This Old Souse

by Mary Daheim

  “What exactly did you see from the bathroom window?” Judith asked.

  “A white figure, moving slowly in front of the house and then disappearing around the other side. I’ll admit,” Teresa went on, “it was hard to see with all the trees and shrubs over there. But I caught several glimpses between the greenery until the figure went out of sight.”

  “The white figure was moving west or east?” Judith inquired as Renie stood rooted to a spot in front of the sofa.

  “Is that important?”

  “Just curious,” Judith said.

  “Umm…it would be to the west,” Teresa replied. “Toward the back of the house where the garage is located, if you know where I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Judith, “I know where the garage is. Did you see anything else?”

  “No. I waited for several minutes,” Teresa said. “Finally, the moon went behind a cloud and I couldn’t see much of anything. Look, I’m probably being silly. I shouldn’t have scared you. But that place is really creepy, ghost or no ghost. I couldn’t get back to sleep the rest of the night.”

  “It’s creepy all right,” Judith agreed.

  “I’ll be relieved when they sell it and move out,” Teresa declared. “On top of everything else, now their blasted alarm system keeps going off. You can hear it everywhere. Fortunately, Mrs. Bruce is immune as long as she doesn’t have her hearing aids turned on. Oh—by the way, did you know the house is for sale?”

  “I did, actually,” Judith said. “I’m afraid I didn’t heed your warning.”

  “Well, as long as you haven’t seen any—sí, señora! Oro, muy bonito!” Teresa lowered her voice. “Now she’s on the gold wagon. Gotta go.”

  “Ghosts, huh?” Renie said when Judith rang off.

  “Ghostlike figure,” Judith replied. “I suppose it could be one of the Blands in a nightshirt, getting some fresh air. They certainly don’t go outside very often during the day.”

  “Chasing squirrels, maybe,” Renie remarked. “Hey, you’re pretty well dried out.”

  Judith didn’t respond immediately. She’d stood up and put the phone down in the armchair. Pacing around the living room, she didn’t hear Renie. “Prepare yourself, coz,” she said suddenly. “We’re going in.”

  Renie’s brown eyes widened. “In where?”

  Judith smiled grimly. “Into the Blands’ house. Tonight, after dark. Wear camouflage.”

  Good grief!” Renie cried, collapsing on the sofa. “You’re kidding!”

  “I am not.”

  “Camouflage? What kind? Squirrel suits?”

  Judith shook her head. “Just something dark.”

  “What about the alarm system?”

  “Teresa says it’s going off every so often,” Judith replied. “They’ll think it’s another false alarm. Squirrels, no doubt. Or,” she added on an optimistic note, “they may have had to disconnect it. The alarm-system companies—and the cops—don’t like it when those things get tripped by accident. The owners can get penalized.”

  “You’re taking a big risk,” Renie pointed out. “I mean, we’re taking a big risk. Oh, hell,” she fretted, “we aren’t really going to do this, are we?”

  But Renie saw the answer in the obstinate set of Judith’s face.

  Judith had her own qualms about breaking into the Blands’ house. It was illegal, dangerous, and foolhardy. It was also the only way she could ever discover the truth about the mystery on Moonfleet. There were other things that disturbed her, too, or at least raised some important questions. Sitting in front of the computer, she began to type a list:

  What are Blands hiding—or hiding from?

  Uncle Franz Steiner—annual parcel; Kopfstein, Austria

  Arthur Craig—accidental drowning or not?

  Car chasing Anna in and from parking garage

  Frank Purvis a.k.a. Fred Pettibone

  Cops & media downplay FP’s murder

  There were other, smaller unanswered queries, but these were the ones that plagued her most. For at least five minutes, she stared at the notations on the screen.Woody Price was still out of town. No help there from the police grapevine. She’d talked to all of the younger Blands, the neighbors, and the Pettibone family. What if—the thought made Judith groan aloud—Frank Purvis had been killed by someone who had no connection to the Blands? He might have been prowling around the house while his stolen milk truck was parked on the other side of the street. Or was he sneaking a peek at the houses lining the other side of the dirt track?

