Judith replied. “I
t has noodles and broccoli and peas in it. That’s a cheese sauce for the filling.”

  “Cheese sauce?” Gertrude snorted. “It looks like motor oil. What kind of cheese did you use? Part of the moon? It’s green.”

  “You’re looking at the vegetables,” Judith said. “You’ve got peanut-butter cookies, too.”

  “They’re stale,” Gertrude asserted. “When did you make them? April?”

  “Monday,” Judith responded. “There wouldn’t be any left if Renie wasn’t allergic to peanuts and Joe hadn’t left town. As it is, those are the last three. Mike and the boys love them.”

  Gertrude fingered one of the cookies. “Too bad I can’t skate anymore. I could use these for hockey pucks. By the way, do you remember when I was in the Olympics?”

  Judith stared at her mother. “As in mountains? Yes, of course. Daddy had his first teaching job in the area.”

  “Oh. Sure he did.” But Gertrude looked bewildered. “Maybe they didn’t understand.”

  “Who?” Judith was feeling as confused as her mother.

  “The movie people. I guess they thought I meant I’d been in the Olympic Games, not the Olympic Mountains. Anyways, they’ve got a part in the script where I won a silver medal in the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam for the hundred-meter backstroke. I may be great, but I don’t remember being that great.”

  “You weren’t. I mean,” Judith added hastily, “you didn’t swim in the Olympics. You’d better tell them to take that out of the script.”

  “Yes.” Gertrude rubbed at her wrinkled cheek. “I’ll them it was the 1936 Olympics. That was in Berlin, right? Then I could say I beat the pants off of Hitler’s Nazi amazons.”

  “Why not?” Judith had given up arguing over the accuracy of the script. Apparently, so had Gertrude. Both the writer and the agent had told them that the character of Gertrude—who might actually be called by another name in the film—was a composite of several women who had been part of the Greatest Generation. For all Judith knew, her mother could end up being Eleanor Roosevelt.