Nutty As a Fruitcake Read online

  Now, almost five years later, Judith and Joe were together. They had been married for three and a half years, while Herself had gone into voluntary exile in Florida. Though the Flynns had spent the past three Christmases together, this would be the first year that Joe’s daughter, Caitlin, would join them. Caitlin lived and worked in Switzerland. Judith was excited at the prospect of spending some time with her stepdaughter. The two women had met only once before, at Joe and Judith’s wedding.

  But Caitlin Flynn wouldn’t arrive until two days before Christmas. Judith’s son, Mike, and his girlfriend, Kristin, would get into town a day earlier. Judith’s black eyes danced.

  “You look pretty happy for somebody who’s about to be sabotaged,” Joe remarked as he put four chicken breasts in the microwave and poked the defroster command. “I take it you figure you can use your legendary charm to coax the Goodriches to go along with your little plan?”

  Judith wrenched her mind away from the family holiday gathering. “Well—maybe.” Judith’s greatest asset in running the B&B was her ability to get along with virtually every type of personality. Her compassion and openness not only established rapport but also invited confidences. Perhaps she could work her wiles on the Goodriches. “I think I’ll wander down the street before I make that coffee cake.”

  Putting on her heavy green jacket, Judith exited through the front door. Usually, the main entrance was reserved for guests. At present, Hillside Manor had only two rooms occupied. The B&B had been full since before Thanksgiving, but the visitors who had come to spend the holiday with relatives or get a jump start on Christmas shopping had all headed home by Sunday morning. The two new sets of guests were both married couples who were passing through on their way to California and Arizona. Neither couple had yet checked in.

  It was not quite four o’clock, but the pale globe of sun that fought its way through the gray cloud cover was already sinking over the mountains to the west. Standing halfway down Heraldsgate Hill, Judith could also see the concrete, steel, and glass high-rises that formed the downtown skyline. She never tired of the view, which juxtaposed modern civilization with the natural wonders of sea, forest, and mountains. Judith knew she was blessed with not only the powers of observation but of appreciation. The holidays always heightened her senses. Maybe it was the colorful decorations or the sounds of familiar carols or the aroma of seasonal delicacies. She hoped it was all of those things, and more. Amid the frenzy of Christmas preparations, Advent still brought Judith a sense of inner peace.

  Awash with communal feeling, Judith strolled along the cul-de-sac. Idly, she noticed that the old pick-up truck was gone from across the street. She passed the Ericsons’ ultramodern makeover, then the first of two modest brick Tudors. The Goodriches lived between the Ericsons and Mrs. Swanson at the corner. Jeanne and Ted Ericson were in their thirties, so far childless, and held responsible jobs downtown. Ted was an architect who had redesigned the original 1920s nondescript bungalow. Jeanne was a stockbroker with a large investment firm. Mrs. Swanson had been a Japanese war bride whose husband, Andrew, had died shortly after Judith moved back to the family home. While Miko Swanson was of another culture and a different generation, she and Judith had found common ground in the loss of their husbands within the same six-month period. The greatest difference had been that Mrs. Swanson had been overcome by her loss. Judith, in all honesty, was not: Her initial reaction had been relief. Sorrow had come later, and even then, it was more for Dan than for herself.

  The Swanson and the Goodrich houses were mirror images of each other. While the Goodrich home faced the cul-de-sac, the Swanson residence looked out onto the cross street. Judith started along the stepping stones that led through a carefully tended, if now fallow, garden. There was no sign of visitors, so Judith assumed that the grandsons had left. It was only when she reached the front porch that she remembered the Goodriches’ preference for using the back door. Sighing, Judith retraced her steps and followed the driveway that the Goodriches shared with the Ericsons.

  A wooden gate led onto the Goodrich property. The latch opened easily. Even in late autumn, the small backyard was immaculately tended. Judith knew that George did all of the work himself, either out of love for gardening, or as an excuse to escape Enid.