  Judith didn’t believe that. For one thing, contact had been established between Phil and Frank. To her, he’d always be Frank rather than Fred, since it was in his guise as Frank that she’d carted his corpse around Heraldsgate Hill. It had to be Frank who’d sought out Phil on the golf course. Frank Purvis wasn’t a member; he would’ve had to get someone to sponsor him. There might be a record of the sponsorship at the country club, but their privacy policy wouldn’t allow her to find out the member’s name.

  Interlocking her hands behind her head, Judith sighed. Getting inside the house might help her solve the mystery. It was a desperate measure, but she had to try it. Otherwise, she seemed to have tapped every resource, followed every lead.

  But one.

  A name jumped out at her from the past: Addison Kirby, city-hall reporter, and widower of the actress Joan Fremont, who had been murdered while staying at Good Cheer Hospital. Addison had regular contact with the police. Judith had found him to be a decent man and they had parted on good terms. She dialed the number for the newspaper’s city desk and asked for Addison Kirby.

  By luck, he was at his desk. “How could I ever forget you, Judith?” he asked. “You exposed the villain who killed my wife. Among others,” he added grimly. “How’s your hip?”

  “Fairly good,” Judith replied. “How’s your leg?”

  “Almost as good as new,” Addison said, referring to the broken bones he’d suffered when the killer ran him down in the hospital parking lot. “Last night, I danced the tango. Joan taught me how years ago, but I never really got into it until I met Amalia.”

  “Is she a special friend?”

  “Yes,” Addison replied, his voice softening. “I’ll never stop missing Joan, but Amalia has given me a reason to keep going.”

  “Good for you,” Judith declared.

  “You know how it is—you lost your first husband, right?”

  “Lost” always seemed a peculiar way to describe Dan McMonigle’s demise. Dan had been so huge that Judith couldn’t have “lost” him unless he’d been fired off into outer space.

  “Yes, Dan died young, too,” Judith said. “You met Joe, of course. He’s wonderful. Which,” she went on, “is part of the reason I’m calling. Joe’s not only retired from the force, but he’s out of town, and so is his former partner, Woody Price. I have no real in with the police, and somehow I got involved with…”

  Judith hit the high points of her story, not wanting to get off the track with details that would be out of Addison’s purview. “So you see,” she concluded, “I don’t understand why Frank Purvis’s murder has been played down in the media. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “I did, in fact,” Addison answered. “One of the new reporters on the police beat picked it up off the log. I can’t believe you were the one with the body in your car.”

  “I can,” Judith murmured. “That is, it was a terrible shock, of course. Do you know why your reporter didn’t follow up on the story?”

  Addison’s laugh was bleak. “If you read the paper, you can see that there’s almost a murder a day in this region. As for the city, maybe one a week. Most of them are fueled by alcohol or drugs. Who wants to read about a wife who wallops her husband with a cast-iron skillet while they’re both drunk as skunks? Or a couple of guys in a bar shoot-out? It’s horrible, it’s sordid, and it’s—unfortunately—too common to make big headlines. I’d seen the article, but figured a couple of bozos got into it during a midday d
rinking bout and one of them whacked the other one.”

  “So you don’t find it odd that there wasn’t a second story with more details?” Judith asked, disappointed.

  “Well—no.” Addison sounded apologetic. “For one thing, the police don’t release names until they notify next of kin.”

  “But don’t the original articles state cause of death?”

  “If it’s obvious—like a stabbing or a shooting—they do,” Addison replied. “But I gather that in this case, the cops wanted to wait for an autopsy. Anyway, a day or so later, Chico—that’s the new guy on the police beat—got assigned to a gang shooting in the south end. It involved two innocent victims, including a pregnant woman—a random act of violence. Chico, you see, is writing a book on the subject. Or trying to. There’s only so many hours in a day and so much space in the paper.”

  Judith recalled seeing a couple of articles about the drive-by shootings, but hadn’t paid much attention. Like the drug-related killings and the drunken domestic homicides, the gang murders hadn’t piqued her interest. As Addison said, they were too common.

