Going Out in Style

by Gloria Dank

  The two old women were sitting around the table gossiping, as usual, when Aunt Etta said, “I heard from Susan that she gave you Bella’s mink coat. Is that right?”

  Oh, yes, said Mrs. MacGregor. And a lovely coat it was, too.

  “Beautiful,” said Aunt Etta. “I remember her wearing it. I’m glad you took it, MacGregor; it wouldn’t fit me, I’m too short. So you like it, do you?”

  MacGregor looked vastly pleased. Oh, yes, she said. It was so beautiful, that coat. And there was something else … something else it had brought to mind that perhaps she ought to mention.…

  “What?”

  MacGregor opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly and sat looking at Aunt Etta with a very strange expression on her face. She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  Nothing, she replied. Nothing. Except that that detective who was all puffed up with himself the other day wasn’t as smart as he made himself out to be.

  “What are you gibbering about, MacGregor?”

  MacGregor gave a haughty sniff. The way he asked her whether she had left by the front door or not! Goodness! Why, if he knew what she knew …

  “What is it, MacGregor? What do you know?”

  MacGregor looked at her craftily. Nothing, she said. She didn’t know anything. Or rather, she knew something, but it didn’t make any sense.

  Aunt Etta knew that MacGregor was deliberately with-holding some piece of delicious gossip. It put her in a snappish mood.

  “That doesn’t surprise me, MacGregor. Half the things you talk about never do make any sense. I told you to stop pretending you knew something about my niece’s death, now didn’t I? You’ll do anything for a little attention. Now, what do you think Susan gave me from Bella’s estate, eh?”

  Mrs. MacGregor leaned forward eagerly and said that she couldn’t imagine. The talk turned to a lively discussion of the ruby-and-silver bracelet that Susan had picked out for Aunt Etta.…

  A few days later, Jessie Lowell was sitting on her living room floor, surrounded by boxes, wrapping paper, ribbon, and tape. She was holding a flat rectangular box, folding the wrapping paper this way and that, and murmuring,

  “Oh, dear … oh, dear, I knew I should have asked Gretch to … oh, my, now how does that go? Let’s see, a little bit of Scotch tape here, just to hold it while I fold this over … oh! Oh, damn!” The paper had torn. “Oh, dear, I’ll just have to start all over again … what a mess …!”

  In the kitchen, Gretchen was delivering a strict lecture to Mrs. MacGregor. “Now, Mrs. MacGregor,” she was saying, not unkindly, “I know I asked you to make chicken parmesan, not eggplant parmesan, for dinner tonight. Isn’t that so? And now here you’ve made the eggplant. It’s not that it matters, it’s just that your mind doesn’t seem to be on your cooking today.”

  Mrs. MacGregor was looking disgruntled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I heard you say eggplant parmesan as plain as plain can be. If you don’t want it, I’ll whip up some chicken for you and Miss Lowell—”

  “No, no, don’t be silly. I just wondered—is something wrong?” She looked at the old woman anxiously. Help was so hard to get, and Mrs. MacGregor was usually so reliable.…

  Mrs. MacGregor simpered at her in a singularly unbecoming manner. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. On the contrary. There’s just a few things I’ve been thinking over in my mind. Just a few things having to do with poor Mrs. Whitaker and the way she went.…”

  “Mrs. Whitaker?”

  Yes, said Mrs. MacGregor. It was sad to die that young, wasn’t it? Mrs. Whitaker was only sixty-eight, while she, Mrs. MacGregor, was a good seven years older.

  Gretchen felt a wrenching pang of guilt. So Mrs. MacGregor was seventy-five, and here she was cooking and cleaning for two women in the prime of their lives? She looked at the older woman doubtfully. Perhaps she ought to suggest retirement—something in the nature of a pension fund … she wasn’t very good at business, but perhaps …

  “Have you ever thought about retirement?”

  Mrs. MacGregor looked insulted. Retirement! No, indeed! She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she wasn’t working. She hoped Dr. Schneider didn’t think she was hinting anything, with all this talk about her age. That wasn’t what she had meant.

