by Maia Chance
“Berta and I are free to go.”
“Great!”
“That was a suicide note in Fenton’s hand. He claimed to have killed his mother. It’s all over.…”
“Except you don’t buy it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“This isn’t a paying gig, kid. Leave it alone.”
“How can I leave it alone? The murderer is still on the loose, and now no one is going to do a thing about it!”
“So you want to stay up here in Vermont—” Ralph swept a hand around the room. “—sleeping in a closet, in order to crack a case for free?”
“Well, yes.”
“That isn’t good business, Lola.”
“I know.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Not precisely.”
“Ah, well, that’s a relief.” He sent me a mischievous, lopsided smile, tossing the magazine aside. “Say, what’re you doing in that coat and hat and—whew—those big boots? It’s awful warm in here, and anyway, it’s time for bed.”
I swallowed. “That cot is quite narrow.”
“I think it’ll do just fine.”
I unbuttoned my coat with jittery fingers. What was the matter with me? I was behaving like some sort of dizzy girl on her wedding night, not a woman—a widow—of thirty-two.
“How long are you prepared to be Mr. Woodby?” I asked Ralph as I bent over to untie my man-boots.
“I guess I can pull it off for a few days if it means I get to stay with you.”
He said this with such tenderness, I glanced up.
His gray eyes were wide and vulnerable, almost as though he were trying to gauge my reaction.
I quickly looked down at my bootlaces again, feeling heat surge in my ears.
You see, Ralph and I had come to an understanding. Discussing the nature of our relations, giving them a definite label, or talking about a future together was off-limits. Taboo. Potentially explosive, actually, given the damaged domesticity in Ralph’s past, and the matrimonial pain in my own. Ralph had had a rough-and-tumble childhood in South Boston, followed by a shipbuilding stint in Maine. Then he’d been a soldier in the Great War, which had left him scarred inside and out. My own life had been cushy by comparison, filled with galas and promenades and embarrassing accidents with fruit parfaits. But I had been strong-armed by Mother into marrying, at nineteen, a lothario in cashmere socks.
Until just now, I had thought Ralph’s and my understanding was chugging along all right.
I arranged my boots carefully beside Ralph’s. They weren’t much smaller than his. I looked at him. “About this Mr. and Mrs. business, Ralph—”
“Why don’t you come a little closer to talk it over?”
I padded closer in my stocking feet, taking care not to look at his chest or his arms or his shoulders.
I knelt beside the cot.
He reached for me, gathered me close. I felt his warmth and smelled his skin, and the immediate sense of homecoming made moisture spring to my eyes. “Lola,” he murmured, his lips on my neck, my hot cheekbone, my mouth—
I drew away. “Ralph,” I whispered.
His eyes, so close, were drowsy with sleepiness or desire. “Yeah?”
“I feel funny about pretending to be … husband and wife.”
His voice was low and measured. “Why’s that?”
I wasn’t sure. But it made something buck with unease, deep inside me. “I don’t know. It simply feels odd. To say we’re married when we’re … not.”
“We’ll make a game of it.”
“A game?”
“Sure. Does that make you feel better?”
It did not. Unease kept on bucking.
“C’mere,” Ralph murmured. “What is this thing you’re wearing? Wool? Let me help you with that.…”
I slid my hands down his back. There was no need to speak.
22
Ralph and I went downstairs the next morning quite like a married couple, close enough for our arms to touch. Cedric, whom Ralph had gallantly taken out for his morning promenade while I had been applying my makeup, frolicked at our feet. My feet, by the way, were in my velvet T-straps, because I simply couldn’t picture myself attending Judith Goddard’s funeral and reception shod like Frankenstein’s monster.
I wasn’t accustomed to being touching-close to Ralph in public, except for in the anything-goes atmosphere of a speakeasy, or under the flickering silver light of the movie palace. And I would have been wallowing in the sense of wifeliness, except I couldn’t shake an awful feeling: This was all a game to him. He’d said as much.
