All the Pretty Hearses (2 page)

“A bad stomachache,” Arlene replied. “Three other children are sick, too. I wondered . . . oh!” She brightened. “I remember what I wanted to ask Serena. Mary Lou mentioned that your cousin had stopped by with a bag of soup labels. I thought Serena might’ve heard if the sick kids had the same symptoms. It’d be a shame to have a flu epidemic at the start of a new semester.”

Judith understood Arlene’s concern. The Rankerses’ daughter, Meagan, was a teacher at a nearby public school. Her husband, Noah, had been transferred from Oregon by the pharmaceutical company he worked for. Finding a sitter for their two children had been easy. Carl and Arlene had been eager to take on that role, not having spent much time with Brooks and Jade until the family moved north.

“Renie was there before noon,” Judith said. “If anybody was waiting to be picked up in the office, she didn’t tell me. I suppose the flu is going around. It usually is this time of year.”

“True,” Arlene said, suddenly on the alert. “I’d better go back home. Carl and Brooks will be back any minute.”

Judith paused at the foot of the porch stairs. It had rained on New Year’s Day, but the sun had been out ever since. The thermometer on one of the porch pillars registered forty degrees. She looked at a clump of tiny snowdrops in the flower bed next to the steps. Judith smiled. Her mother always called them “Christmas roses” because they usually bloomed the last week of December. Next to the snowdrops, she noticed that several daffodil shoots had emerged above the ground.
Brave,
she thought to herself.
It could still snow
.

“That’s it!” Phyliss Rackley announced, storming out onto the porch and waving a dust mop. “Satan’s familiar just shredded the lace curtains in Room Five. If you don’t put him to sleep, I’ll do it for you.”

“Why,” Judith asked mildly, “did you let him into Room Five?”

“Let him?” Phyliss’s gray sausage curls seemed to dance in outrage. “He can go through walls, can’t he? Just like the Archfiend himself.” She lowered her voice. “The Powers of Darkness.”

Judith joined the cleaning woman at the door. “How much real damage is there?”

“See for yourself,” Phyliss snapped. “I’ve got a dust mop to shake.”

Judith carefully went up the back stairs, ever mindful of her artificial hip. Room Five was the second door on her right. Sweetums was asleep on the freshly made bed. Sure enough, almost a foot of lace fabric was ripped beyond repair. Judith pummeled the mattress. “Get out, you little stinker!” she cried. “You’re not allowed upstairs.”

Sweetums’ plush fur bristled as he regarded Judith with malevolent golden eyes. He yawned widely, then started to resettle himself.

“Out!” Judith yelled, scooping up the cat and carrying him into the hallway. He struggled in her grasp, but when she set him down, he merely gazed indifferently at her pitiful human displeasure before he began his grooming process.

Judith took the ruined curtains off the rod. Fortunately—though not so fortunate in terms of income—Room Five was vacant until the weekend. She had extra curtains stored in the cupboard area down the hall. Looking out through the window with its western exposure, Judith could see the wan winter sun glinting off the bay. The mountains over on the peninsula seemed to sparkle. A barge laden with green, blue, and rust-colored cargo containers moved smoothly southward to the city’s industrial area while a superferry pulled into the downtown slip just beyond the viaduct. Judith smiled again.
Strange,
she thought,
how seldom I take time out to enjoy the scenery that others travel thousands of miles and spend thousands of dollars to see, while I can look at it from my house.
It occurred to her that Parisians no doubt passed the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre without paying much attention, while Romans no doubt ignored the Colosseum and the Pantheon.

What Judith couldn’t ignore was the phone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the guest phone that was on a table near the top of the main staircase. The ringing was coming from the kitchen, barely audible, but insistent. Judith wasn’t going to risk a fall by dashing downstairs. After four rings, the call switched over to her message service. After reaching the kitchen and tossing the curtains into the garbage can under the sink, she finally picked up the receiver. There was no
click-click-click
sound indicating an unheard message. Judith checked her caller ID screen. Norma Paine’s name and number appeared. Either Norma had decided to call back later or—more likely—she was leaving one of her typical long-winded messages.

Phyliss was running the vacuum in the front parlor. Judith walked through the dining room and the entry hall to the parlor door. The cleaning woman had her back turned and was singing—or squawking—a hymn. Cringing at the third “Go Down Moses,” Judith waited to be acknowledged.

