This Old Souse

by Mary Daheim

  Mac and Joe-Joe were delighted to see Sweetums, whose restraints had been removed as soon as Judith arrived at Uncle Al’s. She’d hated to keep him fettered, but was afraid he might go on a rampage in the MG and do some serious damage to the leather upholstery.

  The boys wanted to take Sweetums with them to the farm, but Mike said no. Judith, however, worried about leaving the animal in Uncle Al’s house.

  “Stop fussing,” Uncle Al said. “We made a litter box. He’ll be fine.”

  “But he might destroy your furniture,” Judith protested. “He’s not in a good mood after his stay with the vet.”

  Uncle Al, who was tall, burly, and had a perpetual twinkle in his sea blue eyes, glanced at Sweetums, who was permitting himself to be petted by the boys. “He looks happy to me. Besides, there’s nothing here that can’t be replaced. I’ll bet you ten bucks he doesn’t do any damage.”

  Judith smiled sheepishly at her uncle. “I’d never bet against you. You’re too lucky.”

  Uncle Al shrugged. “I suppose I could ask Tess to come over and stay with him,” he said, referring to his longtime lady friend, who had money as well as looks and lived in an elegant condo only a few blocks away.

  “I wouldn’t want you to bother her,” Judith said. “Besides, as I recall, she’s not a cat person.”

  “She doesn’t hate cats,” Al said. “She just doesn’t want to be bothered with pets. You run along now. We’ll work it out.”

  Judith kissed the boys, hugged her son and her uncle, and headed off in the MG. Five blocks away, she reached the intersection where she could turn right for Heraldsgate Hill—or keep going straight to Moonfleet Street. But, she asked herself, waiting for the light to change, what would be the point of driving by the Blands’ house? None, really. She put on her turn signal to take the usual route home.

  Only then did she realize that vehicles were backing up on the cross street. The light turned green. Judith followed the two cars ahead of her and looked to her left. Six blocks down, at a five-way traffic signal, she saw flashing red and green lights. Apparently, there had been an accident, not uncommon at such a major intersection.

  Judith went straight ahead to avoid the tie-up. She turned onto the main artery through Langford, going less than a block before she had to stop at the next traffic light. As she waited, she admired the floral display in front of the grocery store on her left. There was a special on gladioli, nine stems for ten dollars. The glads in Judith’s garden wouldn’t bloom for another month. She had the perfect vase for them—tall, curving slightly, with a glazed green finish—which she always put in the entry hall near the guest registry. When the light changed, Judith moved up a space and turned into the parking lot.

  It took her a few minutes to decide on the colors. Finally, she decided on a combination of yellow, purple, and chartreuse. Upon entering the store, she noticed three cardboard boxes filled with groceries. One box was marked GONZALES; another read JOHNSTON; the third was inscribed with BLAND.

  Judith hurried into the express lane. Impatiently, she waited for the man ahead of her to pay for his six-pack of beer and bag of potato chips. As soon as he left, Judith accosted the frizzy-haired blond checker whose name tag identified her as Jaimie.

  “Is that box by the door being picked up by the Blands?” Judith inquired.

  Jaimie glanced toward the entrance. “It should be. Why? Are you the designated driver this week?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied glibly. “Anna couldn’t make it.”

  “Anna?” Jaimie’s high forehead wrinkled. “Is that the one who looks like she stepped out of Vogue?”

  “Right,” Judith agreed. “Is everything there?”

  “Let me find out,” Jaimie replied before calling over to the clerk at the next checkout stand. “Is the Bland order ready to go?”

  The clerk, a young man with close-cropped hair, studied what appeared to be a list next to the register. “No. They need a pound of hamburger, a cut-up fryer, and a turkey breast.”

  “I’ll take that order to them,” Judith volunteered, aware that at least two people were in line behind her. “Go ahead, Jaimie, I’ll pay for my flowers now.”

  “One of the courtesy clerks will bring the meat order,” Jaimie said, ringing up the glads. “You’re not one of the regulars, are you? Do you have the address?”

  “Yes, on Moonfleet, right?”