  Passing the garbage can and recycling bins, Judith noticed a neatly stacked woodpile and a chopping block. Sheltered under the porch were several empty clay pots of varying sizes, a couple of trowels, a shovel, a rake, and an edger. Just beyond the wooden fence stood the Goodriches’ single garage. Its doors were closed, but Judith knew that George’s aging but well-maintained Dodge sedan sat protected from the elements.

  She stepped onto the lattice-enclosed porch. The single chime of the doorbell finally summoned George Goodrich. Judith hadn’t seen George up close for some time, and was surprised at how wrinkled his long face had grown. But of course he must be close to eighty, Judith realized. The two Goodrich children were a few years older than Judith.

  “Judith,” George said in mild surprise as he adjusted his glasses on his thin nose. “What can we do for you?”

  Judith shuffled a bit on the doormat. “I have to ask a favor.” She smiled. “May I come in?”

  George Goodrich’s expression was uncertain. He pushed his glasses up on his thin nose, then turned to call over his shoulder: “Enid—it’s Judith Grover. She wants to ask us something. Is it all right for her to come in?”

  Judith was used to still being called by her maiden name among the oldsters on Heraldsgate Hill. But George’s deference to his wife was jarring. Nor did Enid Goodrich reply immediately. When she did, her voice was petulant.

  “Very well. But she must know I’m in poor health. I can’t be putting myself out for much of anything these days.”

  With a diffident smile, George stepped aside. Judith entered the immaculate kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d actually stood inside the Goodrich house. Strangely, nothing seemed changed. The white counter tiles probably had come with the house some seventy years earlier. They were faintly yellowed and cracked, but scrubbed to perfection. The Formica was of a later vintage, but it, too, shone in the late afternoon light. Crocheted pot holders hung pristinely from magnets on the unblemished refrigerator. There wasn’t a sign of anyone ever having consumed so much as a crumb in the Goodrich kitchen.

  George led Judith through a small hallway off the equally tidy dining room. Mrs. Goodrich was in the master bedroom, reclining on one of the twin beds. She had been watching a big color TV console, but condescended to have George turn the program off. The furniture was old and solid but unremarkable in design except for the fluted mirror on the dressing table. A medicinal smell hung over the room, which wasn’t surprising, given the collection of bottles and jars and drinking glasses that crowded Enid’s nightstand. Its mate, which Judith assumed belonged to George, held a single etched glass, a bottle of liquid antacid, a clock-radio, and a spectacles case. A brass reading lamp hung over Enid’s bed; the space above George’s headboard was bare. The bureau and dressing table held cosmetics and cologne and jewelry cases and a set of quilted satin organizers. Even the clothes that Judith could see in the half-opened closet all appeared to belong to Mrs. Goodrich.

  “Judith,” Enid said in a musing voice that conveyed faint disapproval. “Do you want to borrow something? If you do, you promise to bring it back. That Swanson woman has had our lawn edger for over a month.”

  “Now, dear,” George began in a soothing tone, “we’ve borrowed a few things from her. I still haven’t returned her hatchet after we got that load of wood for the fireplace.”

  “Wood!” Enid spoke scornfully. “Now that was plain foolishness! Wasteful, too. When have we built a fire in the fireplace? All it does is get ash on my nice beige carpet. Besides, no one’s allowed in the living room except special company.” With a long-suffering expression, Enid turned to Judith. “Naturally, I haven’t been able to entertain for a long time. I’m much too ill. George seems
to forget that. Among other things.” She shot her husband a malevolent glance, then resumed speaking to her visitor. “Now exactly what is it you wanted to borrow from me?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Judith began, wondering if she should sit on the cedar chest at the end of Enid’s bed. There were no chairs, and she doubted if Enid would tolerate anyone sharing space on the mattress. “As you know, I’ve asked the neighbors to…”

  “Neighbors!” Enid sneered. She was a small woman who, as Judith recalled, had once been almost pretty. Time had not treated her kindly. The strawberry-blond hair had been dyed until it had lost not only its luster but its fullness, too. Despite her thin frame, the once firm jawline sagged into jowls, and the skin under the eyes was puffy. Her aquiline nose had sharpened, and the mouth, which Judith remembered being carefully outlined in bright pink, was clamped into a tight line that would have rebelled at any hint of a smile.