“What?” Phyliss demanded, silencing the vacuum. “I haven’t gotten to ‘bold Moses’ and the ‘smite’ verse.” She patted the vacuum bag. “That’s when Moses here does his best work at deep cleaning.”

Judith was used to her cleaning woman’s biblical nicknames for various appliances. The washer and dryer were Noah and Jonah. The floor polisher was Jezebel because, Phyliss insisted, it was wayward, wanton, and woefully ignorant of God’s word.

“You’re right about the curtains,” Judith said. “They’re ruined. I’ve got new ones on the top shelf in the guest room storage cabinet.”

Phyliss’s eyes narrowed. “Did you kill Beelzebub’s evil tool?”

“You know,” Judith said firmly, “that Sweetums rarely goes upstairs. When we found him as a kitten shortly before I finished converting the family home into a B&B, I trained him not to go beyond the basement and the first floor.”

“You can’t train cats,” Phyliss asserted. “They’re sinister beasts.”

“They’re the last domestic animal to become . . . domesticated,” Judith countered. “They’ve only been tame for five thousand years.”

“Then they’re slow learners,” Phyliss said. “Those Egyptians thought cats were some kind of god. False idols, just like you Catholics, worshipping graven images and statues of people holding flowers or books or a bunch of house keys, which, now that I think about it, it’s no wonder that statue in the backyard has got a flock of birds hanging on to him. Whoever he is, he must not have liked cats.”

Judith’s shoulders slumped. She’d long ago given up trying to convince Phyliss that Catholics didn’t worship statues. They were like photographs or snapshots, a reminder of someone who had lived a holy life. Phyliss remained unconvinced. Not even explaining how the Lincoln Memorial served as an inspiration to other Americans had swayed her. “I’ve seen pictures,” she’d argued. “Abe’s just sitting there, staring off into nowhere. What’s inspiring about that? He could be watching TV.”

Thus Judith kept her mouth shut and went back into the kitchen. Maybe Norma Paine had finished her message. She sat down by the computer, picked up the phone, and dialed in her code.

“This,” Norma said in her braying voice, “is Norma Paine. I’m calling about Friday night and your generous offer of Hillside Manor to my children and their children. Very kind of you, as I’ve always wondered why you hadn’t done this before.” Slight pause. “Well, better late than never. I’m pleased that you included dinner instead of just an overnight and breakfast. After all, Wilbur and I ended up paying fourteen hundred dollars for your item, and he insists that’s going to set him back a year in retiring from his law practice.” Another pause. “Not that I wonder if he won’t feel lost without going to the office every day. In fact, I hope he doesn’t expect me to entertain him constantly. I keep reminding him, ‘Wilbur,’ I say, ‘I have a life of my own, and it keeps me very busy.’ I don’t think men understand what their wives do when they’re gone all day earning a living. But I digress. I’m calling because some of our family members have food allergies. Now let me get this right.” A much longer pause. Judith had picked up a pen and was tapping it on the counter. “Andrew is lactose intolerant. Hannah should avoid leafy green vegetables. Dennis insists he doesn’t have diabetes, but I disagree. He’s glucose-intolerant, and as you no doubt realize, that’s an early stage of diabetes. I’m very careful when I cook for him, I can tell you that. Zoë is vegetarian. Zachary has a severe seafood allergy. Now let me think . . .” The next pause was so long that Judith’s elbow slipped off the counter and she dropped the pen. Retrieving it was impossible without bending over and risking dislocation of her artificial hip. Instead, she took another pen out of the drawer. And waited. “I may’ve omitted something important,” Norma finally said. “I’ll call you later. It’s so kind of you to offer your very expensive hospitality.”

“Aaargh . . .” Judith groaned, turning off the phone as Joe Flynn entered the hallway from the back door.

“What’s wrong?” he asked before taking off the winter jacket Judith had given him for Christmas.

“I have a Paine,” Judith said. “A whole houseful of Paines. Remember last year’s school auction?”

Joe’s round face looked momentarily puzzled. “Oh—you mean that auction and dinner fund-raiser when Bill and I tended bar?” He shook his head. “I recall very little about it, except I tried to auction off Oscar, but Bill told me if I did that, we could take it outside.”

