by Mary Daheim
Oblivious to the rain, she ran down the porch stairs and along the walk to the toolshed. She got only halfway when she saw a huddled form in front of Gertrude’s door.
“Mother!” Judith screamed. “Mother!”
Judith fell to the ground, reaching out to the prone figure. Then she blinked and uttered a strangled cry.
It wasn’t Gertrude Grover who lay at the toolshed’s door. It was John Smith, and judging from the blood that soaked his body, he was very dead.
FIVE
JOE HEARD JUDITH scream. He came tearing out of the house, holster in one hand, .38 Special in the other.
“What the hell…?” he shouted.
Judith swallowed hard. “It’s John Smith. He’s dead.”
Joe let out a stream of obscenities. The toolshed door flew open, revealing Gertrude, leaning on her walker.
“What’s all this caterwauling?” she demanded. “Hey!” she snapped, narrowing her eyes at Joe. “How come you’re here? Where’s my breakfast?”
“Mother…” Judith began, struggling to her feet.
Gertrude finally looked past her walker and down at the ground. “Who’s this bozo? He doesn’t look so good.”
“It’s one of my guests,” Judith replied, aware that her knees would hardly hold her up. “I think he’s dead.”
“Hunh,” Gertrude snorted. “That’ll make two of us if you don’t get my food out here, dummy. Where’s my breakfast?”
Joe, who had knelt beside the body, turned a grim face up to his wife. “You’re right. He’s dead, and has been for a while.” Rising, Joe put the gun in its holster, then glanced around the yard. “I doubt if the killer is hiding in the shrubbery. Go in the house, Jude-girl. Call nine-one-one. I’ll wait here.”
“Wait?” Gertrude banged her walker on the threshold. “Get this stiff out of here, you moron! I can’t have a carcass lying around my front door! What next, Armenian war refugees?”
“Mrs. G.,” Joe began, never having felt up to calling Gertrude anything more intimate, “why don’t you go back inside and…”
Judith didn’t hear the rest. She was forcing herself to move as quickly as possible, though her feet felt like lead. Finally reaching the hallway by the back stairs, she was startled to see Pete and Marie Santori in their bathrobes.
“What’s going on?” Marie demanded in a harsh voice.
“Ah…” Judith fumbled for words. “There’s been an accident. I’ll tell you later.” Tripping over her own feet, she made it to the phone and dialed the emergency number.
Pete and Marie didn’t budge. “What kind of accident?” Marie asked in that same sharp tone after Judith hung up. “Did you tell whoever you called just now that somebody is dead?”
Catching her breath, Judith nodded. “I’m afraid so. Mr. Smith. I found him outside.”
“I’ll be damned,” Pete said in a tone that bordered on awe. Then, to Judith’s amazement, he turned away and covered his face.
“Relax, Pete,” Marie said, patting her husband’s arm. “It’s nothing to do with us. Isn’t that right, Yummy-wummy?” The treacle had suddenly resurfaced in Marie’s voice.
“I’d better go outside,” Judith said, more to herself than to the Santoris. “Excuse me.” She brushed past Pete and Marie, grabbing jackets off their pegs as she went.
Joe had managed to get Gertrude back inside, though not without a fight. His mother-in-law had wedged her walker across the threshold, the removal of which had required some strongarm tactics on Joe’s part. When Judith returned, Gertrude’s muffled curses could be heard from inside the toolshed. Joe was standing in the rain, looking angry and out of breath.
“I don’t need this,” he panted. “A freaking homicide in my own backyard! How the hell did this happen?”
“To you?” Judith said meekly, trying to avoid looking at the body. “Or to John Smith?”
Joe sighed as Judith handed him one of the jackets. “Both. Mr. Smith, by the way, was shot in the head and chest at close range.”
“Oh!” Judith almost dropped her own jacket. “Then he was murdered?”
“Come on, Jude-girl! What else?” Joe’s green eyes flashed in anger. “Here I am, thirty-odd years on the force, wanting to end my career peacefully. Even if I’d transferred out of Homicide—which I considered—I couldn’t have avoided this.” His hand swept over the inert body of John Smith.