  “Neighbors!” Enid repeated, this time almost wistfully. “What kind of neighbors have we got these days? Those Ericsons are never home, Mrs. Swanson isn’t what I’d call friendly, the Porters always have a bunch of cars they’re supposedly fixing, and the Steins are just plain snooty. I remember a time when everybody was pleasant. Except for that bunch of rowdies with their outdoor picnics and gallons of beer and ukeleles and singing half into the night! Now there was a noisy nuisance! We had to call the police at least four times.”

  “That was my family.” Judith realized that her eyes had narrowed and her jaw had set. “I believe you’re referring to the wedding reception for Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince in 1951.”

  Enid glared at Judith. “Did they get married four times? What about your uncle? The one who put the cherry bomb in the barbecue on Independence Day? Every year, I cringe when July rolls around. His antics are completely unnerving.”

  Judith had stopped wondering about sitting down. Now she only wanted to figure out how she could leave without harsh words. “That was Uncle Cliff,” she said stiffly, recalling the puckishness of Renie’s father. “He’s been dead for twenty years.”

  Enid was obviously startled but quickly regained her aplomb. “I should think so!”

  Judith sighed. “Look, I know you don’t feel up to coming to our meeting tonight. We’re going to discuss outdoor Christmas decorations. I thought it would be nice for all of us in the cul-de-sac to put up some lights or something this year. Would you like to join in?”

  A contemptuous look crossed Enid’s face. “Christmas? What about the Steins? They’re Jewish. Mrs. Swanson is Japanese. I’ve never known the Ericsons to attend any church. And the Porters are Negroes! What does Christmas mean to any of those people?”

  Having forgotten that Enid Goodrich was impossible, Judith surrendered. “Okay, forget it. I won’t impose any longer. Good-bye, Mrs. Goodrich.” Judith gave George an apologetic little smile. “Sorry I bothered you.”

  George’s long face had fallen so far that it looked as if his chin could touch the top button on his worn cardigan. “Yes, well, it’s no bother. Except that…”

  “George!” Enid’s sharp voice cut through the slightly stale air. “Get my pain medicine! It’s after four! And put ice in the water this time. It was lukewarm at noon.”

  “Yes, dear.” George wore his air of resignation like an albatross. Back in the kitchen, he headed straight for the cupboard. Judith glimpsed a vast array of pharmaceutical bottles. “Enid suffers so from her arthritis,” George explained as he peered at the various labels. “Headaches, too. And her stomach gives her fits. It’s so hard to fix food that won’t upset her.”

  “That’s too bad,” Judith said, her usual sympathy at a low ebb. “Thanks, George. I’ll see you later.” She reached for the doorknob.

  “Uh…” George was running the tap water. “Last year you…ah…brought over some really wonderful little cookies. And candy. I was…um…wondering if…well, Enid can’t eat sweets as a rule, but…er…”

  Taking in the pitiful old face, Judith smiled. “Of course. I usually make spritz cookies and fudge about two weeks before Christmas. My mother does her divinity and penuche about that time, too. We’ll be sure to see that you get some, okay?”

  George returned the smile, his tired gray eyes lighting up behind the thick glasses. “That’s very kind of you, Judith. And your mother, too. Thank you. At year’s end, I still help with the meat packing company’s books. They get so busy, you see. It’s nice to have a little something to nibble on when you’re working into the wee hours. It’s not just an indulgence—it’s good for me, when my ulcers act up.” George glanced away, as if embarrassed by his frailty as well as his industriousness. He probably was unsettled, Judith thought, no doubt because Enid resented any attention being expended on anyone but her. “And…uh…” he went on, nervously looking at Judith once more, “I’m sorry we couldn’t be more…helpful.”

  So am I, Judith thought, but she bit back the words. George had enough problems without hearing a neighbor’s sarcasm. “That’s okay. Take care.” She closed the door quietly.

