Murder, My Suite Read online

  “The bakery section does likewise to me,” Renie replied, selecting an epi loaf and a package of bagels. “If I didn’t have so many mouths to feed, I, too, could afford to see Mia Prohowska skate. They had to add an extra show, a matinee this afternoon. This is the end of the tour for Ice Dreams, so Anne is hoping they’ll do something special.”

  Judith’s gaze fixed on a loaf of Russian rye. “Mia’s amazing, all right. About a month ago, I saw her skate in some exhibition on TV. She’s every bit as graceful as a ballet dancer and even more athletic.”

  “Beautiful, too.” Renie was growing increasingly morose. “Some people have it all. We have our mothers.”

  Judith’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Courage.” She patted Renie’s arm. “We also have Joe and Bill and our kids.”

  Renie shot Judith a sardonic look. “And you have Dagmar Chatsworth. Serves you right for turning down my offer. Maybe I’ll call Madge Navarre,” she said in a tight voice, referring to their longtime mutual friend who had the advantage of being single and unencumbered. “I’ve got to scoot. This is my afternoon for errands.”

  Judith said it was hers, too, as most of them were. While she was responsible only for feeding her guests breakfast and an early-evening appetizer with sherry—or punch, in the summer—running a B&B as well as a household seemed to require an inordinate amount of time racing from store to store and spending unbudgeted monies. After the tour of Falstaff’s, she headed for the liquor store, the bakery, the pharmacy, and, finally, Risqué, the local card-and-gift shop.

  Judith was browsing in the birthday section when a head bobbed around the corner. “Coz!” Judith exclaimed. “You again?”

  Renie made a face. “My mother sent me to get a card for Uncle Win’s birthday. Jeez, it’s not for over a month!”

  Judith laughed. “You know our mothers,” she said, thinking of how the two sisters-in-law scrapped and yapped at each other, yet had so much in common. “The Depression-era mentality. They don’t want to be caught short.”

  Selecting a card that depicted the sun setting over the ocean, Renie nodded. “That’s why they save everything. Like blue baloney and furry cheese and four thousand rubber bands.”

  “Exactly. That’s also why neither of them will believe that greeting cards cost more than a quarter. I’ve been subsidizing my mother for years. Postage, too. She’s still in denial over the three-cent stamp.” Judith picked up a card that showed a cute, cuddly dog, then slapped it back into the display rack. “Yipes! I’ve had enough of dogs. I’ll go for this mountain scene. It’s very tranquil.”

  Renie arched her eyebrows. “So is Bugler. You’ve never been there. Bill and I took the kids about six years ago, when it was just getting under way. You’d love it, coz. The weather will be cooler in the mountains. It’s so secluded up there in British Columbia, and the facilities are absolutely top-notch. Terrific restaurants, too.” Renie licked her lips.

  “Knock it off,” Judith warned. “I can’t go, and that’s final.” She jammed the mountain scene back into the rack, and grabbed a card that featured a grinning chimpanzee playing the banjo. “I’ve got to run. Phyliss needs help.”

  “True,” Renie replied. The expression on her round face was puckish as she watched Judith’s long-legged strides to the cashier’s counter. But Renie didn’t say another word to her cousin. Not yet.

  Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth was not ugly, not was she pretty. If asked, Judith would have struggled to describe her current guest. Publicly claiming to be fiftyish, Dagmar could have been ten years older. She was rather short, slightly stocky, and had a widow’s peak of reddish-brown hair that Judith guessed was probably dyed. Still, Dagmar disguised her age and flaws quite well: Despite the warm weather, she wore draped wool crepe, with a matching turban and a scarf that was carefully wrapped around her neck. Crepe on crepe, Judith reflected, then chastised herself for being catty. Dagmar’s small feet were encased in four-inch, open-toed pumps. She carried a lacy beige shawl, though there was no need for it with the temperature in the high eighties. Her jewelry was gold, handsome, and studded with diamonds. It occurred to Judith that Dagmar had done very well for herself by doing in others.

  “Did you read my column today?” Dagmar demanded upon entering Hillside Manor at precisely five o’clock. She had arrived by limousine; Agnes and Freddy were returning on a city bus. According to Dagmar, they had errands to run for her. And for Rover. While they slaved, she raved: “I made a chump of Trump and slam-dunked Michael Jordan. Princess Di will die of mortification, and Pavarotti will perforate his pasta. Am I hot or what?”

  Grudgingly, Judith admitted that she had read Dagmar’s latest installment of “Get Your Chat’s Worth” in the morning paper. She always did. The barbs were irresistible, the style irreverent, the gossip irrefutable—if only because Dagmar was so vague when it came to facts and sources. The thrice-weekly column was perfect over the second cup of coffee, especially, in Judith’s case, when she had already been coping with a houseful of guests for breakfast. There had been mornings in her career as a B&B hostess when Judith actually considered “Chat’s Worth” therapeutic. She could take out her frustrations on the rich and famous, rather than on her own not-so-rich and rarely famous, yet aggravating, guests.