  Jaimie nodded as she accepted Judith’s money. “Personally,” she said with a puckish grin, “I like it when the young guy comes in. He’s on the TV news, you know.”

  “Yes, that would be Adam Blake, as he calls himself,” Judith said.

  “His first name is really Alan. He changed his name for television,” Jaimie went on. “He’s the Bland grandson. But there’s nothing bland about his looks.” She smiled some more. “He wasn’t on last night. Mavis Lean-Brodie mentioned that he’d been sent on a special assignment. Frankly, he’s the only reason I watch KINE-TV instead of KINK or one of the other channels. Thanks. Enjoy your flowers.”

  The courtesy clerk had put the late additions into the carton and picked it up. “Your trunk?” he asked as they went out into the parking lot.

  Judith winced. Even though it was the Subaru’s trunk that had held Frank Purvis’s dead body, she wasn’t keen on any semblance of a reenactment. “You can put it in the bucket seat next to me,” she said.

  “Will do.”

  It took Judith less than five minutes to reach the Blands’ house. The yellow tape was gone. That didn’t surprise her. The murder was now four days old. Morris and Trash’s crime-scene experts should have finished collecting evidence from the Bland property by now.

  Since it was Saturday, on-street parking was hard to find. Judith went around the block twice without spotting an open space. She couldn’t carry the heavy box of groceries very far. In addition to the meats, there was a loaf of bread, a head of lettuce, three bottles of wine, and several cans of soup, vegetables, and fruit. Judith had no choice but to pull into the rutted alley and park near the back door.

  Her next problem was getting through the overgrown shrubbery while carrying the box. She stumbled over roots and deadwood, got scratched by blackberry vines, and narrowly avoided being poked in the eye by a forsythia branch. Out of breath, she proceeded through the tall grass, weeds, ferns, and rocks.

  Still panting, she set the box down on the small moss-covered stone porch that rose only a few inches from the ground. The door was arched and made of solid wood with a tile surround, two wrought-iron hinges, and a handle to match. Judith wound up like a pitcher and pounded the door as hard as she could.

  Looking at her watch, she decided to wait at least a full minute for someone to respond. Sixty-eight seconds later a curious Alan Bland stood in the small entryway.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  Judith pointed to the groceries near her feet. “I’m Judith Flynn. I didn’t think Anna would be able to collect the order, so I thought I’d drop it off for her.”

  Alan’s handsome face grew puzzled. “It wasn’t Anna’s turn. It was mine. I was going to the grocery store in just a few minutes. Who are you?”

  “It’s a long story,” Judith said with a sigh. “May I come in for a moment? I had a hard time cutting through from the alley. There was no place to park out front.”

  “Everybody in this neighborhood seems to have two cars,” Alan remarked, still eyeing Judith with curiosity. “Did you say you’re a friend of Aunt Anna’s?”

  Judith avoided a direct answer. “I took her home from work last night. Have you spoken with her today?”

  Alan shook his head and stepped aside. “Come in. I’ll get the groceries. Is Aunt Anna okay?”

  “Yes, she’s fine,” Judith said, going into the kitchen. One glance made her feel as if she’d moved back in time. Even though the sun was coming through the single window with its colored panes, the room seemed dark. The green gas range looked as if it had been installed in the twenties; so did the matchi
ng refrigerator. The tiles on the counter and the walls were faded and chipped. The old-fashioned sink and the tiled floor also showed considerable wear and tear. There was no dishwasher, no microwave, no garbage disposal. Only the wooden table and chairs looked as if they’d come from a later era by about twenty-five years. Even the quartet of metal canisters on a wooden shelf appeared to be at least a half century old. The musty air and the tomblike silence in the rest of the house gave Judith a chill.

  Alan noticed. “Are you all right? Your arms are bleeding. Can I get you some Band-Aids or antiseptic?”

  “A towel will do,” Judith replied. “They’re only scratches.”