“Oh God!” Judith gasped. “I forgot that part!”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “it got kind of ugly there for a minute. And Oscar didn’t even come to the auction.”

Judith jumped up, grabbing Joe by his jacket sleeves. “Do not buy into that Oscar fantasy! He’s a stuffed monkey, he’s not real.” She stared into her husband’s green eyes. “You and Bill weren’t
that
drunk.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” For once, the magical gold flecks weren’t dancing. “Besides, he’s not a monkey, he’s a dwarf ape.”

Judith dropped her hands. “Skip it. I’m talking about Norma and Wilbur Paine. They bought the dinner and overnight for their children and grandchildren. It’s this Friday.”

Joe removed his jacket and hung it on a peg in the hallway. “So?”

“So Norma just left a message with a laundry list of allergies and other prohibitions for her brood. I need to hire a dietician.”

“Do a buffet,” Joe suggested. “They can pick and choose.”

Judith thought for a minute. “You’re right. That’s a good idea.” She smiled at Joe. “What would I do without you?”

“You had nineteen years to figure it out.” He put an arm around his wife. “So did I. Happily, we managed to finally get it right.”

Judith leaned against Joe. “Sometimes when I think of the years I spent with Dan while you were with Herself, I feel cheated. All that wasted time coping with a pair of drunks. I marvel your ex is still alive.”

“She’s not,” Joe said. “She’s pickled, preserved forever in the Florida sunshine.”

“Let’s hope she stays that way. I mean,” Judith added quickly, “Vivian stays in Florida. I don’t know why she doesn’t sell the house here in the cul-de-sac instead of renting it. She’s never been happy living in this part of the world.”

“That’s because liquor stores around here don’t deliver,” Joe said. “Now that she owns the house on the corner as well, she might make more money renting instead of selling. The Briscoes seem like a nice couple, and that Fairfax fellow travels a lot in his job as an auctioneer. All three newcomers seem like decent people. Quiet. Pleasant. Dull.”

“Dull is good,” Judith murmured. “I’d like a few months of dull.” She suddenly remembered where Joe had spent the morning. “Why are you home so early? Isn’t your surveillance job an eight-hour gig?”

“It was.” Joe moved away from Judith, a sheepish look on his face. “Mr. Insurance Fraud is no longer able to bilk SANECO out of six million dollars for being semiparalyzed.”

Judith grinned at Joe. “You caught him walking?”

Joe shook his head. “No. Somebody else caught him—with a .38 Smith & Wesson. He’s dead.”

Chapter Two

Y
ou’re serious?” Judith said after the first shock wave receded. “The guy was really murdered?”

“I’m afraid so.” Joe had taken an orange-flavored energy drink out of the fridge. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“I always ask about your work,” Judith said. “I’ll admit you haven’t told me much about this current job, but you just started yesterday. I don’t even know who this insurance cheat is. Or was.”

Joe sat down at the kitchen table. “I don’t know either.”

Judith sat down, too. “What do you mean? You told me he was a civil servant who’d been involved in an accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. His name was . . .” She grimaced. “I forget. It was James something-or-other.”

“James Edward Towne,” Joe said, after sipping from his drink. “He lived in a condo on Lake Concord near the ship canal, first floor, decent view for Mr. Towne, not so good for me having to set up in a vacant houseboat owned by a SANECO vice president, Charles Knowles. His daughter and her husband live there, but they spent Christmas in Hawaii and are touring Australia and New Zealand until later this month. Age of deceased between forty-five and fifty-five, unmarried, had two live-in caregivers, who spelled each other every third day. One was a man, the other was a woman. I saw her yesterday—blond, but no bimbo. The male caregiver was supposed to come Thursday morning, but won’t, given that Mr. Towne doesn’t need him.”

“Are you implying that Mr. Towne was shot while you were on surveillance?”

“Yes, I am.” Joe looked disgusted. “He was shot on my watch, and I didn’t see a damned thing.” He glanced at the schoolhouse clock. “Approximate time of death, eleven
A.M.
, Tuesday, January fourth.”

“Did you see him get shot?”

“I not only didn’t see it, I didn’t hear it. I was too far away.” He shook his head. “Some cop, huh? It’s a good thing I retired from the force before I blew a few official homicide cases.”

Judith was confused. “I’m not tracking. If you didn’t see or hear anything, how did you know the guy was shot?”

