Hocus Croakus

by Mary Daheim

  Even though a good thirty feet separated the Flynns, Judith heard Joe heave a sigh. “Come back here,” he called in a weary, much lower voice. “There’s no point in throwing blame around.”

  “You started it,” Judith said, not budging.

  Joe sighed again. “I find it unbelievable that when somebody gets murdered, you’re always on the scene. Why couldn’t you have taken up another hobby, like collecting small, vicious animals?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Judith declared for what she figured was about the hundredth time.

  “If I were a rational man,” Joe said, still in that tired voice, “I’d agree with you. But I’m no longer rational. I may be going crazy.”

  “Oh, Joe…”

  “Never mind.” He waved a hand. “Here’s the situation. Having anyone get murdered—let alone one of the performers—at a casino is bad business. And don’t start telling me how Renie once figured that, for you, murder is a marketing tool. Pancho could call in the FBI, since the casino is on federal land because it’s owned by Native Americans.”

  Judith nodded as Joe wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “But,” he continued, “he doesn’t want to do that yet. Like every longtime casino worker from Vegas, he’s not fond of the feds. Also, the tribal elders would prefer investigating this with their own people. Since I happen to have the experience, Pancho has asked me to help out. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m helping their senior detective, Jack Jackrabbit, interrogate witnesses.”

  “I see,” Judith said. “So you want me to…?”

  “Not worry,” Joe broke in, turning back toward the greenroom door. “I may be very late getting back to the room.”

  “Oh.” Judith couldn’t help herself. She felt disappointed. “Is there any way I can help?”

  Joe was already opening the door. “Help?” He shrugged. “No. We’ve got it under control. See you later.” He disappeared inside the greenroom.

  Realizing that she shouldn’t be annoyed, Judith tried to assume an indifferent air as she walked slowly down the hallway. Under control indeed, she thought. They were interrogating witnesses. That meant they might not have a suspect. Of course, the crime was only a couple of hours old. But Joe himself had always said that if the killer wasn’t caught in the first few hours of a murder investigation, the police were usually in for the long haul.

  Emily was still on the other side of the door. “Hi, Mrs. Flynn,” she said. “Anything new going on back there?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Judith replied a bit too sharply. Seeing Emily look askance, she smiled in apology. “Sorry. I’m kind of worn out. Do you know who’s in the greenroom? I was too tired to check.” Another fib, another good cause.

  Emily’s high forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Let me think. There are a couple of other ways to get backstage, including the loading dock. I only saw the people who came off the casino floor. There was Mr. Green, Dr. Engelman, Amos Littlebird, Ronnie Roughrocks—Amos and Ronnie are security guards like me—and Jack Jackrabbit, the tribe’s detective. Everybody else came from backstage, like Freddy and Ms. Polson and Ms. Vanderbehr and…” Emily paused. “I suppose Mr. Fromm and maybe Ms. Mendoza and Lloyd.”

  “That’s quite a group,” Judith remarked, her head swimming. She recalled that a Mr. G. D. Fromm had been mentioned as the Great Mandolini’s manager. Judith realized that she had to get used to the illusionist’s real name, Freddy Polson. “Who’s Ms. Mendoza? And Lloyd?”

  “Micaela Mendoza is Freddy’s fiancée,” Emily explained. “They call her Micki. Lloyd is Lloyd Watts, who helps Freddy with some of his ideas for the act. Lloyd is the one who plays the theremin just before the last illusion.” She paused again. “Mr. Quinn is probably there, too. Gosh, he must be really upset. He and Sally had been married for less than a year.”

  “That’s a terrible shame,” Judith said. “Are there children from either of Sally’s marriages?”

  Emily shook her head. “No. Freddy and Sally were together forever, but even after they got married a few years ago, they didn’t start a family. I guess they were too busy getting the act established.”

  Judith wished she could take notes. “Let me get this straight. Mandolini—Freddy—used to be married to Salome—Sally. They divorced, and she remarried someone name Manny Quinn, right? But Mr. Quinn isn’t involved with the act?”

