Murder, My Suite Read online

  MARY DAHEIM

  MURDER, MY SUITE

  A BED-AND-BREAKFAST MYSTERY

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn stared in horror at the slashed…

  TWO

  PUNCH AND HORS D’OEUVRES were late. The couple from Idaho…

  THREE

  THE COUSINS PLANNED to arrive in Bugler shortly before three,…

  FOUR

  RENIE WAS EXHIBITING a fear of her own. “I don’t…

  FIVE

  BETWEEN THE THUNDER and the sirens, it was impossible to…

  SIX

  BUGLER’S CHIEF OF police was in his mid-thirties, with wavy…

  SEVEN

  THE GROCERIES WERE put away, the door to the balcony…

  EIGHT

  THE STATEMENTS THAT the cousins made at the police station…

  NINE

  ONCE OUTSIDE, JUDITH stepped over the herbaceous border and positioned…

  TEN

  JUDITH’S HIP SOCKETS had never been the same since she…

  ELEVEN

  “MY WORD,” EXCLAIMED Esme MacPherson, lowering the ebony walking stick…

  TWELVE

  AS ANXIOUS AS Renie was to have Judith explain, a…

  THIRTEEN

  PROFESSOR WILLIAM ANTHONY Jones, Ph.D., had announced his early retirement…

  FOURTEEN

  DAGMAR SLEPT IN. At least she was still asleep by…

  FIFTEEN

  FREDDY AND TESSA finally agreed upon something: They both needed…

  SIXTEEN

  “LET THE WOMAN go!” Kirk Kreager’s voice carried no less…

  SEVENTEEN

  RHYS PENREDDY GRUDGINGLY agreed to meet the cousins. Yes, he…

  EIGHTEEN

  TO JUDITH’S CHAGRIN, Wayne Stafford wasn’t on duty. He’d taken…

  NINETEEN

  THE INVITATION FOR drinks had been declined by all. Esme…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARY DAHEIM

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  ONE

  JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn stared in horror at the slashed beige drapes, the shredded down comforter, and the tattered petit-point chair. Hillside Manor’s choice bedroom was a shambles. Judith understood why her current guest had been thrown out of the Cascadia Hotel.

  “It’s that awful bitch,” Judith groaned to her husband over the telephone a few minutes later. “She’s wrecked the place. She even piddled on one of Grandma Grover’s braided rugs.”

  Joe Flynn’s voice was seemingly sympathetic. “So what’s your mother doing in the guest rooms? I thought she was getting used to her apartment in the old toolshed.”

  Judith gritted her teeth. “You know I’m not talking about Mother. I mean the awful dog that belongs to Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth. That woman and her wrecking crew haven’t been here twenty-four hours, and they’ve already put me out of pocket. I’m going to have to charge for damages.”

  “Is that legal?” Joe now sounded serious, his policeman’s mind obviously at work.

  Leaning against the kitchen sink, Judith ran a nervous hand through her silver-streaked black hair. It was noon, straight up, on a muggy Wednesday in August. She felt short of breath, and on the verge of a sneezing spell. During the five and a half years that Judith had been running the bed-and-breakfast on Heraldsgate Hill, the old family home had suffered occasional misadventures. Soiled carpets, broken dishes, clogged drains, even a minor flood, had all cost Judith money, but she’d never yet asked a guest to pay for damages. She had insurance, although the deductible was two hundred dollars.

  “Mother did the petit point on the chair years ago, when her eyes were still sharp,” Judith said with regret as her cleaning woman, Phyliss Rackley, stomped into the kitchen. “The needlework is irreplaceable.”

  “But your mother isn’t,” Joe went on ingenuously. “Why don’t we trade her in on a nice recliner?”

  “Joe…” It was hopeless, Judith knew, to discuss her mother with her husband. Or vice versa. Joe Flynn and Gertrude Grover didn’t like each other. They never had: not in the beginning, almost thirty years earlier, when Judith and Joe had met; not when they had become engaged a few years later; certainly not when Joe had run off with another woman; and definitely not after the pair had finally reunited and married the previous summer. Gertrude had announced she wouldn’t live under the same roof as Joe. Compromises were attempted, but proved unworkable. For a time, Gertrude had lived with her sister-in-law, Deborah Grover, but that situation also had turned out to be untenable. So for the past ten months Judith’s mother had been living in the renovated toolshed next to the garage. It was the most feasible arrangement so far. While Judith was elated at finally becoming Joe’s wife, the incessant wrangling between her husband and her mother was a constant irritant, like a bunion.