Joe gazed up at the kitchen’s high ceiling. “Gosh, I guess it was all those emergency vehicles and flashing lights and loud sirens. As a former law enforcement officer, I immediately realized that something was amiss. For all I know, it may’ve happened when I was in the can.”

“Would you have seen it if you hadn’t been away from your post?”

Joe gave Judith a sardonic look. “Maybe. The condo has big view windows in the living room, dining area, and kitchen. But when Mr. so-called Towne rolled his wheelchair into what I assumed was one of two bedrooms or the bathroom, I couldn’t see him.”

“Where did they find his body?”

“The living room.” He grimaced. “That I could’ve seen, but I didn’t. It’s possible that he wasn’t shot there, though. I didn’t get details.”

“How do you know he wasn’t using his real name? Wouldn’t SANECO Insurance know who he was?”

“Not if he was a fraud,” Joe said impatiently. “The real James Edward Towne may be alive and well, except for being partially paralyzed. The cops couldn’t find any ID. Or hadn’t by the time they got through talking to me.”

Judith frowned. “Talking—or interrogating?”

“Both,” Joe said, “until I told the homicide ’tec who showed up that I used to work the same job.”

“Do you know him?”

Joe shook his head. “Recently promoted,” he said after another swig of his drink and leaned forward, eyeing his wife suspiciously. “You’re the one who seems to be interrogating me now. Why don’t you just play wife for a while?”

“Sorry,” Judith said, and meant it. “I just wondered.”

Joe leaned back in the chair. “His name is Keith Delemetrios. He joined the force just before I retired, but worked out north. No partner. The police budget is frozen while the mayor tries to figure out which streets are sinking into the ground, which bridges are about to collapse, which way is up.”

“Did this newbie ask for your help?”

Joe laughed—or grunted. Judith wasn’t sure. “Del, as he prefers to be called—more citizen-friendly—thought I might be a suspect. The only reason I’m not still being interrogated downtown is because I insisted he call Woody and have him vouch for me.”

Judith grimaced. “I’d like to think you’re kidding, but . . .” She let the words trail off.

Joe nodded. “Exactly. I had to turn over my Smith & Wesson so they could tell it hadn’t been fired.”

“Oh, Joe! That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not,” Joe said. “Del’s young, barely thirty, in over his head, and no partner assigned to him.”

“Who called in about the shooting?”

“Whoever lives next door. He—a single guy who works at home—was in the hall on his way back from somewhere when he heard the shot. He knew something about the vic and thought he might be sufficiently depressed from being paralyzed to off himself. The female caregiver was running errands, but of course her alibi will be checked. Woody told me that when I called to give him a heads-up on my involvement. Did you know he’s the acting precinct captain for this part of town?”

Judith was surprised. “When did that happen?”

“As of January first,” Joe replied. “He took over for Jack Plummer, who suddenly announced his retirement in early December. When we went to the cocktail party at Woody’s a week before Christmas, he had no idea he’d be reassigned from Homicide. It’s a promotion, but Woody isn’t sure he wants the job. Too many headaches with staff and budget cuts. I don’t blame him. He’s not going to be happy tied to a desk.”

“So Woody is Delemetrios’ boss,” Judith murmured. “I assume you’re no longer a suspect as the shooter.”

“Woody has to jump through the hoops,” Joe said, “but I should be cleared once my weapon is tested. Meanwhile, I’m out of a job.”

“Well . . . that’s not all bad,” Judith said.

Joe leaned closer to Judith. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking . . .” She shrugged. “You wouldn’t get paid, but maybe you could help Woody by offering to mentor his rookie detective.”

Joe chuckled. “Right. And you could help me help him help Woody.” He shook his head. “No, this is none of our business. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t do anything, I can only give a statement, which I’ve already done.” He leaned back in the chair. “Over and out.”

Judith stood up. “It was a thought. I assume you’ve got some other irons in the fire. January is always the worst month for the B&B.”

Joe’s gaze seemed fixed on the green-and-white-striped tablecloth. “Oh . . . sure, but I’ll have to make some calls.”

Judith stood with her fists on her hips. “In other words, you don’t have a job lined up.”

Meeting her dark-eyed stare, Joe first looked sheepish, then abruptly turned defensive. “Hey—you know that these insurance fraud jobs are usually good for a couple of weeks. How could I schedule anything until I knew for sure that I’d nailed this guy?”

