All the Pretty Hearses (9 page)

“Mother, please stop. Addison wants to meet you.”

“Addison! What is he, part of a train, like the Addison, the Topeka, and the Santa Fe? Sounds about right—he’s probably the caboose. Your first two looked like somebody’s rear end. In fact, Jumbo Dumbo Dan looked like
two
people’s rear—”

“Stop!” Judith glared at Gertrude. “He’s a newspaper reporter and a very nice man. He may be working on a story involving . . . well, I’m not sure, but it may have something to do with Joe.”

“I hope so,” Gertrude said. “Make sure he interviews me. I’ll give him an earful.”

Addison strolled into the kitchen just as Judith set two cocktail glasses on the counter. “Mother, this is Addison Kirby. Addison, this is my mother, Gertrude Grover.” She held her breath, apprehensive of what the old lady would say.

“How do you do, Mr. Kirby,” Gertrude said, offering her hand. “I’ve read a lot of your stories over the years. I enjoy the way you call Mayor Apples a numbskull without spelling it out.”

Kirby gently shook hands. Judith’s jaw dropped.

“A pleasure,” Addison said. “Please call me Ad, Mrs. Grover.”

Gertrude beamed. “Then you can call me Gert. And I know the mayor’s name is really Appel, but I always call him that for fun. Just like I always call George Stuart, the police chief, Stoople, and the one before that, Dopey. It’s my little way of having fun.” She turned somber. “Life is hard when you’re old. I was very sorry when your wife died. Joan Fremont was such a fine actress and a real lady. The last time I saw her onstage was many years ago.” She paused, patting her wheelchair. “I don’t get out much these days. The play was . . . Ibsen, I think. Yes,
A Doll’s House
. Your wife was Nora. She had that part nailed down perfectly.”

Addison seemed transfixed. “That was nineteen years ago,” he said. “It was the first time she’d done the role.”

“You’d never know that,” Gertrude asserted. “She seemed to disappear into the role as soon as she stepped onstage.”

Judith was so floored by her mother’s recollection—if in fact it was even true—that she had to lean against the counter. Addison had sat down across from Gertrude. “Did you see her in other works?”

The old lady looked thoughtful. “Let me think.
The Beggar’s
Opera
—she had quite a nice singing voice
. The Crucible—
so compelling, especially for those of us who lived through the McCarthy era. My husband would’ve enjoyed it. He was very political.”

That much was true, Judith thought. Donald Grover had been a high school history teacher with a passionate belief in individual freedom. Out of curiosity, he had attended a few Communist meetings as a college student, but never bought the party line. Still, when anyone who’d ever rubbed shoulders with them after World War II, Judith’s father had been afraid that the nationwide witch hunt for so-called Reds and their sympathizers might cost him his job. Donald’s fears had proved groundless, but his interest in politics remained. Gertrude gave her husband unreserved support, denouncing any threat to the American way of life—especially by Republicans.

“Scotch?” Judith said, as the memories of a half-century ago raced through her mind.

“Sure,” Addison said. “That’s my beverage of choice.”

“Don’t make mine too strong, dear,” Gertrude said in a meek voice that was hardly recognizable.

“Ah . . . okay,” Judith responded, getting out a third glass. “Are you sure you’re not too tired?”

“Why, no,” her mother replied. “It’s only a quarter after eight.” She smiled at Addison. “My little girl takes such good care of me. I even have my own little dollhouse in the backyard. We old folks need our privacy, too, and I’d never want to get in the way of Judith’s business.”

Good God,
Judith thought as she poured the drinks,
what is she
up to?
The old lady hadn’t sweet-talked anybody since she’d conned Father Hoyle into giving parishioners over seventy-five a handicap of two free bingo numbers.

“Now,” Gertrude said as Judith delivered the cocktails and sat down next to Addison, “tell me what you’re working on these days, Ad. Is it true that the city is going to put in more of those handicap-accessible crosswalks at street corners? We have some up here on the hill, but I don’t get out much in bad weather. My arthritis, you know.” Her wrinkled face assumed an expression of resigned martyrdom that only Saint Agnes—or Aunt Deb—could have surpassed.

Before Addison replied, the phone rang. Judith got up to answer the call and moved into the dining room so her mother and Addison could continue their cozy chat.

“Is this Mrs. Flynn?” a woman’s soft voice inquired.