Judith knew what her husband was thinking. “It’s not my fault,” she said hastily as sirens wailed in the distance. “I can’t pick and choose who stays at the B&B.”
Joe didn’t reply. He had turned away from Judith, gazing through the rain at the driveway. Sure enough, two patrol cars pulled in almost immediately.
Neither Judith nor Joe knew the officers who were on duty. Mercedes Berger and Darnell Hicks looked very young to Judith, and not long out of the police academy. Indeed, they seemed astonished when Joe informed them there was a homicide victim in the backyard.
“It’s so quiet here on Heraldsgate Hill,” Darnell murmured.
“We thought it was just a break-in,” Mercedes said under her breath.
Darnell, whose cocoa-colored face looked as if it didn’t need to be shaved more than once a week, edged nervously toward the body. “Ooof!” he exclaimed, recoiling. “Careful, Merce, there’s…blood.”
“Oh!” Mercedes put a hand over her mouth, big blue eyes staring at John Smith’s inert form.
Judith heard Joe heave a sigh. She knew that even the most raw of police officers were prepared for violence before they hit the streets. Perhaps this was the first time that Berger and Hicks had faced reality.
“Rookies?” Joe asked. “How come you’re on the same beat?”
“Mike O’Shea is in the hospital,” Darnell replied.
“This neighborhood usually doesn’t have real crime,” Mercedes said.
Joe regarded the pair with irritation that evolved quickly into pity. Maybe, Judith thought, he was remembering his own rookie days as a cop. The sight of his first dead teenager, a drug overdose, had sent him-straight to a bar and into the arms of the woman who became the first Mrs. Flynn.
Joe flashed his badge. “I know the drill, okay? So relax. I live here, and this is my wife.” He introduced Judith. The ritual seemed to calm the rookie cops. “Now,” Joe went on, “here’s what we do…”
The medics and the ambulance had arrived. Judith went down the driveway to meet them. To her dismay, one of the medics was Ray Kinsella, who had shown up at Hillside Manor when a fortune teller had met an untimely end in Judith’s dining room. Ray had also been called in four years later when a neighbor had been murdered.
“Mrs. Flynn?” Ray said, peering at Judith through the rain. “Don’t tell me…”
Judith gave an impatient shake of her head. “I’m afraid so. It’s one of our guests. He’s been shot dead.”
Kinsella signaled to the other emergency personnel, apparently conveying the message that there wasn’t any rush. “Jeez,” he said, joining Judith as they walked back to the toolshed, “do you know what happened?”
“No. Joe’s here, he’s briefing the patrol officers. They’re a bit…green.” Judith gave Ray a sickly smile.
Ray nodded. “Berger and Hicks? Nice kids. I’ve worked with them a couple of times on traffic accidents at the bottom of the hill.”
Joe was still talking to the rookies. Huddled against the backdrop of a wet, gray morning, the trio struck Judith as dismal. John Smith’s corpse didn’t do much to brighten the scene.
Gertrude had finally shut up. Realizing that she couldn’t tend to her mother with the crowd gathering around the corpse, Judith spoke in Ray’s ear. “I should go back inside. I have a full house, and already two of the guests are wondering what’s going on.”
Ray offered Judith a commiserating smile. “You’ve got some grim business to take care of. I’ll check in with Joe, just so he knows I’m on the job.”
In the kitchen, Judith could hear noises overhead. She
peeked into the dining room, but it was empty. A further look into the living room revealed Mal and Bea Malone, drinking coffee from the big urn that Judith had returned to the gateleg table earlier.
“Who’s sick?” Bea asked from the windowseat. “It looks like you got visitors.”
Judith glanced through the bay window where the ambulance and the medic van were parked alongside the house. “I’m afraid Mr. Smith is dead,” she replied. “My husband and I will explain when everyone gathers for breakfast.”
“Smith?” echoed Mal as an unmarked city car pulled into view. “Which one is that?”
“I don’t think you met the Smiths,” Judith said, watching two plainclothes detectives get out of the white car. “Oh, dear!” She put a hand to her bosom. “I must tell Mrs. Smith! My brain’s turned to mush.”