  “You were at the top of your form today,” Judith admitted, smiling weakly at Dagmar. “I really liked the paragraph where you insinuated that a certain aging rocker was no longer stoned, but merely rolling along on his past glory. Especially in bed.”

  Dagmar shook a well-manicured finger at Judith. “Innuendo, my dear. That’s the trick. Hints, allusions, the slightest of slurs.” She waved her hand like a conjurer. “It’s all in the wrists. The typing, you know.”

  Judith nodded, also weakly. “Very…clever. What about those cryptic comments you made the last week or two about athletes’ pasts catching up with them? You’ve been very coy.”

  Dagmar chuckled. “Naturally. So many celebrities have secrets. All this big money for people who play games—in more ways than one. Stadiums and arenas reek with greed and perfidy. What piqued your interest most? The hint of perverse puckishness? The men who do more than play with their balls? The club that’s not just a club? The talent scout for underage groupies?”

  Judith blanched as Dagmar leered. “It was the turncoat-redcoat item. I didn’t get it. In conjunction with Cinderella?”

  Again Dagmar chortled. “Nor should you. Yet. Did you understand the part about cold storage?”

  Judith hadn’t. She tried to remember the series of insinuations. Someone was a turncoat and/or a redcoat, which seemed unlikely, since the Revolutionary War was long forgotten. Unless, of course, Dagmar had been referring to the British in general. And Cinderella was being kept in cold storage. The deep freeze was thawing, though. Royalty was getting the boot. Judith remembered that phrase.

  “Does it have something to do with soccer?” she asked innocently.

  Now Dagmar’s mirth was unbridled. “Soccer! My dear! Does anyone in this country care about soccer? Only children under twelve and their rabid parents! Think again! Major sports! Major money! Major readership!”

  Judith was at a loss. She abandoned guessing at Dagmar’s veiled intentions. “You certainly cover everybody’s peccadilloes. Do you ever get threatened with lawsuits?”

  For a brief moment Dagmar’s high forehead clouded over under the turban. “Threatened?” Her crimson lips clamped shut; then she gave Judith an ironic smile. “My publishers have superb lawyers, my dear. Libel is surprisingly hard to prove with public figures.”

  The phone rang, and Judith chose to pick it up in the living room. She was only mildly surprised when the caller asked for Dagmar Chatsworth. The columnist already had received a half-dozen messages since arriving at Hillside Manor the previous day.

  While Dagmar took the call, Judith busied herself setting up the gateleg table she used for hors d’oeuvres and beverages. At first, Dagmar sounded brisk, holding a ballpoint pen poised over
the notepad Judith kept by the living room extension. Then her voice tensed; so did her pudgy body.

  “How dare you!” Dagmar breathed into the receiver. “Swine!” She banged the phone down and spun around to confront Judith. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “In my own house?” Judith tried to appear reasonable. “If you wanted privacy, you should have gone upstairs to the hallway phone by the guest rooms.”

  Lowering her gaze, Dagmar fingered the swatch of fabric at her throat. “I didn’t realize who was calling. I thought it was one of my sources.”

  “It wasn’t?” Judith was casual.

  “No.” Dagmar again turned her back, now gazing through the bay window that looked out over downtown and the harbor. Judith sensed the other woman was gathering her composure, so she quietly started for the kitchen.

  She had got as far as the dining room when the other two members of Dagmar’s party entered the house. Agnes Shay carried a large shopping bag bearing the logo of a nationally known book chain; Freddy Whobrey hoisted a brown paper bag which Judith suspected contained a bottle of liquor. Another rule was about to be broken, Judith realized: She discouraged guests from bringing alcoholic beverages to their rooms, but a complete ban was difficult to enforce.

  The bark of Dagmar’s dog sent the entire group into a frenzy. Clutching the shopping bag to her flat breast, Agnes started up the main staircase. Freddy waved his paper sack and shook his head. Dagmar put a hand to her turban and let out a small cry.

  “Rover! Poor baby! He’s been neglected!” She moved to the bottom of the stairs, shouting at Agnes. The telephone call appeared to be forgotten. “Give him his Woofy Treats. Extra, for now. They’re in that ugly blue dish on the dresser.”

  Judith blanched. She knew precisely where the treats reposed, since she had discovered them earlier in the day, sitting in her mother’s favorite Wedgwood bowl. Anxiously, Judith watched the obedient Agnes disappear from the second landing of the stairs. Rover continued barking.

  “I thought the dog was a female,” Judith said lamely.