  “That’s right,” Emily said. “I don’t know what Mr. Quinn does for a living. Except gamble.” She put a hand to her mouth and her dark eyes grew wide. “I don’t mean that in a negative way. That is, what else could he do when he has to be in the casino all the time?”

  “Work?” Judith thought of Dan. Maybe Manny Quinn was a sponger like her first husband. It had required working two jobs for Judith to keep the family afloat.

  “If he does, it’s not around here,” Emily allowed. “I’m not being critical,” she added hastily. “I’ve heard he actually was in show business at one time. But after he and Sally got married, he preferred to stay with her when she’s touring.”

  Judith filed away Freddy and Manny, Sally’s first and second husbands. It didn’t help that half the people involved had names that ended in y. “I gather that Inga Polson is Freddy’s sister. Does she work with the act?”

  “In a way,” Emily said. “She’s a lot older than Freddy. She’s like a mother hen. She may seem gruff sometimes, but it’s only because of her strong sense of family ties and her concern for her brother.”

  “And Griselda?” Judith inquired, thinking that Emily certainly bent over backward to say only positive things about other people.

  “Grisly?” Emily giggled, revealing a single dimple. “Isn’t that an unfortunate nickname? I’d hate it if I were her. But she never complains.” She paused once more, no doubt grateful that she was probably known among her own intimates as nothing worse than “Emmy.” “Grisly’s an old family friend who sort of organizes and runs all the everyday stuff to do with the act. You know—things that Mr. Fromm doesn’t have time for. She’s very efficient, though Ms. Polson is a big help. In fact, sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s really in charge of the—”

  Emily was interrupted by the opening of the door and the appearance of the man Judith recognized as Inga Polson’s companion at the Flynns’s usurped cabaret table. He was short and stocky, his bald head covered by an unattractive combover. He was also sweating profusely.

  “This is ridiculous!” he declared, speaking to neither Judith nor Emily in particular. “I feel like I’m being grilled by the Gestapo!” He turned on Emily. “Where did that Irishman come from? I don’t like him. I think he’s wrong.”

  “Excuse me…,” Judith began in defense of her husband. But before she could go further, the man stomped away.

  She looked at Emily “Mr. Fromm?”

  “Yes.” Emily sighed. “He likes to complain. Of course I’m sure he has good reasons. You know, like constructive criticism.” She put a hand to her mouth a second time. “Really, I shouldn’t talk about these people. You must think I’m a blabbermouth, but since you and your husband are involved in this terrible tragedy, and you’re so easy to talk to, I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “Heavens, don’t apologize,” Judith soothed, offering Emily her most understanding smile. “I don’t know why, but I seem to be the sort of person who even strangers confide in.” In truth, Judith rarely met anyone who didn’t unload on her, and often without any encouragement. Her open manner and her genuine concern for other people inspired confidences whether it be in line at Falstaff’s Grocery, trying on shoes at Nordquist’s—or conversing with a possible murder suspect. “Besides,” Judith went on, “everyone’s under a strain. This is a very bad time for the casino and its employees. Tell me, have you heard why the power failed?”

  Emily shrugged. “The storm, I suppose. I heard it’s raining and blowing pretty hard outside.”

  Judith guessed that nothing short of a 7.0 earthquake would force gamblers to che
ck on the weather. They could stay inside day after day, and the only change of seasons they’d notice would be the different parts of the Stillasnowamish casino. Before she could ask another question, Bob Bearclaw appeared, waving a gloved hand at Emily and nodding at Judith.

  “Everything okay here?” he inquired.

  “Oh, yes,” Emily replied. “That is, all things considered.”

  “Right.” His glance at Judith seemed benign, though for some reason she felt just a trifle uneasy. “And you, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “I’m fine,” Judith said rather abruptly.

  “Good, good.” Bob smiled at both women. “Remember, Emily, we must all be very careful.” His dark eyes fixed on the young woman’s face. “You understand?”

  “Yes.” Emily nodded in a jerky manner. “Yes, I do.”

  “Fine. We’re in accord then.” With a tip of his doorman’s cap, he walked away.