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“Well . . . this is difficult to explain, but yesterday my purse was stolen while I was in the dressing room at Nordquist’s downtown store. It was found about a half hour ago in a garbage bin outside of Moonbeam’s on Heraldsgate Hill. I live only two blocks away from there, so I went to get it. Nothing had been taken, but there was a receipt and two keys in it from your B&B. Do you want me to come by with them?”

“Yes, I . . . what does your purse look like?”

“It’s brown suede, a drawstring type.”

Judith frowned. “Yes, maybe you should give me the keys and the receipt. We’re in the cul-de-sac just off the avenue on your right as you head down the hill. Are you coming soon?”

“I’d better,” the woman replied. “I haven’t put my car in the garage yet and I’m leaving town on business tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at the door. Oh—what’s your name?”

“I should’ve introduced myself right away,” she said in an apologetic tone. “Sorry about that. I was kind of rattled by this whole thing, especially since nothing was taken. My name is Jean Rogers.”

Chapter Eight

A
fter hanging up, Judith went straight to the phone book in the kitchen. Gertrude and Addison had moved on to discussing if the city was going to repair or tear down the viaduct that ran along the downtown waterfront. Both seemed engrossed in their conversation as Judith perused the directory. There were at least two pages of people named Rogers. Finally she found a J. M. Rogers who lived near Moonbeam’s. Apparently the caller was legit. It was the other Jean Rogers who was the suspicious character.

As if he could sniff out anything that might suggest news, Addison interrupted his tête-à-tête with Gertrude long enough to inquire if all was well with Judith.

“I’m not sure,” she said cryptically. “But ignore me and enjoy your drinks.” After putting the directory back in the cupboard, she went to the front hall to wait for her visitor. If Jean Rogers had left for Hillside Manor right away, she’d show up momentarily.

Sure enough, headlights gleamed on the cul-de-sac’s wet pavement. A small car pulled in behind what Judith assumed was the Beard-Smythes’ Humvee. A young woman in a white rain slicker got out of the compact and hurried up the porch steps.

Judith had already opened the door. “Jean?” she said. “Come in. It’s a nasty night.”

“In more ways than one,” Jean replied, entering the house and flipping off the hood of her slicker. “This is really weird.”

Judith quickly studied the young woman’s appearance. She was about the same size and coloring of the other Jean Rogers, but younger and better looking. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail instead of scrunched into a knot. She reached into a suede drawstring handbag that was identical to the one the other Jean had carried.

“Here are your keys and the receipt,” she said.

“Thanks.” Judith put the items on the Bombay chest by the stairs. “Would you mind if I looked at your driver’s license?”

Jean seemed taken aback. “Do you have to? It’s awful!”

“Humor me,” Judith said, hoping she sounded humble. “I err on the side of caution because I run a business out of my home. I have some concerns about the guest who signed the receipt and how her keys got into your stolen purse. Did you look at her name and signature?”

“Uh . . . no.” Jean’s tanned face fell. “I was so glad my purse was found. Then I was surprised that nothing was taken. When I saw the keys and the receipt from your B&B, I felt I should tell you. Lots of hotels and motels have keys saying if they’re found, put them in the nearest mailbox. The least I could do since you live so close was to drop the stuff off.”

The more Jean spoke, the more she seemed defensive. “Hey,” Judith said kindly, “I’m very grateful. But something may have happened to the person who checked into my B&B.” She picked up the receipt. “Take a look at the name and the credit-card number.”

Jean warily accepted the receipt. “I can’t read the signature, but . . . oh my God! It
is
my credit card!”

“Right. How long have you lived here?”

Jean was still staring at the receipt. “What? Oh—I moved here from Phoenix in June. I work for a chain of upscale retirement communities and I got transferred. The company’s starting some new developments over on the Eastside, but they have an office downtown. In fact, I’m flying back to the Phoenix headquarters tomorrow for a seminar. That’s why I was so relieved to get my wallet back with my driver’s license and all the other information that I need for airport security.”

Judith nodded. “I understand. But I’d still like to see your driver’s license, if only to find out if I’m going blind. The woman who called herself Jean Rogers looks like you, except not nearly as pretty.”

The real Jean looked shocked. “You mean she stole my identity?”

“Only temporarily. She’s disappeared.”

“Oh no!” Jean clutched her purse tightly. “Should I call the police? Someone at Nordquist’s notified them yesterday, but they don’t know my purse turned up at Moonbeam’s.”

“Yes, you should call both the store and the police,” Judith advised. “I’ll notify the cops about the woman who had your purse, but I still need to look at your license.”