Hurrying up the stairs, Judith rushed to Room Three and knocked hard. There was no immediate response. She knocked again. Still, no sound could be heard. After a third fruitless try, Judith got out her master key and unlocked the door.
Darlene Smith was lying in the middle of the queen-sized bed, snoring softly. Wincing, Judith approached the young woman and gently shook her by the shoulder.
“Mrs. Smith? Darlene?”
The young woman nestled further under the covers, a half-smile curving her lips. Without makeup, Darlene Smith looked very young, even vulnerable. Her copper curls were tangled, and a sprinkling of freckles covered her cheeks.
Judith gave the young woman another shake. “Wake up, please,” she urged. “Darlene?”
Darlene gave a little jump. “Whaaa…? Laaa…?” Eyes still closed, she frowned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow.
“Darlene!” Judith was shouting, pounding on the mattress. “Wake up!”
At last, Darlene opened her hazel eyes. For just an instant, Judith saw terror in them. Does she know? Judith wondered in amazement.
But Darlene was sitting up, shaking herself, rubbing at her eyes, and making small, animal-like noises. “What’s up?” she mumbled, achieving coherence. Then, as her gaze focused, she stared at Judith. “It’s you? Mrs…?”
“Flynn,” Judith put in quickly. There was no point in holding back the grisly announcement. “Darlene, I have some very bad news. John’s been shot.”
The hazel eyes widened. Clutching the sheet to her partially exposed bosom, Darlene gave a single shake of her head. Her mouth formed the word No, but no sound came out.
“I’m so sorry, Darlene,” Judith went on after taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid your husband is dead.”
Darlene burst into laughter, a high-pitched sound that jarred Judith. Hysteria, she thought, and picked up an almost empty glass from the nightstand. “This looks stale,” Judith said. “I’ll get more from the bathroom sink.”
Darlene, however, shook her head. She seemed to be making a tremendous effort to get herself under control. At last, she calmed down, and regarded Judith with a dismayed expression.
“Sorry. Not the reaction you expected, right?”
“Well…You never know.” Judith set the glass on the nightstand. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
Darlene shook her head. “I already got it,” she said enigmatically. “Can you go away now?”
“Of course,” Judith said, though she couldn’t hide her surprise. “Let me know if you need anything.” Starting from the room, she glanced at the divan with its cut-velvet rose motif. In years gone by, it had been kept in the front parlor, where Grandma Grover referred to it as “the lounge.” Grandma had often laid down in the late afternoon “to rest my eyes,” as she had phrased it. Now it served mainly as an added fillip to the more expensive Room Three. But for once, the divan had been put to use: sheets, a blanket, and a pillow covered most of the cut-velvet upholstery. Judith wondered why.
But this was not the time to ask. She left without another word, and as she closed the door, Judith heard Darlene erupt into another bout of laughter.
The Schwartzes were coming out of Room Four as Judith started down the stairs. Turning, she saw mother and son staring at her with curious expressions.
“What’s all the ruckus next door?” Barney asked.
“We heard sirens a few minutes ago,” Minerva put in. “They woke us up. What kind of a neighborhood is this? I thought you said it was quiet.”
Judith swallowed hard. “I did. It is. Usually. But this morning…” She made a futile gesture with one hand. “Please. Come downstairs, and I’ll explain to everyone in just a few minutes.”
By the time Judith had breakfast ready to serve, Roland du Turque, the Schwartzes, and the preschool teachers had arrived. Apparently, the Malones had passed on the news about John Smith’s death. Naturally, the guests were agog. Mal and Bea, however, were not fazed, since they were already stuffing themselves with toast, ham, and eggs. Since Pete and Marie Santori had already appeared earlier, Judith assumed they were getting dressed.
“Please, not now—I’ll be right back,” she promised amid a barrage of questions in the dining room.
Berger and Hicks had given way to the homicide detectives who had arrived in the unmarked city car. Judith recognized the two men from departmental functions, but she didn’t recall their names.
Joe, looking wet and irritable, introduced her. “My wife,” he said in a tone that suggested Judith might as well be the Grim Reaper. “Do you remember J. J. Martinez and Rich Goldman?”