  Coming out of the driveway, she noticed the pickup truck on the other side of the through street. It hadn’t been parked there over the Thanksgiving holiday. Judith had never seen it until that afternoon, when Renie had pointed it out. Mentally, she shrugged. It wasn’t her problem, as long as whoever owned it didn’t park in the already crowded cul-de-sac.

  Instead of going directly into her house, Judith stopped off at the converted toolshed behind the garage. It took eight knocks before her mother appeared. Gertrude Grover leaned on her walker and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

  “When’s supper?” she demanded.

  For once, Judith ignored the question. “Mother, have you ever wanted to kill Enid Goodrich?”

  “Sure,” Gertrude replied cheerfully, puffing away at her cigarette. “A couple of years ago, after she threw a bucket of water on Sweetums, I had it out with the old bat. I warned her that if she ever did that again I’d stick her big fat head in a pot of sauerkraut and wienies and hold her down until she yelled ‘Heil, Gertrude.’ How come you ask?”

  Having managed to sidestep both Gertrude and her walker, Judith flopped onto the sofa. “She’s probably the most disagreeable woman I’ve ever met. How has poor George put up with her all these years?”

  “George!” Gertrude’s raspy voice was full of derision. Shaking her head, she clumped over to sit beside her daughter. “Now there’s a poor excuse for a man. No spine. The worst thing that ever happened to him—besides marrying Enid, I mean—was retirement. George Goodrich worked for over forty years as a bookkeeper at that meat packing place out past the railroad depot. He didn’t quit until he was forced to, when he turned seventy. Then he had to stick around the house, waiting on that wife of his hand and foot. What a sap.”

  Briefly, Judith reflected on the Life and Times of George Goodrich. It was easy for her mother to criticize a much put-upon spouse. Judith’s father, Donald Grover, had been a softspoken intellectual who had rarely raised his voice in anger. He had been a loving husband and a doting father. Gertrude had had it all, which was what made it so difficult for her to go on without Donald for over thirty years. It was also, Judith knew, what made Gertrude so difficult.

  But Judith had lived with Dan McMonigle for eighteen years. She understood how one partner could be forced to endure the relentless unpleasantness of the other. There was the basic commitment, which she—and apparently George—did not take lightly. There was also love, or something like it, that no one else could possibly comprehend. Then there were children and habit and ultimately, fear: fear of change, fear of the future, fear of how the rejected spouse might retaliate. Judith recognized all those emotions, though now, almost eight years after Dan’s death, musing on them was like unwrapping ugly, little-used Christmas decorations that had been shoved to the back of the cupboard.

  “You never know,” Gertrude was saying as she stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray someone had swiped for her from Haro
ld’s Club in Reno, “what really goes on with other folks. Most of ’em are just plain nuts. Or dumb as a bag of dirt.”

  “I don’t think George is dumb,” Judith replied a bit vaguely. “Enid, maybe.” But her mother was right. You could never be sure about other people’s needs and desires. Years ago, Uncle Cliff had given Judith and Renie some sage advice: When the neighbors shut the door, remember what side you’re standing on. Nobody can see through wood or into the human heart. Judith wondered if Uncle Cliff had been talking about the Goodriches even then.

  “Their kids come by often,” Judith pointed out. “At least Art does. I see his car parked out in front of the house a couple of times a week.”

  Gertrude pulled at the sleeve of her baggy cardigan. “Say, kiddo, have you put a meter on the heat in this dump I call home? I’m freezing my nummies off in this place. We had frost as thick as your husband’s head last night.”

  Since Judith felt as if she were in a sauna, she started to protest. It would do no good, however. It never did. Even in the summer, Gertrude complained of being cold.

  “Maybe we could get you a space heater,” Judith suggested. “If you promise not to set the place on fire.”

  Gertrude turned to glare at her daughter. “What do you think I am? Daffy?” Before Judith could offer a denial—or agreement—Gertrude continued speaking: “Art Goodrich is a fine boy. He takes care of his parents. Why, he even dropped in to see this poor old coot a couple of weeks ago. Or did I tell you that already?” Gertrude’s small, wizened face puckered with genuine puzzlement. Of late, her memory sometimes failed her.