“Okay,” Jean said reluctantly. “But it’s an awful picture.”

The black wallet also looked familiar. So did the driver’s license. Judith had only glanced at the alleged owner’s age, weight, and height the first time around, but now she scrutinized the details. The young woman standing beside her was thirty-one, but the photo made her look not only older, but much less attractive.

“There’s a passing resemblance between you and the other woman,” Judith said, handing the wallet back. “But you’re ten times better looking than the impostor—or the photo.”

“Thanks.” Jean smiled for the first time, looking even prettier. “I suppose I got charged for the stay here.”

“I didn’t run the card through yet,” Judith admitted. “It’s been a hectic day.”

Jean looked relieved. “Good. I already called about a couple of my other credit cards, but I didn’t have time for the rest. The one that awful woman used is only a backup in case there’s a glitch with my AmEx personal and business cards.”

Good for you,
Judith thought,
bad for me
. “That’s fortunate. By the way, did you see anybody at Nordquist’s who looked even vaguely like you when your purse went missing?”

Jean grimaced. “I was doing the winter sale and totally focused on clothes. That’s why I left my purse in the dressing room. I needed a size eight, but I’d picked up a ten by mistake, so I nipped back out to the floor to get the right size. The clerks were so busy that I didn’t want to bother them. It was hard enough to find a vacant dressing room right after work. As soon as it was five o’clock, it seemed like most of the working women downtown took off for the sale.”

“Sure. That happens.” Judith wondered how long the other Jean Rogers had waited to find a look-alike. Maybe she’d been browsing for some time. Someone who worked at Nordquist’s might remember her. The store’s clerks were very good about recognizing people. “Which department were you in?”

“Third floor, Free Spirit.” Jean looked intrigued. “Are you going to try to find this person?”

“I’d like to,” Judith replied. “But she may be gone.”

“You mean you think she left town?”

“Ah . . . possibly.”
Or,
Judith thought,
gone as in permanently
.

A
s soon as Jean Rogers left, Judith closed the front door and went back to the kitchen. Gertrude and Addison were still jabbering away.

“Well,” her mother said, sounding more like her usual captious self, “what happened to you? We thought you’d moved out.”

Judith noticed that though her own drink was untouched, the other two glasses were empty. “There’s been a mix-up about one of the guests. A credit-card problem. It’s straightened out now.”

Addison nodded. “Hard to tell the innocent from the guilty these days. Say, Gert, would you like to show me your dollhouse?”

“Why not,” the old lady said, releasing the brake on her wheelchair. “Seems like the barmaid’s about to call time. Kind of an ornery wench, don’t you think, Addy? Gimpy, too.”

Addison chuckled. “Not saucy like you, eh?”

“Not much. Back in
my
day, I could’ve taught her a thing or two about men. She’s less Polly Peachum and more Suky Tawdry, if you . . .”

Dumbfounded by her mother’s uncharacteristic behavior and almost unbelievable knowledge of classical theater, Judith downed two quick swigs of Scotch. Her stomach growled; it dawned on her that she hadn’t eaten much since lunch. The gluelike soufflé had stuck to the roof of her mouth, but not to her ribs. She’d barely touched her own slice of pie. Although her appetite was still missing, she had to nibble on something to offset the liquor.

Judith was making an egg-salad sandwich when Addison came back into the house. “So how did the tour go?” she asked—and realized that she sounded cross.

“Fine. Your mother’s an amazing woman.”

“She sure is.” Judith jammed the knife she’d been using into the cutting board. “Suddenly she’s a theater buff? Where did that come from?”

Addison looked puzzled. “She told me that several years ago she and some of her friends from your church had season tickets to the Rep. You didn’t know that?”

Judith felt like an idiot. “I’d forgotten.” She leaned against the counter and hung her head. “Get yourself a refill. I’m sorry. Back then I didn’t see Mother very often, or anybody else in my family when I was married to my first husband. He didn’t want to . . . share me with anyone else. Besides, I had to hold down two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. A dirty four-letter word to him was spelled
w-o-r-k
.”

Addison’s smile was bittersweet. “It sounds like you’ve had some rough times.” He picked up his empty glass. “Life’s a bitch.”

Judith carried her sandwich to the table. “You’ve had your share. Dare I ask about Amalia? The last time you and I spoke, you told me she was helping you mend.”