  Alan pulled out a drawer that seemed to stick just a bit and handed Judith a dish towel thin enough that she could see through it. She had to be careful walking across the floor. The tiles were so grooved and cracked that they upset her balance. At the sink, she turned on the warm water tap. It sputtered a bit, then released the water in fits and starts.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Alan said with a wry chuckle as he stashed groceries in the ancient fridge. “You’re wondering why my grandparents haven’t done some renovating. The truth is, they don’t have the money and they don’t care.”

  “Really.” Judith dabbed at her scratches. “So even though your folks and your aunt and uncle—and you—are doing quite well, your grandparents don’t want to be bothered?”

  “You got it,” Alan replied. “Too much hassle, they say. Workmen all over the house, lots of noise, confusion, being inconvenienced—the whole gig. But hey—as long as they don’t care, it’s their home after all.”

  “It’s such a beautiful house,” Judith said. “That is, it could be a real showplace if it were fixed up.”

  “That’s what my dad says,” Alan responded. “He keeps trying to talk them into moving to a retirement place. But they refuse to budge.”

  “Aunt Sally concurs, I assume,” said Judith.

  Alan looked amused. “Aunt Sally—well, she goes along with whatever my grandparents want.”

  “Aunt Sally is your grandmother’s sister, right?”

  Alan nodded. “In her younger years, she was quite the adventurer,” he replied, taking the towel from Judith. “For her time, of course. She was a photographer. She even had some of her photos published in National Geographic.”

  “She must have traveled widely,” Judith remarked.

  “She did,” Alan replied, placing the worn towel on the counter. “Africa, Asia, Europe, South America—somehow she never got to Australia or New Zealand. That’s one of the reasons I went into TV. I want to work my way up to reporting from the field. See the world and be where the action is.”

  “I understand you’re on special assignment right now,” Judith said. “I assume—since you’re here—you don’t have to travel for this job.”

  Alan looked away. “No. But sometimes I do. I’ve been to L.A. and San Francisco and Vancouver, B.C.”

  “What are you investigating?” Judith asked.

  Alan hesitated, then looked again at Judith. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it. At this stage, it’s confidential.”

  “Oh.” Judith was edging toward the door that led out of the kitchen. “I understand. My husband’s been a private detective since he retired from the police force. Once in a while he gets a case he can’t discuss. In fact, he’s working on one right now. All I know is that it’s some insurance scam. At least that’s what the carrier is trying to prove.”

  Alan’s keen blue eyes were regarding Judith with apprehension. “Were you thinking of going out the front way?”

  She was standing on the threshold, which led to the dining room. The drapes were pulled. All she could glimpse was a table and a couple of chairs.

  “No,” she replied. “I was wondering if the rest of the house was furnished in Spanish-style furniture.”

  Alan laughed. “It’s furnished with whatever my grandparents could get at secondhand stores. It’s just plain old-fashioned furniture. I think some of it came with the house. The previous owner didn’t want it, I guess.”

  “It’s so dark,” Judith noted. “Why don’t they open the drapes on such a nice day?”

  “My grandmother has very weak eyes,” Alan replied. “So does Aunt Sally. It runs in the family. I hope I don’t inherit it when I get older.”

  Desperately, Judith was trying to figure out an excuse for seeing more of the house and at least one of its inhabitants. “You know,” she said in a wistful voice, “I’ve never met your grandparents. I understand they’re very private people. But as long as I’m delivering their groceries, I thought it might be polite to introduce myself.”

  Alan looked regretful. “They’re resting right now. They always take a little siesta after lunch.”

  “Oh. Aunt Sally is resting, too?”

  “Aunt Sally is always resting,” Alan replied in an ironic tone. “She’s very frail.”

  “How old are they?” Judith inquired. “My own mother is quite elderly. She doesn’t take regular naps, but she does tend to doze off now and then.”

  Alan tapped his cheek, apparently calculating ages. “Grandpa is in his eighties. Grandma is up in her seventies. Aunt Sally is a few years younger.”

  Compared to Gertrude, the trio was still fairly young. But, Judith realized, her own mother couldn’t be compared to other human beings. “I understand your grandfather never really recovered from his war experiences,” she said. “My Uncle Corky never has either. He was in the army, serving in Europe. At least once a week, he still feels a need to shoot at crows and seagulls and an occasional piece of garden statuary. Twice, he’s used his pickup to take out a couple of utility poles. He calls his truck ‘Tank.’”