Patience Yarker greeted us at the dining room doorway. “Good morning,” she said, her big blue eyes glued on Ralph.
“Good morning,” I said. “This is my husband, Mr. Woodby.”
“Morning,” Ralph said easily to Patience.
It was nice that one of us was relaxed; Patience nearly dropped the bills of fare she was holding. Ralph has that effect on females (and, indeed, selected males), so I wasn’t surprised. However, my craving for johnnycakes doubled in one second flat.
“I suppose you’ll be leaving on the afternoon train?” Patience asked. “Since Sergeant Peletier said Fenton … you know.”
Killed himself, she meant.
“We haven’t decided,” I said. Ah, that smug royal we of married couples. “We’re having such a marvelous time, we thought we might stay for a bit longer, simply to enjoy the country. Isn’t that so, darling?”
Ralph nodded. “I’d like to see that ski jumping contest tomorrow. Maynard Coburn’s pretty famous.” This was an act. With regards to sports, Ralph only followed the Yankees. He worked hard and didn’t have time for all the rest.
Patience Yarker led us to a window table. The dining room was half-full and the festive mood of yesterday had evaporated.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Patience as she arranged a pot of coffee, sugar bowl, and creamer in front of Ralph and me. Ralph had, husbandlike, unfolded the newspaper he’d picked up in the lobby, but I was sure he was listening.
“I’m just fine.” Patience smoothed her apron. Truth be told, she looked pale, and lavender shadows ringed her eyes. “Poor Fenton. Somehow, it all seems to make sense now.” She shook her head. “The bad business is over, and yet, well, I suppose it’ll take time for things to get back to normal around here.”
“Will you attend Mrs. Goddard’s funeral this morning?” I asked. It was to be at ten o’clock, and it was already after nine.
“I can’t. My cousin Sam went to Waterbury to see the dentist—toothache—and Dad is feeling poorly, so I must stay and help out at the inn. I reckon people will be checking out early, with these terrible deaths.”
Patience went away, and Berta arrived a moment later. She, too, looked weary and faded.
I poured her a cup of coffee. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Woodby. Mr. Oliver. Oh, I cannot wait to leave this godforsaken village this afternoon. We must purchase our train tickets at the depot right after breakfast to ensure we get on the—”
“I think we should stay,” I said.
Berta’s coffee cup paused en route to her lips. “It is none of our affair! And we are not being paid to investigate. Each day we linger in Vermont, our agency is losing money.”
“Money can’t be the only reason to investigate,” I said.
“It is the only reason if one is a professional detective, Mrs. Woodby. Mr. Oliver, please help me talk sense into her.”
Ralph lowered his newspaper and said softly, “For the time being, Mrs. Lundgren, I’m Mr. Woodby.”
“Ah. Well, Mr. Woodby, your wife has latched on to the wild notion that it is our duty to catch the murd—”
“Because the police won’t,” I whispered hotly. “What about justice, Berta? What about finding out the truth? What if … what if the killer strikes again? I already feel rotten enough about having got hold of the wrong end of the stick when it came to Fenton. Judith Go
ddard’s funeral is this morning, and after that, her will is to be read. That will could crack this case open like a coconut. This is a wealthy family we’re talking about, and one thing I know about wealthy people is that their money is always—always—a character in the drama. Rich people’s money is supposed to set them free, but the truth is, it’s a big lurking creature in the corner. It’s always there, and it’s always forcing people’s hands in one way or the other. Besides, won’t you wonder why Roy burned your dossier and what was in Judith’s will, if we left so soon?”
“My dossier.” Berta’s eyes snapped. “And the will, yes…”
I guessed this meant she was once more rah-rah about our investigation.
“I do hope you have thought of a way to eavesdrop,” Berta said.
“Why is that my job?” I said.
“Because you are so very resourceful, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said in placating tones. “Isn’t she, Mr. Woodby?”