  “But,” Judith pointed out, “the rest of the media seemed to ignore Frank Purvis, too.”

  “Same thing,” Addison said. “Thirty minutes less commercial breaks, weather, sports, and features—the broadcasters can’t cover everything.”

  Judith was silent for a moment. “I still think it’s odd. Would you mind asking Chico if he tried to do a follow-up on the original story?”

  “I’ll ask him right now,” Addison replied. “He just walked into the newsroom.”

  Judith waited impatiently while she heard the murmur of masculine voices at the other end of the line. Finally, Addison again spoke into the receiver.

  “Chico says he did try to find out if the guy was officially ID’d, but he was told that the victim was using an alias. That’s when he gave up,” Addison recounted before lowering his voice. “That’s also about the time they had the gang shoot-out.”

  “Frank Purvis was using an alias,” Judith stated. “He was really Alfred Pettibone, a solid citizen and a civil servant.”

  “No kidding!” Addison sounded intrigued. “How do you know?”

  Judith told him about attending Fred Pettibone’s funeral. “It was just a hunch until I saw the body,” she added.

  “You really are something,” Addison said in an awed tone. “Maybe you should sell your B & B and take up detective work along with your husband.”

  “I’d rather not,” Judith replied, “but thanks for the compliment.”

  “You know,” Addison said, still speaking softly, “I owe you one. A big one, in fact. Chico won’t mind. He’s writhing his way through Chapter Three on why bad guys go badder. I think I’ll do a little digging of my own.”

  “Would you?” Judith was excited at the prospect.

  “Sure. I’ll start now. City hall’s budget crisis is beginning to bore me. And the readers, too. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Judith expressed her gratitude and hung up. Turning back to her list on the monitor, she had another brainstorm. If Uncle Franz could call for a UPS pickup from Kopfstein, then he might have a telephone. Tiny Alpine village or not, no place on earth was too remote these days. According to the phone book, there was a nine-hour time difference, making it shortly after eleven at night in Austria. No matter. Maybe Uncle Franz kept late hours. She dialed international information, and after a couple of transfers, reached Salzburg and an operator who spoke almost flawless English.

  Judith, however, didn’t speak any German, flawed or unflawed. The gruff voice that answered after several rings was unintelligible to her.

  “Is this Franz Steiner?” she asked, slowly and loudly.

  “Ja, ja, so vot?”

  “I’m Judith…Hoffman,” she said, using Gertrude’s maiden name in the hope of creating an Austro-Germanic bond.

  “Are you a Chew?”

  “What?”

  “A Chew,” Franz repeated loudly. “Of the Chewish race.”

  “No, I’m a Catholic,” Judith replied, realizing that Franz meant “Jew.” “Why does it matter?”

  “Never mind. Vot about Sally? Is she dead?”

  “No, she’s fine,” Judith asserted. “She doesn’t see too well. She can’t dial the phone. I’m calling for her.”

  “Vy not Lukas? Or Anna? Vere is Lukas?”

  Judith assumed the old man meant Luke. “He’s home, with Lynette.”

  “Oh.” Franz sounded relieved, but resumed his gruff tone. “Vy so late? I vas abed.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is important.” Judith swallowed hard before she spoke again. “Your last package was…lost.”

  “Vot?” Franz sounded as if he were going to explode.

  “Was it insured?”

  “Nein, nein…no, no. I never insure. You ring off phone. I call Sally. Mein Gott, I haven’t heard her—” The call ended abruptly.

  Judith frowned at the mute receiver. She wasn’t sure she’d taken the right approach. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the parcel at all. But at least she’d found out that Franz Steiner was alive and grumpy in Kopfstein, Austria.

  But maybe the expensive prime-time international call hadn’t been wasted. Judith dialed Renie’s number.

  “What’s up?” Renie asked, panting.

  “Are you okay?” Judith inquired.

  “Yes, yes, I’m okay, if you call ‘okay’ trying to re-plant the primroses the squirrels dug up last night. I’m under an azalea bush, retrieving a purple one that the little wretches tossed there. Fortunately, I brought the phone outside.”