  Gretchen said hastily, oh, no, of course not …

  “Did you know that Dr. Whitaker gave me a coat?” Mrs. MacGregor asked. “A beautiful black mink that his mother used to wear?”

  “No,” Gretchen said absently. “A mink coat? Isn’t that nice. Actually, yes, I think Albert said something about it.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. MacGregor. She looked at Gretchen and lowered her voice in a stealthy way. “I was there, you know—actually in the house—the evening that It happened.…”

  “Terrible for you,” Gretchen said even more abstractedly, as Jessie bustled into the kitchen. She was carrying the flat box in her arms.

  “Look, Gretch, I mean, it’s hopeless,” she said. “I can’t get it right. It’s not any good, is it?”

  Gretchen and Mrs. MacGregor looked at the present. The wrapping paper, a lively design of hearts engraved with Happy Birthday and little cakes with candles, was coiled round and round the package as if around an Egyptian mummy. Blue and red ribbons hung limply from the center, stuck on with a gluey mountain of Scotch tape.

  “The wrapping paper you chose is beautiful,” Gretchen said kindly. “But no, it doesn’t seem quite right the way it is. Perhaps we should try it again, Jess, the two of us.”

  “I’m just no good at this kind of thing,” Jessie said in despair as they left the kitchen. Behind them, Mrs. MacGregor cackled meanly to herself, then turned back to the much-debated eggplant parmesan.

  It was the day before the birthday party, and Susan was in a frenzy. She ran to and fro between the kitchen of the Whitaker mansion—where the cake was being delivered, the champagne unloaded, and the punch stirred together—and the living room, which was festooned with garlands of flowers, crepe paper and a large sign that said in gold letters, HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY, AUNT ETTA. George, standing outside the kitchen door, was shouting at the men who had brought the champagne.

  “No, no, no, don’t put it there, put it over there—we can’t leave it outdoors, it’ll freeze—” He shook his head and dug his hands into the pockets of his coat. It was three degrees below zero. The delivery men wore light blue jackets and seemed perfectly comfortable. “Over there,” George said, raising his voice. “Leave the champagne in here, in the corner of the kitchen—watch out, Mrs. MacGregor—”

  Mrs. MacGregor uttered a startled yelp as three delivery men landed a crate near her left foot. She said a few earnest, heartfelt words to them and the men, sensing real authority, backed away.

  Susan came into the kitchen and examined the cake box critically. “Do you think it’s big enough? It’s double chocolate. You know how Aunt Etta loves chocolate, George.

  I got it from Betsey’s Bakery, they’re the best in town. Should I take a peek? Oh, God, it looks fabulous. Good. That’s a load off my mind. What else do we have to do?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the music,” said George. “The music is all-important at an event like this. Trust me. It makes all the difference. I thought I’d start with a little piece by Bach, transposed for viola, and then maybe a little gem by Schubert I think your aunt will like—”

  “Just as long as you play ‘Happy Birthday,’ Georgie, when Etta comes into the room. Please, Georgie, please try to remember that this is a birthday party, not a performance. Play ‘Happy Birthday’ so we can all sing along, okay? Then something catchy, like maybe a show tune or something. Do you know any jazz?”

  “Jazz?”

  “Aunt Etta loves jazz. You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she does. Isn’t that true, Mrs. MacGregor?”

  From her position, ramrod-straight, at the stove, Mrs. MacGregor remarked sourly that Etta Pinsky loved jazz.

  “You see, George. So there. A
ll right, what else is there to do? Why don’t we go into the living room and you can play ‘Happy Birthday’ for me?”

  “I know how to play ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” George said, offended. He picked up one of the little pink frosted cakes Mrs. MacGregor was baking for the next day, and shoved it into his mouth. “Mmmmmm, delicious. You know, I have a recipe for spanakopita that you could die for, Susan. No party should be without spanakopita. I could whip up a few pans of it for tomorrow—”

  “No, George.” Susan took his arm and guided him out of the room. “You’re not here to cook. You have enough on your mind with the music. I want you to be able to enjoy this party, too. Do you think it’s macabre to have it here, where the funeral reception was? Is it unlucky? Is it tempting fate?”