“That’s one of the reasons I married her.” Ralph’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his coffee cup.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the three of us plus Cedric were all bundled up and walking to the church. Since dogs aren’t allowed at funerals, I had dumped out most of the contents of my large handbag and coaxed Cedric (wearing a jaunty Norwegian knit) inside so only his head sprouted from the top, fuzzy and bright eyed. I had slipped a tube of lipstick and my skeleton key—just in case—into my dress pocket.
That morning the sky was not blue, but white. Snow was already melting inside my velvet T-straps.
We crossed River Street, and as we neared the general store, the door swung open and Rosemary Rogerson stepped out in a black coat and hat. Seeing Ralph, Berta, and me, she balked. Then she readjusted her grip on the small brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her arms and strode up the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rogerson,” I called.
No answer.
Rosemary reached her cream-colored motorcar and slammed inside. The engine vroomed, she peeled out of her parking spot, and the car rolled away in a fog of exhaust.
“What was she doing in the store?” I said to Berta and Ralph. “The morning after her brother’s lurid death—”
“A mere few minutes before her mother’s funeral,” Berta said.
“—and she’s out doing a spot of shopping? I smell a rat. Let’s pop in and find out what she purchased—we have a little time.”
We pushed into the store.
Inside, the old-timers sat around the potbellied stove, chinning in low tones. They all glanced over.
“Morning,” Ralph called. “Nippy out there, isn’t it?”
“Good morning,” I said with a cheery twiddle of the fingers.
No answer. The old-timers turned back to their conversation.
“I’m just going to go and look at the milk bottles,” Berta whispered. “Recall that Titus Staples, who was lifting crates of French wine for Roy Ives in his cellar, also has a peculiar habit of buying the milk bottle in the back corner every day.”
I nodded, even though finding a connection between smuggled vino and milk bottles seemed highly implausible to me.
Ralph and I walked up to the counter, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet. The old-timers fell silent to watch. I must admit, I felt miles more confident about confrontations with a muscly Irishman by my side.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, eyeing Ralph suspiciously.
“Yes, actually,” I said. “We just saw Rosemary Rogerson coming out of the store. Would you mind telling me what she purchased?”
“I would mind,” the shopkeeper said in a surly voice. “Anything else I can help you out with? ’Cause I sure would like to lend the big-city detectives a hand.”
The old-timers snickered.
“No, thanks. We’ll just have a browse.”
We went toward the icebox at the back, before which was the round shape of Berta, bent at the waist.
The doorbells jingled in the background.
“I have found something,” Berta whispered. She was straightening as Ralph and I reached her side, with a glass bottle of milk in her hand. She latched the icebox shut. “Look at this.” She turned the milk bottle sideways. On the bottom, in what looked like grease pencil, was written II 10p.
“Huh,” Ralph said.
“Roman numeral two, ten, P?” I whispered with a frown. “What does that mean? Do the other bottles say anything?”
“No. Only this one—which was positioned in the far left corner—”
“Gimme that!” a man growled. Big gloved hands wrenched the bottle of milk away from Berta.
It was greasy-haired, red-hatted Titus Staples.
“Now, see here, buddy,” Ralph said, taking a step forward.
I touched his hand. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “You’re a little late today, Mr. Staples,” I said more loudly. “Tell me, what does the grease pencil on the bottom mean?”
“Shaddup and mind yer own business,” he snarled over his shoulder. He was loping to the counter—the old-timers and the shopkeeper were agog—then slapping his coin on the counter and pushing through the door. The door slammed, the bells tinkled, and I caught a glimpse of Titus through the front display window, striding away to the right.
“I won’t have you bugging my customers,” the shopkeeper called over to Ralph, Berta, and me.
The old-timers grunted and nodded in agreement.
Ignoring the urge to flee, I returned to the shopkeeper’s counter. “I beg your pardon, but where do you get your milk?”
“Sweet Meadow Dairy on Guildhall Road.”
