All the Pretty Hearses

by Mary Daheim

  “Sure,” Judith replied. She put the pieces of pie on a larger, single plate, slid them into the microwave, and pressed the timer. “How much did you see today when Joe was . . . arrested?”

  Gertrude chortled. “Enough to give me a good laugh. I haven’t had one of those since Auntie Vance tried to shove Uncle Vince under the U-Haul in the cul-de-sac last summer.”

  Judith got a scoop out of the drawer and removed a quart of ice cream from the freezer. “So how did you find out he was arrested?”

  “Uncle Vince? You mean after he got in the U-Haul and drove it off down the Counterbalance? Couldn’t blame him. He thought it was the milk truck he used to drive before he retired. Your auntie Vance can make anybody go crazy. But she means well.”

  “I meant Joe,” Judith said, her benign mood toward Gertrude beginning to fray.

  “Oh. Him.” Gertrude cocked her head to one side. “Because Knucklehead came to tell me he’d finally gotten caught for all his evil ways. I told him it was about fifteen years too late.”

  The microwave timer went off. “Joe came to the toolshed?” Judith asked, taking out the pie.

  “Where else? Since when did I move to Buckingham Palace?”

  “What did he say?”

  Gertrude didn’t answer immediately. She was distracted by the scoopful of ice cream her daughter was dumping on top of the pie. “Mmm-mm! Did you make this?”

  “No,” Judith replied, “it was on sale at Falstaff’s last summer. I froze two of them for a rainy day.”

  “It is that,” Gertrude said. She took her first taste and chewed happily.

  Judith had sat down across from her mother. “What did Joe say?”

  Gertrude shook her head and pointed to her mouth. “Bewwy theedth. Thuck in my denturth. Waid . . .” Dislodging the berry seeds, the old lady shrugged. “That he was going to jail. There was a police car in the driveway with two nice-looking young officers standing by. That kind of surprised me. Whatever happened to paddy wagons?”

  “Was Joe in handcuffs?”

  Gertrude shook her head. “Not then. Lunkhead went over to the car and they put the cuffs on him before he got inside. I waited until they drove away.” She ate more pie and ice cream. “Say, do they still cart criminals around to work on a chain gang? I’d like to see Dunderhead out there on the highway under a hot sun with a shovel.” She frowned. “Too bad it’s winter.”

  Judith couldn’t respond. She’d just taken her first bite of pie when the phone rang. Swallowing without choking to death, she got up and retrieved the phone from its cradle on the counter.

  “Judith?” a faintly familiar voice said. “This is Addison Kirby. Do you have a reservation for tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Judith asked in surprise. “For you?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I know it’s short notice, but I have some problems with the condo I bought after Joan died. I live at the bottom of the hill and thought maybe if you—”

  “Yes, definitely,” Judith broke in, sensing that this was no ordinary request. “What a coincidence. I was going to call you this evening.”

  “Mental telepathy,” Addison replied. “I’ll see you shortly.”

  Gertrude eyed Judith suspiciously. “You already got a boyfriend? What if Dumbhead escapes from jail?”

  “That was Addison Kirby, the newspaper reporter,” Judith explained. “He needs somewhere to stay tonight because there’s something wrong at his condo. Apparently a lot of people are having problems with . . . gas.”

  Gertrude shook her head. “They should do what I do. Take some Pepto-Dismal or whatever it’s called and rub their stomachs. Works for me every time.”

  “I mean gas as in heating,” Judith said crossly, aware that her mother knew exactly what she was talking about. “You may recall that Addison’s wife died at Good Cheer Hospital shortly before Renie and I had our surgeries there years ago.”

  Gertrude gave her daughter a sour look. “That’s a pretty drastic way to get out of being stuck with you two goofballs.”

  “Never mind. I wonder if Addison would like some pie.”

  Gertrude shrugged. “Might give him gas.”

  “I’d better check out Room Four to make sure the dog isn’t in the bathtub,” Judith murmured, heading for the back stairs.