“Amalia is doing the tango with some other guy these days,” Addison said, pouring out an inch of Scotch. “It was fun while it lasted. My broken leg mended fine after Joan’s killer tried to run me down in the hospital parking lot, but the broken heart won’t ever get over my late wife. She was special.”

Judith nodded. “How are your kids and grandkids?”

“Fine.” He added a couple of ice cubes and a dash of water to his drink before sitting down across from Judith. “Let’s cut to the chase. What do you know about your husband’s last assignment?”

Judith swallowed her first bite of sandwich. “Not as much as I wish I did. He’d only been on the job for a little over a day.”

“Really?” Addison seemed skeptical. “You sure about that?”

Judith looked straight into his penetrating eyes. “Why would I be evasive? I trust you.”

He chuckled softly. “Because you’re FASTO, and you’ve probably solved more murders in the past fifteen years than anybody in this town except your husband.”

The reference to the fan-created Web site of Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders made Judith cringe. At least he hadn’t referred to the site as FATSO—the more easily remembered, if inaccurate, acronym she found so irritating. Despite being tall enough to add a few pounds without detection, Judith had spent her life watching the scales.

“That’s dubious,” she said. “I haven’t solved any murders since . . . uh . . . last summer.” That wasn’t true, but Judith had never acknowledged her role in fingering the killer of two people on the Empire Builder when she and Renie had headed to Boston to join their husbands. The arrest had been made in North Dakota and her involvement had been kept secret—even from Joe.

“Doesn’t matter,” Addison said. “Have you talked to Joe since he was arrested?”

“Briefly,” Judith replied. “But you have.”

Addison nodded. “So I did. I’m sure you realize what’s going on.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Judith snapped. “Unless,” she went on when there was no immediate response from Addison, “it’s a blind to flush out the real killer.”

“It’s more than that.” He took a sip of his drink. “There’s some serious stuff going on behind the scenes. I’m not sure what it is either, but I have a feeling it involves some very important people on my beat.”

Judith was taken aback. “City Hall?”

“That’s right. No names, though I can make a few guesses. What I don’t know is who the murder vic really was. My initial reaction is that he was an undercover cop, but I’m not sure.”

“Was he paralyzed while on the job?”

“I don’t know,” Addison replied, frowning. “Ordinarily, the autopsy report would include that, but it hasn’t yet been released, and I’m not convinced it won’t be doctored when it is. This whole thing could even go higher than City Hall, up to the state level.”

“Why not?” Judith murmured. “These days, party affiliations should stand for Dissolute and Rapacious, not Democrats and Republicans. Greed and sleaze, cupidity and stupidity, at every government level. I assume Joe realizes what he’s gotten into by now.”

“I gather that’s a given.”

“Which reminds me,” Judith said, getting up. “I have to call the cops. A woman who checked in late this afternoon has gone AWOL. She stole somebody else’s ID to register. The victim was the person I was talking to in the front hall while you and Mother were chatting out here.”

“Whoa!” Addison put out a hand to stop Judith from reaching the phone. “What woman?”

Judith knew from past experience that she could trust Addison Kirby. But she often kept some speculations to herself. There had been many occasions when she didn’t share her thoughts even with Renie.

“I don’t know who she is,” Judith finally said. “She claimed to be someone named Jean Rogers, who was in town for a conference at the convention center. She was a late arrival, checked in, and went up to her room to prepare for a presentation she’s giving tomorrow. Then she disappeared into thin air.”

Addison frowned. “Did she say what kind of conference or convention?”

“No, but I can look it up,” Judith said. “I keep all the big events in my scheduling book. She did mention that it was at the downtown convention center. Now that I think about it, she’s the only guest I’ve had who’s involved in whatever’s being held this week.” Just as she started to get up from the sofa, she smacked a hand to her head. “Oh, good grief! It’s the annual wedding show. That’s usually aimed at mostly a local crowd. The B&B association sometimes has a booth for wedding parties who expect out-of-town guests. I don’t think that formal presentations are part of the mix. It’s more of a user-friendly event.”

“Sounds like the first Ms. Rogers should’ve done her homework,” Addison remarked. “So who showed up at the door while your mother was charming the socks off of me?”

“The real Jean Rogers, or so I assume.” Judith explained that Jean’s purse had been stolen from a Nordquist’s dressing room yesterday, but recovered from a Moonbeam’s trash bin in the past hour or so. “Which,” she went on, “means the Jean who was in her room earlier this evening must’ve put it there not long before it was found.”