  George looked at her with affection. Susan’s hair was, as usual, escaping from its clip and frizzing around her head in a red-gold halo. There were blue shadows under her eyes that he had not noticed before, but otherwise her face looked as always: round and cheerful and glowing with energy.

  “No, no, it’s not tempting fate.” He put his arms around her. “And I’d play ‘Happy Birthday’ a hundred times for Aunt Etta if you wanted me to, Susie.”

  “All right, George. Just no spanakopita, okay? Mrs. MacGregor would never forgive me for letting somebody else cook. She’s already upset over the birthday cake.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him warmly.

  Albert came around the corner and started nervously at seeing them together. He beat a hasty retreat toward the kitchen, where Mrs. MacGregor simpered at him and offered him a plate of frosted cakes. Albert looked around doubtfully at the party preparations.

  “It doesn’t seem right, does it, Mrs. MacGregor? So soon after … well, you know.”

  Mrs. MacGregor was, surprisingly, not sympathetic. She clucked her tongue and said that she didn’t know whether it was or not. It was more important to celebrate than to grieve, she added, rather poetically.

  “Speaking of that night, though,” she said, “the night It happened … you know, there’s something I just realized … something that I saw, or rather, didn’t see, if you take my meaning—”

  “No, I don’t, Mrs. MacGregor. What do you mean?”

  Mrs. MacGregor sidled closer to him and said that it was just something she should have seen that she didn’t … something that should have been there, but wasn’t.…

  Albert said sharply, “What are you talking about, Mrs. MacGregor?”

  There was laughter from the hallway and Susan and George came into the room together. Mrs. MacGregor was covered with confusion. Blushing, she retired to the counter near the oven and busied herself with the cakes.

  “No, Georgie, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to play that three-hour piece you wrote for solo viola,” Susan was saying. “And I do think we need to move some of the chairs closer together in the living room. We’ll put Etta in the middle. Hello, Albert, when did you get home?”

  Mrs. MacGregor mumbled an excuse and left the room. “Just a few minutes ago,” Albert said, gazing worriedly after her.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Susie. Something Mrs. MacGregor saw … or didn’t see.… I don’t know. You know how she loves to hint about things.”

  “The woman lives for gossip,” Susan said acidly. She bent to examine the champagne. “Oh, yes, this will be terrific.”

  Albert was still looking pensively out the kitchen door. “You know, I wonder if she really does know something. Maybe I should call the police and let them talk to her. What do you think, Susie?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Albert. It’s nothing at all. You know how she is.”

  “Yes,” said Albert slowly. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  “So you’re off to your little party?” Maya said as Snooky came downstairs. He was wearing a dark jacket and a pearl gray tie which belonged to Bernard.

  “I’m off.”

  “Isn’t that jacket a little too big for you?”

  “I think it looks stylish, My.” Snooky paused in front of the hallway mirror and adjusted his tie.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of borrowing Bernard’s clothes? They don’t really fit you, you know.”

  “No, Maya. I love Bernard’s wardrobe. He has two identical ties and two identical jackets. I’ve never seen anything like it. Doesn’t he ever go out?”

  “You know he doesn’t, Snooky.”

  “Well, at least his clothes should. And it allows me to travel light when I’m coming here.”

  Bernard came into the hallway and glanced at his brother-in-law. “Nice jacket,” he said sadly.

  “Thank you, Bernard.”

  “That tie also looks familiar.”

  “That’s not surprising. You have two of them.”

  “Please have them home by midnight.”

  “I’ll do my best. Well, so long. Don’t wait up for me. You know these eightieth birthday parties can get pretty wild.”

  “So long, Snooks.” Maya opened the door for him. “Have a good time. And Snooky—”

  “Yes?”

  “Try not to get murdered.”

  Aunt Etta sat proudly, her legs dangling, in a big armchair in the middle of the living room. All around her people were talking, laughing, and drinking punch or champagne. George, in the corner, was playing an impromptu variation and fugue on the theme from ‘Happy Birthday.’

  Susan said, “Here you are, Aunt Etta. This is from Harold and me.”