  “I heard that!” Gertrude called after her. “I’m not stone-deaf. Come back here and tell me why there’s a—”

  “No, Mother,” Judith said, continuing down the hall. “Later.”

  “What?” Gertrude shouted. “I’m kind of deaf, you know.”

  Judith went up the stairs. At least the other guns were now in a secure place, but she couldn’t figure out why the Smith & Wesson was missing—or was she missing something? Was her husband trying to convey some other message that he couldn’t say out loud?

  First, she checked the shared bathroom between Rooms Three and Four. Mayo was gone. The tub had been cleaned except for a few stray hairs. She ran some water and made sure everything looked pristine. Then she went from the bathroom into Room Four.

  And swore out loud. Mayo was asleep on the double bed. He stirred only slightly at the sound of Judith’s irate voice. If the Beard-Smythes were using two rooms, they could pay for both of them. Besides, she was too tired to confront the couple again. Addison could just as well sleep in Room One, the only vacant accommodation left. It was slightly larger anyway.

  Pausing in the hall, Judith listened for any sound from Room Three. All was quiet. If Alicia was still angry, she didn’t seem to be taking it out on Reggie. Thankful for small blessings, Judith went down the front stairs just as the doorbell rang.

  Addison Kirby still had his graying beard and looked a little older. He had lost more hair and added a few pounds in the five years since she’d last seen him. He smiled and shook Judith’s hand.

  “Good to see you,” he said, stepping inside after making sure his boots were free of rain and wet leaves. “Anybody else around?”

  “Just Mother. She’s eating pie in the kitchen. Are you hungry?”

  Addison took off his backpack and shook his head. “I already ate.” His hazel eyes gazed meaningfully at Judith.

  “Oh,” she said, taking the backpack from him while he shrugged out of his all-weather hooded jacket. “I suppose you newspaper types get some free meals. On your beat, I assume the city picks up the tab.”

  “True,” he agreed. “It’s against the rules, but if it’s a source we poor reporters can’t afford to offend, we humbly eat their pie—not yours. In fact, my City Hall beat has expanded to cover everything and anything, due to our staff shrinking along with the size of the newspaper.”

  “I think I understand,” Judith said. “How about a drink?”

  “That sounds more like it,” Addison said. “Should I take my wee bit of luggage upstairs?”

  “Go ahead. You’re in Room One, on your left nearest the stairs.” She handed him the two keys. “The big one’s for your room, the other is for the front door. The bathroom is between Rooms Five and Six. I’ll see if Mother’s finished her pie before I ship her back to the toolshed.”

  “I’ve never met your mother,” Addison said.

  “You want to meet her?”

  “Why not? I like little old ladies.”

  “Uh . . . okay, sure. Why not?” Judith figured that as a beat reporter in a big city, he’d seen just about everything. Except Gertrude. “We’ll be in the kitchen.”

  The old lady had almost finished her pie. “What did you do?” she asked. “Hide your new fella in the downstairs so-called powder room until you shove me out of here? And how come there’s no powder in there? Or did he figure out I’m here and took a powder? Hey!” she cried as Judith took a bottle of Scotch from the kitchen cupboard. “You two are going to get drunk first? He can’t be that homely compared to Whatsisname. Just put a bag over
his head.”

  “Mother, please stop. Addison wants to meet you.”

  “Addison! What is he, part of a train, like the Addison, the Topeka, and the Santa Fe? Sounds about right—he’s probably the caboose. Your first two looked like somebody’s rear end. In fact, Jumbo Dumbo Dan looked like two people’s rear—”

  “Stop!” Judith glared at Gertrude. “He’s a newspaper reporter and a very nice man. He may be working on a story involving . . . well, I’m not sure, but it may have something to do with Joe.”

  “I hope so,” Gertrude said. “Make sure he interviews me. I’ll give him an earful.”

  Addison strolled into the kitchen just as Judith set two cocktail glasses on the counter. “Mother, this is Addison Kirby. Addison, this is my mother, Gertrude Grover.” She held her breath, apprehensive of what the old lady would say.