“Of course,” Judith said, as the names clicked in. Jesus Jorge Martinez, a wiry, intense man of about fifty, had been one of Joe’s first partners in Homicide; Richard Goldman was a relative newcomer, not yet thirty, with an eager air still undampened by age and experience.
“A real shame,” J. J. remarked, with a swift, anxious glance at John Smith’s body. “You mind?” he asked Joe.
“Mind?” Joe grimaced. “Do I mind having a stiff in the backyard? Or do I mind you and Rich taking over? Hell, J. J., it’s all yours. Besides, I’m a suspect, right?” For the first time, a spark of humor surfaced in Joe’s green eyes.
J. J. winced. “Well—technically. Right.” He cleared his throat. “The M.E.’ll be along pretty soon. You and Mrs. Flynn want to go back inside?”
“I’ll wait,” Joe said, then turned to Judith. “Go ahead, feed the guests. I’ll…”
A fierce pounding resounded from inside the toolshed. Everyone turned, including J. J., who had jumped right off the wet ground. “What’s that?” he asked in alarm. “Somebody in there?”
“No,” Joe replied with a straight face. “Ignore it.”
“It’s my mother,” Judith snapped, pushing past Joe and trying to step around the corpse. “Mother! Can you wait?”
“I already did,” Gertrude yelled back. “That horse’s behind you call a husband locked me in!”
J. J. had grabbed Joe’s arm. “Is that a witness? Or a suspect?”
Joe brightened. “Both?”
Judith glanced over her shoulder. “Neither. It’s my mother,” she repeated. “She hasn’t had her breakfast, and she’s upset.”
Rich Goldman exchanged a worried look with J. J. Martinez. “We can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here. Does this…building have a back door?”
“No,” Judith retorted. “And it’s not possible for Mother to get through a window. She’s very elderly and quite frail.”
“Is she armed?” Rich asked, his earnest young face still troubled.
“Of course not!” Judith couldn’t quite get around John Smith’s body. “Oh, drat! I might as well go back to the…”
“Moron!” Gertrude shouted. “Idiot! Open this door or I’ll torch the place!”
Judith paused. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to start a fire. She’d done it before, in extreme circumstances. “Mother, please!” Judith begged. “Try to relax. We’ll take care of you in just a few minutes.”
“Take care of me, huh? How? Like that pinhead on my doorstep? What’s going on around here, mass murders?
”
Fortunately, another city car entered the drive. “The M.E.,” Joe breathed. “Get back inside, Jude-girl. I’ll deal with the old bat.”
“She’s not an old bat,” Judith asserted as she headed for the house. “You be nice, Joe!” she warned from the porch steps.
The Santoris were seated at the dining room table when Judith returned. Popping more bread in the toaster and dishing up more ham and bacon, she listened to the snatches of conversation that floated over and under the three-quarter swinging door.
“We should leave at once,” Minerva Schwartz was saying. “This isn’t a reputable place.”
“We paid in advance,” Sandi said. “Preschool teachers don’t get paid much. We can’t afford to waste our money.”
“This John Smith is nothing to us,” Mal Malone declared. “What do you say, Bea? Go or stick around?”
“I don’t like it here,” Bea answered. “Let’s pack as soon as we eat. This trip has been a disaster.”
“Where’s Mrs. Smith?” asked Roland du Turque. “The poor woman must be distraught.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Marie Santori. “If anything happened to my Tootsie-wootsie, I’d…”
The toast was done. As Judith carried the plates of food into the dining room, everyone went silent.
“Mrs. Flynn,” said Roland in what sounded like relief. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”
Judith grimaced. “I’d prefer to wait for my husband to fill you in.”
Barney leaned around his mother. “Because he’s a cop?”
“Yes.” If word of Joe’s profession hadn’t already reached the other guests, it was pointless now to keep up the deception. “He’s worked Homicide for most of his career. He’s consulting with the other detectives and the M.E.”
“But you can tell us about Mr. Smith, can’t you?” Pam put in.
Judith started to hedge, then relented. “I can’t tell you much. Unfortunately, I was the one who found his body.” She explained the situation, adding that the victim probably had been shot a few hours earlier. “Joe—Mr. Flynn—will ask if any of you heard or saw anything unusual.”