  A sidelong look at Emily indicated that the security guard’s face had frozen. Some sort of message obviously had been passed between her and the doorman. Judith had a feeling that it meant she could learn nothing further from Emily for the present. Murmuring something about “…catching up with Joe later,” Judith moved on to find Renie.

  Her cousin was no longer in the table-games area, nor was there any sign of Bill. It was well after midnight. Bill, who was usually early to bed, had probably gone up to their room. Renie, however, was a night owl. Wearily, Judith began walking through the quarter slots in the Winter section.

  Sure enough, Renie was seated in the middle of a row at a machine proclaiming “Snowballs of Bucks!”

  “Hi,” Judith said, sounding diffident.

  “Hi,” Renie replied, her eyes glued to the machine. “What’s new?”

  Judith sat down in the vacant chair next to Renie. “Joe’s been asked to help with the homicide investigation.”

  “Oh.” Renie checked her credits, which totaled an impressive 148.

  “Did Bill go to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “When are you going up?”

  “Soon.” Renie grinned at the machine as three snowmen appeared on the payoff line. “That’s twenty-five bucks.” She turned to Judith. “What did you just say?”

  “I asked when you’re going to bed.”

  “I always give Bill time to use the bathroom and do his neck exercises. He had his snack about an hour ago. I’ll head up when this thing cools off.”

  “Or when you go broke.”

  Renie shook her head. “No. I’ve learned my lesson. Now that I have two hundred and forty-five coins, I’ll play it down to two hundred. That way, I’ll leave the floor with fifty dollars, plus whatever else I’ve won tonight.”

  Judith posed a question for Renie. “Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow for the conference?”

  “Yes. No.” She stopped playing long enough to look at Judith. “I’m not attending.”

  “What?” Judith was incredulous. “How did you get out of it?”

  “I didn’t exactly.” Renie was again concentrating on the Snowball machine. “I’m sending my mother in my place.”

  SIX

  JUDITH HAD NO idea what time Joe returned that night. She’d reached their room shortly after midnight. A quick check next door had assured her that the mothers were already in bed and asleep. Fifteen minutes later, Judith was also under the covers and out like a light.

  When she woke up the next morning shortly after nine, Judith thought at first that she was at home in the third-floor family quarters. She rolled over in bed, opened her eyes, and saw the ferns, fronds, and other lush greenery on the near wall. The events of the previous day came rushing back to her.

  But Judith wasn’t home, she was over an hour away, in the Lake Stillasnowamish Resort Casino. She hadn’t dreamed that Salome—Sally Quinn—had been murdered. It was true. She sat up and scanned the room for Joe.

  He was nowhere in sight. She called his name, in case he was in the bathroom. There was no answer. Then she noticed the note next to the phone on the nightstand.

  Breakfast meeting with Pancho. Meet you at noon in the Summer Bar. Love, Joe.

  “Rats!” Judith got out of bed and was starting for the bathroom when the phone rang.

  “Bart here,” said the voice at the other end. “We got a problem.”

  “Now what?” Judith snapped.

  “We can’t get the bigger countertop after all,” the contractor explained with what Judith thought was a touch of relish. “The company you picked stopped making that size. You’re going to have to choose a new one from a different source.”

  “Isn’t a countertop a countertop as long as it fits?” Judith inquired in annoyance.

  “Heck, no.” Bart chuckled, a sinister sound to Judith’s ears. “You got the kind that has a big burner in the middle, you got the kind that has a vertical burner to one side, you got the kind that—”

  “You choose,” Judith broke in. “I can’t drive all the way into town to select another countertop stove.”

  “I can’t take that responsibility,” Bart said, aghast. “I might pick out one you’d hate or one that was faulty, and then you’d sue the pants off me. It happens. I know, I’ve been there. Contractors should have malpractice insurance, like doctors. I know a contractor over in Boise who lost his business because he got sued when the wife let him pick out her switch plates.”

  “Can’t the countertop wait until we get back from vacation?” Judith asked, rubbing her forehead. She hadn’t been awake for more than five minutes, and already her headache was returning.