  “How do you do, Mr. Kirby,” Gertrude said, offering her hand. “I’ve read a lot of your stories over the years. I enjoy the way you call Mayor Apples a numbskull without spelling it out.”

  Kirby gently shook hands. Judith’s jaw dropped.

  “A pleasure,” Addison said. “Please call me Ad, Mrs. Grover.”

  Gertrude beamed. “Then you can call me Gert. And I know the mayor’s name is really Appel, but I always call him that for fun. Just like I always call George Stuart, the police chief, Stoople, and the one before that, Dopey. It’s my little way of having fun.” She turned somber. “Life is hard when you’re old. I was very sorry when your wife died. Joan Fremont was such a fine actress and a real lady. The last time I saw her onstage was many years ago.” She paused, patting her wheelchair. “I don’t get out much these days. The play was . . . Ibsen, I think. Yes, A Doll’s House. Your wife was Nora. She had that part nailed down perfectly.”

  Addison seemed transfixed. “That was nineteen years ago,” he said. “It was the first time she’d done the role.”

  “You’d never know that,” Gertrude asserted. “She seemed to disappear into the role as soon as she stepped onstage.”

  Judith was so floored by her mother’s recollection—if in fact it was even true—that she had to lean against the counter. Addison had sat down across from Gertrude. “Did you see her in other works?”

  The old lady looked thoughtful. “Let me think. The Beggar’s Opera—she had quite a nice singing voice. The Crucible—so compelling, especially for those of us who lived through the McCarthy era. My husband would’ve enjoyed it. He was very political.”

  That much was true, Judith thought. Donald Grover had been a high school history teacher with a passionate belief in individual freedom. Out of curiosity, he had attended a few Communist meetings as a college student, but never bought the party line. Still, when anyone who’d ever rubbed shoulders with them after World War II, Judith’s father had been afraid that the nationwide witch hunt for so-called Reds and their sympathizers might cost him his job. Donald’s fears had proved groundless, but his interest in politics remained. Gertrude gave her husband unreserved support, denouncing any threat to the American way of life—especially by Republicans.

  “Scotch?” Judith said, as the memories of a half-century ago raced through her mind.

  “Sure,” Addison said. “That’s my beverage of choice.”

  “Don’t make mine too strong, dear,” Gertrude said in a meek voice that was hardly recognizable.

  “Ah . . . okay,” Judith responded, getting out a third glass. “Are you sure you’re not too tired?”

  “Why, no,” her mother replied. “It’s only a quarter after eight.” She smiled at Addison. “My little girl takes such good care of me. I even have my own little dollhouse in the backyard. We old folks need our privacy, too, and I’d never want to get in the way of Judith’s business.”

  Good God, Judith thought as she poured the drinks, what is she up to? The old lady hadn’t sweet-talked anybody since she’d conned Father Hoyle into giving parishioners over seventy-five a handicap of two free bingo numbers.

  “Now,” Gertrude said as Judith delivered the cocktails and sat down next to Addison, “tell me what you’re working on these days, Ad. Is it true that the city is going to put in more of those handicap-accessible crosswalks at street corners? We have some up here on the hill, but I don’t get out much in bad weather. My arthritis, you know.” Her wrinkled face assumed an expression of resigned martyrdom that only Saint Agnes—or Aunt Deb—could have surpassed.

  Before Addison replied, the phone rang. Judith got up to answer the call and moved into the dining room so her mother and Addison could continue their cozy chat.

  “Is this Mrs. Flynn?” a woman’s soft voice inquired.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “Well . . . this is difficult to explain, but yesterday my purse was stolen while I was in the dressing room at Nordquist’s downtown store. It was found about a half hour ago in a garbage bin outside of Moonbeam’s on Heraldsgate Hill. I live only two blocks away from there, so I went to get it. Nothing had been taken, but there was a receipt and two keys in it from your B&B. Do you want me to come by with them?”

  “Yes, I . . . what does your purse look like?”

  “It’s brown suede, a drawstring type.”

  Judith frowned. “Yes, maybe you should give me the keys and the receipt. We’re in the cul-de-sac just off the avenue on your right as you head down the hill. Are you coming soon?”