  “Hey,” Joe said, his usually mellow voice suddenly brusque, “I’ve got to run. I just got a call for the My Brew Heaven Tavern over on Polk Street, possible homicide. See you tonight.”

  Wearily, Judith hung up the phone. Joe was doing his job, which was that of a homicide detective with the metropolitan police force. He had better ways to spend his time than consoling his wife about her marauding guests and their vicious dog. Judith should never have allowed anyone to bring a pet into Hillside Manor in the first place. Ordinarily, it was against her rules. But Dagmar Chatsworth’s secretary, Agnes Shay, had begged so piteously that Judith had given in. And now she was very sorry.

  “The Lord didn’t like dogs, either,” Phyliss Rackley asserted, waggling her dust mop. “Have you ever seen a picture of Him holding a cocker spaniel?”

  Judith gave a faint nod of agreement. She was used to her cleaning woman’s skewed theology. “I’ll take the braided rug to the dry cleaner’s,” Judith said, stifling a sneeze and adding the errand to her list of afternoon duties. “I’ve got some old drapes in the basement that’ll have to do until the August white sales. Will you have time to help me hang them before the guests get back?”

  “I’d hang the guests, if I were you,” huffed Phyliss, her gray sausage curls bobbing in time with her dust mop. “They’re an ungodly lot, and not fit company for that nice couple from Idaho and those nurses from Alberta.”

  Judith didn’t argue. Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth might be a nationally syndicated gossip columnist who had become as much of a celebrity as the people she parboiled in her thrice-weekly articles, but she was also a world-class pain in the neck. By contrast, Dagmar’s secretary, Agnes Shay, was a meek, mousy woman with an appallingly put-upon manner. The third member of the party, Freddy Whobrey, was Dagmar’s nephew. A former jockey, Freddy was small, dark, and feral, with a prominent overbite. Judith was reminded of a weasel. Or maybe a guinea pig. His nickname was Freddy Whoa, for reasons Judith could only guess.

  But the most exasperating member of the Chatsworth entourage was Dagmar’s fuzzy black-and-white Pomeranian. At the moment, the nasty little animal was locked in the bathroom that adjoined the front bedroom where Dagmar was staying. All of Judith’s guests were out. Dagmar was signing her new book, Chatty Chatsworth Digs the Dirt, at a downtown bookstore. Freddy and Agnes had accompanied her. The couple from Idaho and the nurses from Alberta were sightseeing.

  “If only the Carlsons hadn’t canceled,” Judith lamented, “I wouldn’t have had an opening for these creeps.” The Carlsons were annual visitors from Alaska who always brought along their two grown children and spouses; they all would have filled the three rooms required by the Chatsworth party. But Mr. Carlson had had an unfortunate run-in with an elk and wasn’t able to sit down. The family had rescheduled for the week after Labor Day.

  Phyliss volu
nteered to find the old drapes on her next laundry mission to the basement. Judith grabbed her list, her handbag, and a handful of tissues. She still felt like sneezing. From upstairs the two women could hear Dagmar’s dog, yipping its head off.

  “Buy a muzzle,” Phyliss urged. “That mutt is driving me crazy. I’ve asked the Lord for extra strength, but I think He’s putting me through another test. As if my ingrown toenail wasn’t enough. Say, did I tell you what happened Sunday at church when I tried to raise my arms after Pastor Polhamus told us to give the Devil the heave-ho? Well, there I was, standing in between…”

  Judith braced herself and listened patiently to Phyliss’s latest diatribe about her alleged ill health and ongoing search for salvation. Five minutes later, Judith was en route to the garage, feeling the oppressive heat and the muggy summer air. The grass in the backyard was turning yellow; the rhododendrons and azaleas drooped; even the small statue of St. Francis looked as if it could use a few swipes of sunscreen. The Pacific Northwest was suffering from drought, with water restrictions in force. Sprinklers could be used only for short periods on specified days of the week. Plants and shrubs were in danger of dying. Consumers were urged to cut back on using water-related appliances, including the shower and the toilet. A hefty surcharge would be added for anyone in violation. With the B&B full every night through the summer, Judith couldn’t impose such regulations on her guests, but she knew she would pay a high price for her thoughtfulness when the water bill arrived in September.