  “Don’t turn the hose on the receiver like you did a month or so ago,” Judith cautioned.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Renie replied, catching her breath. “I was aiming for the squirrels.”

  “Guess what,” Judith said. “I just had a chat with Uncle Franz.”

  “You did?” Renie sounded aghast.

  “It was brief, but more interesting than I thought at first.” Succinctly, she recounted the conversation.

  “Lord, you’re a pathological liar,” Renie said with a sigh. “You’re getting out of hand. What was so interesting other than that you’re probably going to hell?”

  “Funny coz,” Judith murmured. “I’ll tell you what I realized after he hung up on me. He referred to Lukas, not Luke. Thus I don’t think Luke Bland was adopted. I think he’s Franz and Sally Steiner’s son.”

  EIGHTEEN

  OKAY,” RENIE SAID with only a hint of skepticism, “tell me how you came to the conclusion that Luke is Sally and Franz’s kid.”

  “Never mind that right now,” Judith said. “Luke’s eye problem has always bothered me.”

  “Not as much as it bothers him.”

  “Hush.” Judith didn’t need interruptions. She was running behind on her daily schedule and still had to prepare the appetizers for the incoming guests. “If it’s hereditary, it may have come down from his mother’s side. It’d be too much of a coincidence for Dick and Jane Bland to adopt a kid who had a similar eye condition. But Sally has it, too. Thus Sally is Luke’s mother. When Luke and I were talking about the rain, he mentioned that he’s not a native. I didn’t think much of it at the time, assuming the Blands had gotten him from another state, or even from east of the mountains, where the weather is very different. Then Uncle Franz called him ‘Lukas’ and seemed more interested in him than in Anna. It finally all came together. Sally may have had her baby in Austria, and for reasons I still don’t know, sent him to live with the Blands and they adopted him.”

  “Why couldn’t Sally have come at the same time with the kid?” Renie asked as Judith paused for breath.

  “Maybe she did,” Judith replied. “She’s been here for many years. But why stay married to Franz? Why didn’t Franz come with her? Why is he still in Austria?”

  “He likes it there?” Renie suggested.

  “That’s possible,” Judith allowed. “The other possi
bility is that he couldn’t join Sally and Luke because he wasn’t able to get into the country.”

  “Hmm.” Renie was silent for a moment. “Are you thinking ‘Nazi’?”

  “Nazi sympathizer, maybe,” Judith said. “That came to mind when he asked if I was Jewish. Let’s face it, some of those old folks in Europe still have anti-Semitic feelings, not to mention Nazi sympathies. Remember, Austria had its own National Socialist party before the war.”

  “I know that, I’ve seen The Sound of Music six times,” Renie said. “So what you’re saying is that Uncle Franz may not have dared to enter the U.S.”

  “Right,” Judith responded, trying to ignore Phyliss, who had just come up from the basement and was groaning loudly while she massaged her left knee. “Sally, being an American, didn’t have that problem. But because she wanted to be with Franz, she may have sent the baby here, using the ruse of adoption by the Blands.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Renie said, “but you’re making sense.” She paused. “How about your own son? Any word from Mike?”

  “No,” Judith replied as Phyliss hopped into the kitchen on one leg. Obviously, another attack of hypochondria had beset the cleaning woman.

  “How about Sweetums?” Renie inquired.

  “No.” Judith couldn’t ignore Phyliss, who was now sprawled on the floor. “I’m trying to keep distracted.” She glanced at the twitching figure just a few feet away. “It’s not as hard as you might think.”

  As Judith said good-bye to Renie, Phyliss raised her head. “I’m paralyzed,” she declared.

  “From what?” Judith asked, long accustomed to such complaints.

  “Arthritis. Rheumatism. Lumbago.” Phyliss groaned some more. “The Lord loves those He punishes.”

  “That’s never made much sense to me,” Judith said. “Do you want me to help you get up or would you like to just lie there for a day or two?”

  “You could call an ambulance,” Phyliss said between moans.

  “I could,” Judith agreed, “but over the years, we’ve had our share of emergency vehicles here in the cul-de-sac. What I can do is go out to the car and get the tire jack and lift you up with that.”