  “I’d better,” the woman replied. “I haven’t put my car in the garage yet and I’m leaving town on business tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’ll be waiting at the door. Oh—what’s your name?”

  “I should’ve introduced myself right away,” she said in an apologetic tone. “Sorry about that. I was kind of rattled by this whole thing, especially since nothing was taken. My name is Jean Rogers.”

  Chapter Eight

  After hanging up, Judith went straight to the phone book in the kitchen. Gertrude and Addison had moved on to discussing if the city was going to repair or tear down the viaduct that ran along the downtown waterfront. Both seemed engrossed in their conversation as Judith perused the directory. There were at least two pages of people named Rogers. Finally she found a J. M. Rogers who lived near Moonbeam’s. Apparently the caller was legit. It was the other Jean Rogers who was the suspicious character.

  As if he could sniff out anything that might suggest news, Addison interrupted his tête-à-tête with Gertrude long enough to inquire if all was well with Judith.

  “I’m not sure,” she said cryptically. “But ignore me and enjoy your drinks.” After putting the directory back in the cupboard, she went to the front hall to wait for her visitor. If Jean Rogers had left for Hillside Manor right away, she’d show up momentarily.

  Sure enough, headlights gleamed on the cul-de-sac’s wet pavement. A small car pulled in behind what Judith assumed was the Beard-Smythes’ Humvee. A young woman in a white rain slicker got out of the compact and hurried up the porch steps.

  Judith had already opened the door. “Jean?” she said. “Come in. It’s a nasty night.”

  “In more ways than one,” Jean replied, entering the house and flipping off the hood of her slicker. “This is really weird.”

  Judith quickly studied the young woman’s appearance. She was about the same size and coloring of the other Jean Rogers, but younger and better looking. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail instead of scrunched into a knot. She reached into a suede drawstring handbag that was identical to the one the other Jean had carried.

  “Here are your keys and the receipt,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Judith put the items on the Bombay chest by the stairs. “Would you mind if I looked at your driver’s license?”

  Jean seemed taken aback. “Do you have to? It’s awful!”

  “Humor me,” Judith said, hoping she sounded humble. “I err on the side of caution because I run
a business out of my home. I have some concerns about the guest who signed the receipt and how her keys got into your stolen purse. Did you look at her name and signature?”

  “Uh . . . no.” Jean’s tanned face fell. “I was so glad my purse was found. Then I was surprised that nothing was taken. When I saw the keys and the receipt from your B&B, I felt I should tell you. Lots of hotels and motels have keys saying if they’re found, put them in the nearest mailbox. The least I could do since you live so close was to drop the stuff off.”

  The more Jean spoke, the more she seemed defensive. “Hey,” Judith said kindly, “I’m very grateful. But something may have happened to the person who checked into my B&B.” She picked up the receipt. “Take a look at the name and the credit-card number.”

  Jean warily accepted the receipt. “I can’t read the signature, but . . . oh my God! It is my credit card!”

  “Right. How long have you lived here?”

  Jean was still staring at the receipt. “What? Oh—I moved here from Phoenix in June. I work for a chain of upscale retirement communities and I got transferred. The company’s starting some new developments over on the Eastside, but they have an office downtown. In fact, I’m flying back to the Phoenix headquarters tomorrow for a seminar. That’s why I was so relieved to get my wallet back with my driver’s license and all the other information that I need for airport security.”

  Judith nodded. “I understand. But I’d still like to see your driver’s license, if only to find out if I’m going blind. The woman who called herself Jean Rogers looks like you, except not nearly as pretty.”

  The real Jean looked shocked. “You mean she stole my identity?”

  “Only temporarily. She’s disappeared.”

  “Oh no!” Jean clutched her purse tightly. “Should I call the police? Someone at Nordquist’s notified them yesterday, but they don’t know my purse turned up at Moonbeam’s.”

  “Yes, you should call both the store and the police,” Judith advised. “I’ll notify the cops about the woman who had your purse, but I still need to look at your license.”