  Passing the garage, Judith approached the converted toolshed. She wondered why her mother didn’t keep the door and the windows open on such a hot day. Gertrude greeted her daughter’s knock with a scowl. She was wearing a heavy sweater over her leopard-print housecoat.

  “Well? You here to get your damned cat?” Gertrude demanded.

  “No, Mother,” Judith replied, her voice now husky. “I can’t take Sweetums into the house with that dog there. Don’t fuss, it’ll only be until tomorrow. Then the Chatsworths will be gone.”

  Gertrude leaned on her walker, barring the door. “Dumb. That’s what you are, Judith Anne. Dumb. Why would you agree to take in guests with a dog? You know better.”

  Judith was forced to allow that her mother was right. For once. “It was just for two nights, and they were in a bind. I was, too, with the Carlsons canceling. This is summer, and if I don’t keep the B&B full every night, I’ll lose money. I’d have been out almost six hundred dollars.”

  “Six hundred dollars!” Gertrude all but spit at Judith’s feet. “What’s that, these days? The way you blow money—how much did you spend on that Collar Idea?”

  Trying to ignore that she was perspiring under the midday sun and that her breathing was constricted and that she wanted to sneeze and that her mother was being unreasonable, Judith reined in her patience. “It’s not Collar Idea. It’s Caller I.D. I’m trying it out, because it’s a way to keep track of people who don’t leave phone messages on the answering machine. Some people won’t cooperate with modern technology, which is fine, but I lose reservations that way. With Caller I.D., I can figure out if they’re from out of town and get back to them. It’s costing me about eleven bucks to try it for a month.”

  “Dumb,” Gertrude muttered. “They can’t call back?”

  “Sometimes they don’t.” Judith jumped as Sweetums angled between Gertrude’s feet and the walker. “I’m going to the top of the Hill. Is there anything you want?” She felt Sweetums rub against her bare ankles.

  Gertrude snorted. “Is there anything I want? Are you kidding? How about new legs? New eyes? New ears? How about living in my own house where I belong instead of in this shipping crate of a so-called apartment? How about you dumping that shanty Irishman? How about,” she raged on, though her voice suddenly dropped a notch, “bringing back your father?”

  Judith winced. “Mother, you know I’d like…”

  Her head down, Gertrude turned away. “Skip it,” she ordered in her raspy old voice. “Get me some chocolate-covered peanuts and a birthday card for Uncle Win in Nebraska.”

  Judith started to protest that Uncle Win’s birthday wasn’t until September, but she knew that her mother liked to be prepared. “I’m making open-faced smoked salmon sandwiches for dinner tonight,” Judith said as Sweetums shook his orange and yellow fur, then scampered off to the small patio. “How does that sound?” She was accustomed to Gertrude routinely rejecting her menus and preparing meals in the toolshed’s small kitchen.

  But Gertrude inclined her head to one side, her small bright eyes uncharacteristically moist. “Huh? Sandwiches? For supper? What with?”

  “Uh…fresh sliced peaches? A green salad? Ambrosia?” Out of the corner of her eye Judith saw Sweetums poised to pounce on a robin.

  “Sounds good,” Gertrude replied, starting to close the door. “All of ’em.”

  Judith trudged to her blue Japanese compact. The robin had eluded Sweetums, who was now batting a paw at the small stone birds which surrounded St. Francis. For good measure, Sweetums slugged St. Francis, too. Judith got into her car and headed for the top of Heraldsgate Hill.

  As Dairy turned into Deli, Judith paused, considering her larder. Resting her statuesque figure on the sturdy grocery cart, she visualized her crisper drawers. Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth had consumed eight rashers of bacon, three pieces of toast, and four scrambled eggs for breakfast. Freddy also ate like a horse, while Agnes pecked like a bird. Judith picked up two pounds of bacon, not on sale, and moved on to Beer. She was rounding the end of Aisle 2B at Falstaff’s Market when she almost collided with another cart.