“And you mentioned previously that it is delivered fresh every morning?”
“That’s right. Just before eight, which is when I open shop.” The shopkeeper’s face went mean. “How come you want to know?”
Berta was tugging my coat sleeve. “Come along, Mrs. Woodby. No, no—leave the maple sugar candies alone—good morning, gentlemen.”
We left without purchasing anything.
“Why do I have the feeling that the townspeople’s torches and pitchforks are ready to come out?” I said to Berta and Ralph once we were outside. We went along the icy sidewalk toward the church.
“There is something fishy about those milk bottles,” Berta said.
“That guy was asking for a sock in the jaw,” Ralph said.
“What could those grease pencil figures possibly mean?” I said.
“Some sorta code,” Ralph said.
“About what?”
“Something Titus wishes to protect,” Berta said. “That much is clear. Could it have anything to do with all the wine in Roy’s cellar? Is this related to my burnt dossier?”
My breath caught. “Hold it. What if Rosemary wrote those figures?”
“Rosemary!” Berta said.
“She did look pretty guilty coming out of there,” Ralph said.
Berta said, “I do not know.…”
“Or, I suppose the numbers could’ve been written on the bottle by someone at the dairy,” I said. “We should visit this Sweet Meadow Dairy and ask a few questions.” We were drawing close to the church. An organ dirge burbled inside. “After the funeral.”
A hearse stood outside the Maple Hill Methodist Church, onyx black, long, grim, and suitably luxurious for Judith Goddard’s final ride on this earth. Pale silky curtains hung in its windows.
We were late and the church doors were shut. We hurried up the steps.
23
The funeral service was as bleak as any other. In the drafty wooden church, a few dozen mourners huddled in pews while the Reverend Mr. Currier had a go at making Judith Goddard sound like she would be missed. Then it was off to the frozen cemetery, where snowflakes eddied across crusted snow and around tilting headstones. Judith Goddard was laid to rest next to her husband, Elmer. Mr. Currier murmured rites into the wind, and mourners dumped frozen dirt clods onto her casket. Clunk. Clunk.
&nbs
p; I furtively studied Rosemary, Roy, George, and Maynard. They all looked pinched and miserable. None of them spoke.
After the burial, Ralph, Berta, and I motored in the long, gloomy train of vehicles up to Goddard Farm. Ralph was behind the wheel of the Speedwagon. That’s a nice thing about fellows—even if the world were going up in flames, they’d do the driving.
“Goodness,” Berta said, peering out at the dozens of trucks and motorcars parked in front of the house. “They are going to run out of cookies.”
We followed the slow herd into the house, which was warm—ah, the deliciousness of central heating—and brightly lit with electric lights against the wan winter daylight.
Rosemary, in a shapeless black wool dress, eyes red behind her glasses, was playing hostess. When she saw Berta, Ralph, and me enter the living room, her eyes slitted even as she continued speaking to an elderly couple.
The Christmas tree had been hauled away. Holly no longer bedecked the mantelpiece. The mirrors, even the one on the drinks cabinet, were draped with black cloth.
Someone—Hester Albans?… that would explain her absence at the funeral and burial—had set up a buffet service with the usual funereal fare: sliced cold ham, depressing raisin cakes, shortbread cookies, fruitcake, silver urns of coffee. Despite that we were surely at least one hundred miles away from the nearest commercial hothouse, vases of lilies filled the air with their deathly perfume. The two or three dozen guests huddled, murmuring softly.
Everyone, of course, had murder on the brain.
Well, except for me. Murder had been knocked to the third tier of my mind, supplanted by my aim, first, to find George Goddard’s bedroom and take a gander at his purported violet-inked love letter, and, second, to somehow eavesdrop on the reading of Judith’s will.
Ralph had been snared in conversation with an elderly lady in black crushed velvet, who was cooing to him about lending libraries. He nodded politely, sipping coffee.
I eyed the grand stairs, visible through the open doorways, longingly.