  “Heck, no,” Bart replied, sounding as if Judith had asked him to fly to Tokyo without a plane. “All the electrical stuff has to be done at the same time. The fridge is coming today, the dishwasher’s already here. If the electrician has to come back next week, it’ll cost a bundle. You’re the one who left town. This countertop deal has to be taken care of ASAP.”

  For a few seconds, Judith held the phone away from her ear. If there was still freeway construction, it’d take half of the day to drive into the city and back, confer with Bart, shop for a new countertop, and then listen to him complain about why the one she’d picked wasn’t going to work.

  But she had no choice. “Okay,” she agreed with a big sigh. “I’ll grab some breakfast and hit the road. I should be at the house around ten-thirty, quarter to eleven. Or should I meet you at one of the appliance stores?”

  “Better meet me here at your place,” Bart said. “I’ll call around, see if I can get a good deal somewhere. See you.”

  Resignedly, Judith tapped on Gertrude’s door. The old lady didn’t answer. No doubt she was either feigning deafness—or too deaf to hear the knock. Judith was never sure which was the case. She yanked open the door to find the old lady watching TV and eating what looked like an immense breakfast.

  “Where’s Aunt Deb?” Judith asked.

  “What?” Gertrude cupped a hand over her left ear. “Sorry, I don’t need any brushes today, Mr. Fuller.”

  “Mother…” Judith was in no mood for games with Gertrude. “Where’s Aunt Deb?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Gertrude replied, wagging a finger at her daughter. “Maybe I done her in.”

  Exasperated, Judith looked in the bathroom. The spacious, handicapped-access facility was vacant. “Did Aunt Deb actually go to the graphic-design conference?”

  “Sure,” Gertrude replied, pushing aside the finished grapefruit half on her breakfast tray. “You know Deb—if she gets a chance to meet a bunch of people, she’s off and running. So to speak.”

  Judith had thought Renie was kidding. “Good grief.” She paused. “How long has she been gone?”

  Gertrude shrugged. “An hour? I don’t keep track of time when I’m alone with my favorite company—me. Even when I start talking to myself, I know when to shut up. Deb doesn’t.”

  How long would it take before the conference officials found out that Deborah Grover wasn’t Serena Jones? Judith
thought back to the conferences she’d attended as a city librarian. Some of the attendees had been as old as Aunt Deb and some had been equally infirm and some had been both. Maybe the old girl could pull it off. She certainly possessed the charm and social skills for the job. Renie might have the artistic talent, but, as her cousin had once quoted a fellow conferencegoer, “Serena Jones takes no prisoners.”

  “I have to go into town to choose another stove,” Judith said. “I’ll be back sometime this afternoon.”

  Gertrude, who was eating a fried egg and watching a morning talk show, didn’t miss a beat. “Be here by four. The bingo parlor opens then. I’ll need a push to get there.”

  “Your wheelchair’s motorized, remember?” Judith pointed out. “You can push yourself.”

  “Oh.” Gertrude glanced down at the conveyance in which she was sitting. “So I can. I forgot. G’bye.”

  On her way out of the casino, Judith remembered to leave a note for Joe at the Summer Bar. She saw no hint that a murder investigation was under way. On the platform by the quarter progressive machines, the red Corvette had been replaced by a yellow model.

  It took exactly ninety minutes to get to Hillside Manor. Judith had decided to skip breakfast except for a doughnut and coffee that she picked up from a barista in the casino. Getting out of the car, she paused to bestow a fond look on her house. The Edwardian-era prairie craftsman already showed off its improvements. The newly shingled roof was a grayish blue; the exterior was a pristine white. Judith had wanted a blue-and-black roof; she’d chosen navy with white and red trim for the exterior. And she still didn’t know if she liked the dark shutters that had been installed. Shutters weren’t a popular—or useful—Pacific Northwest addition, except on Dutch colonials like Renie’s. But Judith had lost the argument with the architect. The shutters would remain until she got sick of them and then Skjoval Tolvang could tear them off.