  “Yikes!” cried Cousin Renie, pulling up short. “Coz! I was going to call you when I got home. How’s Dagmar and Company?”

  Judith shook her head. “They’re a mess. Thank God they’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  Renie started to nod, then eyed Judith curiously. “Hey, what’s wrong with your voice? Have you got a cold?”

  Judith blinked several times. “No…I don’t think so. But I do feel all choked up and sneezy. Do you suppose I’m allergic to that damned dog?”

  Renie shrugged. She was wearing one of her most disreputable summer costumes, a short-sleeved flowered frock with both pockets partly ripped off. No doubt she had caught them on doorknobs or drawer handles. Renie’s wardrobe never ceased to amaze Judith. On the one hand, it consisted of elegant and expensive designer clothes that she wore for her career as a graphic designer; on the other, it was a deplorable collection of sloppy sweatshirts, baggy pants, and tattered dresses. Judith, in her trim navy slacks and red pocket-T, felt like a fashion goddess by comparison.

  “You’re allergic,” Renie said simply. “You always were, to both cats and dogs. You must have gotten over your allergy to cats, since you’ve been around Sweetums for so long, but I’ll bet you still can’t tolerate dogs. Take some Benadryl when you get home.”

  “Good idea.” Judith nodded, then jumped as a woman with steel-gray hair tried to get past the cousins, who were blocking the bakery aisle.

  Renie pulled her cart to one side. “Say, coz, are you interested in getting out of town for a couple of days? Bill and I have a freebie for a condo up at Bugler Ski Resort next week. He can’t go because he’s got a couple of big faculty meetings at the university, and then he heads north for his Alaska fishing trip.”

  Sadly, Judith shook her head. “I can’t take off in August. What about a month from now? Things slow down for me in September.”

  “No good.” Renie paused to nod vaguely at a fellow parishioner from Our Lady, Star of the Sea parish. Judith smiled, though the only thing she could remember about the woman was that she always wrung her hands during the consecration of the Host. “It’s a freebie, I told you,” Renie continued, sounding a bit testy. “It’s only good for midweek, late August. It’s off-season, and what they’re trying to do is sell condos. I’ve got a lull, since everybody in the corporate world goes on vacation during August. But Bill can’t change his Alaska r
eservation because the salmon are supposed to be in.”

  “What about taking one of your kids?” Judith asked as an elderly man pushed past them and mumbled to himself.

  Renie tossed her chestnut hair, which she’d recently had cut into a short, not particularly becoming, pageboy. “The kids! I want a rest, not responsibility! You know perfectly well that Tom, Anne, and Tony all have been home this summer—I was looking forward to a brief break. They won’t go back to college until late September. And none of them will ever graduate.”

  Judith couldn’t help but feel slightly smug. Her only child, Mike, was gainfully employed with the U.S. Forest Service at Nez Percé National Historical Park in Idaho. He would be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, probably with his girlfriend, Kristin, in tow. But in the meantime, Judith was enjoying her sabbatical from motherhood.

  “Sorry, coz,” Judith apologized. “I can’t. I’d like to, though.”

  Renie was looking miffed. “Right, right. As my mother would say, ‘Don’t worry about me.’ I’ll put off succumbing to heat prostration while I trudge from shop to shop, then go home and fix dinner for five, plus whichever light-o’-loves the young ones have dragged in. Afterward, I’ll wave Anne and her friends off to the Ice Dreams show. They’ll have a wonderful time while I clean up and do the laundry.”

  Judith brightened. “Ice Dreams? Starring Mia Prohowska, the Olympic Gold Medalist?”

  Dolefully, Renie nodded. “Mia doesn’t do laundry, I’ll bet. She and her coach, Nat Linski, have made so much money from her skating that she probably wears an outfit once and gives it to somebody poor—like me.”

  Judith reached for a baguette. “You like to wear rags when you’re not out hustling your graphic-design work.” She put two loaves of sliced white bread into her cart. “The rest of your wardrobe makes me drool.”