“He got nailed permanently,” Judith snapped. “You’d better make those calls or we’ll be eating Sweetums’ Bluefin Buffet for dinner.”

Joe, who was seldom cowed by anyone, least of all his usually good-natured, compassionate wife, pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll go up to the third floor and see if I can get a job working security for one of the lap-dance dumps.”

“Don’t mention ‘dump’ to me!” Judith shouted as he stomped down the hall to the back stairs. “I’ve had enough of that already with Renie!” Frustrated, she watched her husband disappear off the hallway to head up to his office in the family quarters.

Ten minutes later, Judith was deciding what to serve her Tuesday-night guests as appetizers for the six o’clock social hour. Maybe she’d keep it simple. Smoked oysters and clams, an assortment of crackers, some of Falstaff Grocery’s expensive if exclusive foreign cheeses. In her current mood, she felt like tossing some pretzels and Ritz crackers in a bowl, opening a can of Cheez Whiz, and calling it done. The phone rang before she could make up her mind.

“Judith?” a high-pitched female voice said at the other end. “Is this Judith?” the caller asked again without allowing for an answer.

“Yes!” Judith replied, and winced at her sharp tone. “Yes, it’s me,” she added more kindly.

“Oh, good!” the woman said. And went silent.

“How can I help you?” Judith inquired after a lengthy pause.

“What? Oh! I got distracted,” the caller said. “What have you got for us?”

Judith slumped in the chair by her computer. “What do you want?”

“A recipe, of course.” The woman paused, but more briefly. “It’s me, Martha Morelli. Your cousin Serena told me about your wonderful Pottsfield Pickles.”

Fleetingly, Judith thought about strangling Renie. “Gosh, Martha, I haven’t made those in years.”
As in never
.

“Oh.” More silence. Judith checked her e-mail while waiting for Martha to speak again. Maybe someone wanted to make a reservation. That might lift her flagging spirits.

“Serena also mentioned canned tuna fish,” Martha finally said, and broke into earsplitting laughter. “I’m having trouble reading my notes. I need new glasses.”

How about a new brain?
“Sorry—that’s another one I haven’t used in ages.”
But maybe I should, if we get relegated to eating cat food.
“I do have other recipes, including my husband’s version of Joe’s Special.”

“Oh.” Shorter pause while Judith didn’t find any guest requests. “Did he invent that?”

“Joe took the original and altered it slightly.”

“Well . . . if it isn’t original, I don’t think we can use it,” Martha said. “There might be a trademark problem. I’d so hoped you could help us.”

“Sorry,” Judith replied without enthusiasm. “I guess I can’t.”

“Yes . . . well, no. You can, actually,” Martha went on, her voice brightening. “Do you have a Thursday-night vacancy?”

Judith grew wary. “Uh . . . I might. Why do you ask?”

“It . . . that is . . . I just spoke to Alicia Beard-Smythe. Their furnace has gone out and the gas company can’t come until Friday. So many outages and problems, even in a mild winter like this one. They considered spending the night at a downtown hotel, but hated to leave their dog. They live only two blocks from your B&B—I’m sure you know that—and I suggested that perhaps you’d have a vacancy for the night. I don’t mean to seem presumptuous, of course, but the idea just flew into my head, probably because I was about to call you anyway, and so naturally it occurred to me that you might . . .”

Judith held the phone away from her ear. For a slow starter, Martha apparently couldn’t stop once she got up to speed. Hillside Manor did have a vacancy on Thursday. She didn’t know Alicia and Reggie Beard-Smythe very well, but they seemed like decent, if wealthy, people. Generally, Judith found that The Rich were definitely different, and not just because they had more money.

Martha finally ran out of steam. Judith put the phone back to her ear. “Yes, I can give them the big bedroom or a smaller one. That’s their decision. Of course,” she added quickly, “if I get a request for the big room, I’ll have to renege on that part of the deal.”

“Understandable,” Martha said. “I’ll call Alicia and let her know.”

With that, she abruptly rang off. Judith shrugged, set the phone back in its cradle, and typed in Beard-Smythe for Thursday, January 6, Room Three. That was two hundred dollars, enough to raise her spirits a notch. Especially in January, every booking counted.

She would later remember the old saying “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”