  Etta eagerly ripped open the small package. Inside was a gold necklace with a tiny gold heart pendant. Susan helped her put it on.

  “It’s very nice, Susie, thank you. Haul your son over here and I’ll give him a kiss.”

  Susan looked around, but Harold was busy elsewhere. He and Snooky were having a face-off in the corner.

  “I don’t like you,” Harold said loudly.

  “Well, I don’t like you, either.”

  “I think I’ll bite your leg.”

  “You do that and you’re going to have some severe problems.”

  “I think I’ll bite your arm.”

  “You sound hungry. How about one of these little cakes instead?”

  Susan came up and put her arm around Harold. “Is he being good?” she asked Snooky.

  “Just as good as he can be.”

  Susan departed, satisfied. Snooky said, “You know, my brother-in-law writes books for cute little tykes like you. Have you read any of his Mrs. Woolly books?”

  “No.”

  “How about Mr. Whiskers?”

  “No.”

  “Do you read? I mean, anything besides Modern Mercenary?”

  “No.”

  “That’s nice,” said Snooky. “Excuse me, there are some people over there I have to talk to now.”

  Etta was opening the present that Gretchen and Jessie had brought. Jessie hovered nearby, saying anxiously, “I hope you like it … we thought about it for a long time and … oh, let me help you with the Scotch tape.… I knew we put on too much—there! Do you like it?”

  Aunt Etta lifted it from the box. It was a spring dress in a pale rose color. It had lace at the neck, and swirled out from the waist in soft gathers.

  Aunt Etta nodded approvingly. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Do you really think so?” gushed Jessie.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Now, what’s next?”

  Snooky handed her a small box. “It’s from all three of us. Bernard, Maya, and me. It’s a little sentimental, but I think you’ll like it.”

  Aunt Etta pinched his cheek, then opened the box. Inside was a charm bracelet with one single charm hanging from it. Aunt Etta held it up close to her eye. The charm was a tiny golden replica of a tractor.

  Aunt Etta let out a shriek and began to shake with silent, delighted laughter.

  In the kitchen, Mrs. MacGregor was humming quietly to herself. The party was a great success. Nearly all the champagne was gone, and the cake had been finished to
the last crumb. So had her little pink cakes. She permitted herself a smug smile. Betsey’s Bakery, indeed! Susan should have asked her to make the birthday cake. She had a recipe for a double chocolate fudge cake that would have put Betsey’s to shame.…

  There was a sound behind her and she turned, startled. Then she smiled a pleased welcome. “Oh, hello. How are you?”

  “Just fine, thanks.”

  “How is the party going?”

  “Oh, fine, fine. They’re calling for you in there, Mrs. MacGregor. Aunt Etta wants to see you.”

  “Really?” MacGregor wiped her hands on her apron, then took it off and hung it neatly on its hook. She felt a surge of pleased excitement. “Was it my cakes?”

  “Oh, yes. The cakes were wonderful. Everybody says so.”

  “My secret recipe,” MacGregor said smugly. “Wait a minute. I really should put these dishes away before I go—”

  She bent over the dish rack where the newly washed dishes were propped together. Behind her there was a sudden movement. Mercifully, she never knew anything. She felt a sudden pain and then pitched forward into blackness.…

  5

  Detective Janovy looked at Susan’s tightly drawn face and said, “Go on, Miss Whitaker.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell.” She glared at him, almost defiantly. She was sitting curled up in one of the big chairs in the Whitaker living room. George sat next to her, on the sofa. Wrapping paper and bright-ribbons and presents were scattered all over the floor. The golden sign HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY, AUNT ETTA still hung from the ceiling. The setting was as inappropriate for a murder investigation, Janovy felt, as it could possibly be.

  Mrs. MacGregor’s body had been discovered by Albert at nine o’clock, as the party was starting to wind down. He had gone into the kitchen to get more champagne, and had found Mrs. MacGregor face down on the floor in a pool of her own blood. A ten-inch kitchen knife, snatched from the rack of knives over the counter, was buried squarely in the middle of her back. Albert had reacted as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time, which in fact it was beginning to. He had gone straight to the phone and called the police. Then he had gone back into the living room and said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”