  Alan nodded. “Grandpa served in Europe, too, under General Patton. The carnage was horrendous.”

  “Really? That’s who Uncle Corky served under. Patton may have had his flaws, but my uncle adored Old Blood and Guts.”

  “Grandpa didn’t feel the same way about Patton,” Alan said. “Of course, he doesn’t like to talk about his war experiences. I wanted to interview him a while back for a feature on World War Two veterans, but he turned me down. I guess it stirred up too many bad—”

  A phone rang somewhere nearby. Judith didn’t see one in the kitchen, but before she could peek into the dining room, Alan removed his cell from his back pocket.

  “Hi, Aunt Anna,” he said in a bright voice. “What?…Oh, no, everything’s fine. A friend of yours stopped by. Judith Flynn.” He glanced at Judith to confirm that he’d gotten her name right. “Yes, she’s here with me in the kitchen. She picked up the week’s supply of groceries…Really?” Alan shot Judith a curious look. “I didn’t know that…Yes, of course I will. Talk to you later.”

  Alan clicked off the phone. His expression had grown troubled. “Aunt Anna said to say hello.” He hesitated, wincing slightly. “She told me who you really are. You’re FATSO. I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

  THIRTEEN

  IT DID NO good to try to explain it was Mavis-Lean Brodie’s fault that Judith had gained such notoriety. Alan was polite but firm. The Blands were private people. They didn’t want some amateur sleuth—especially someone whose car had held Frank Purvis’s corpse—lurking around the family home.

  Unencumbered by the heavy groceries she’d delivered, Judith managed to reach the alley without doing any more damage to herself. She settled in behind the MG’s steering wheel, then suddenly thought it might be a good idea to take a look in the boot. She didn’t want to cart around another body in a Flynn automobile. Judith lurched out of the car and apprehensively raised the boot’s lid. Except for some of Joe’s belongings, it was empty. She sighed with relief.

  Driving home, she grew angry with Anna French. After rescuing the woman, Judith expected a more gracious response. Anna had acted grateful the previous night, but now she seemed to have turned her back on her savior.

  And yet…

  Judith had come away
from the house on Moonfleet feeling as if she had missed something. It might have been a remark by Alan, the conversation between him and his aunt, or the house itself. Whatever it had been, she felt an immediate need to talk to Renie.

  Carefully parking the MG on the steep hill in front of the Joneses’ Dutch Colonial, she spotted her cousin in the front yard. Half-hidden by ornamental evergreens, Renie was wielding a broom and cussing. A fat gray squirrel fled through a patch of St. John’s wort.

  “Coz!” Judith called from the parking strip. “It’s me.”

  “Yikes!” Renie cried, almost falling over a cherub statue that had been a birthday present from Judith. “You startled me! I’m obsessed with those damned squirrels since they got inside our attic and set up a condo two years ago. They’ve been lurking around all spring, trying to get back into the house. I don’t trust them an inch. What’s worse, they’re smarter than I am.”

  “I thought Bill had screened off all the areas where they could come in,” Judith said as Renie came out of the garden and down to the sidewalk.

  “He did,” Renie replied, keeping a wary eye on the squirrel’s path of flight. “They removed the duct tape and ate two of the screens.”

  “They keep digging up my bulbs,” Judith complained, before changing the subject. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure,” Renie replied. “Let’s go out on the deck, where I can exercise vigilance if Squeldon the Squirrel tries to attack from the rear. Do you want something to drink?”

  “Water will do,” Judith said as they went inside and down the hall to the kitchen. “Where’s Bill?”

  “Running his usual Saturday errands,” Renie responded, taking two glasses out of the cupboard. “You know—the Swedish bakery, the German deli, the Japanese market. Bill’s very global.”

  Judith accepted a glass of ice water; Renie removed a can of Pepsi from the fridge. The cousins went out onto the deck, where they had a clear view of the mountains and the northeastern section of the city.

  “So what’s up?” Renie inquired, putting on her sunglasses.