  Dagmar beamed. “That’s because he’s so beautiful. Pomeranians are such adorable dogs. Rover is five, and still acts like the most precious of puppies. Would you mind if he came down for punch and hors d’oeuvres?”

  Judith did mind, quite a bit. On the other hand, the dog would be under supervision. “Well, as long as he stays in the living room.” Judith’s smile was now strained.

  Out in the kitchen, Phyliss Rackley was finishing her chores for the day. Usually she was gone by three, but Rover’s destructive habits had provided more work for the cleaning woman, as well as for Judith.

  “All those feathers from the down comforter,” Phyliss grumbled as she gave the counters a last swipe with a wet rag. “Now my allergies are acting up. I found one of your old quilts to cover the bed.”

  Judith, in the act of taking a bottle of Benadryl from the windowsill above the sink, snatched her hand away. She wasn’t about to get into a discussion of allergic reactions with Phyliss.

  “That’s fine, Phyliss,” Judith said with an appreciative smile. “I’m sorry things were in such a mess today. Let’s hope they keep that blasted dog under control until they leave tomorrow morning.”

  Phyliss was rummaging in her large straw shopping bag. “What’s with the strongbox upstairs? It’s heavy. I had to move it to get under the nightstand next to the bed. The dog did something truly nasty there.”

  Judith shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Dagmar’s got a typewriter, too. I’d figure her for using a laptop, but apparently she’s the old-fashioned sort.”

  “Filth,” Phyliss declared, removing an Ace bandage from her straw bag and deftly wrapping it around her right ankle. “The woman writes filth. I don’t know why a family newspaper runs such trash. Decent people wouldn’t read it.” On her way out, she banged the screen door for emphasis.

  Judith grabbed the Benadryl just as Agnes Shay crept into the kitchen.

  “We’re out of bottled water,” Agnes said in her wispy, anxious voice. “I’m so sorry…Do you have any in the refrigerator, or should I walk up to the grocery store?”

  Judith had no qualms about drinking from the tap, and did so before answering Agnes. Since many of her guests preferred a more purified form of water, she always kept a supply on hand.

  “There’s both plain and flavored,” she replied after swallowing her allergy pill. “It’s too hot to walk up to the top of the Hill. Take what you need.” Judith gestured at the refrigerator with her glass.

  “Oh…thank you!” Agnes’s round face glowed with gratitude. Like her employer’s, Agnes’s age was difficult to guess. Thirties, Judith figured, but with a naive air that made her seem younger. On the other hand, her appearance added extra years. Agnes was small, with drab brown hair, a smattering of freckles across her plain face, and a shapeless figure. “You’re so kind!” she exclaimed, turning to face Judith. She clutched at least a half-dozen bottles against her insignificant bosom.

  Judith gaped. “Ah…do you really need all of those?” It looked to Judith as if Agnes had commandeered the entire inventory.

  But Agnes nodded. “Oh, yes. They’ll last only until morning. It’s this warm weather, you see. Rover gets so thirsty.” On scurrying feet, Agnes padded out of the kitchen.

  Judith grimaced and went to the phone. Maybe she could catch Joe before he left work. She was sure he wouldn’t mind stopping to pick up more bottled water. Using the phone on the kitchen wall, she was about to punch in her husband’s number when she heard a voice on the line.

  “…and the dawn comes up like thunder…”

  It was a man. Judith hung up, carefully. The living room was vacant. Someone was using the phone in the upstairs hallway. After a five-minute wait, she gently lifted the receiver. Now she heard a woman, speaking in a lilting yet singsong voice:

  “…will be different when Crown Colony is no more…”

  Judith sighed. Unless she went all the way up to the third floor and used the private family line, she’d never reach Joe in time. The water could wait. No doubt she’d have more errands to run the following day.

  A few minutes later, Judith was dividing her purchase of smoked salmon between the hors d’oeuvres platter and the open-faced sandwiches when Freddy Whobrey breezed into the kitchen.

  “Rocks,” he said, then planted himself expectantly next to the sink. He had been wearing snakeskin cowboy boots upon his arrival at Hillside Manor; now his feet were shod in alligator shoes. Judith suspected that they contained lifts. Freddy probably wasn’t more than five feet two in his stocking feet.

  “Rocks?” Judith used the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration off her forehead.

  “Ice.” Freddy’s beady black eyes were fixed on the refrigerator door. “I could use a glass, too.”

  “I’m making punch,” Judith responded a bit crossly. “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  “Punch!” Freddy guffawed, revealing very sharp teeth. “That’s for old ladies like Dagmar and old maids like Agnes! I never drink anything but the real McCoy.”

  Judith eyed him with distaste, then remembered her manners as a hostess and forced a smile. “I prefer that guests don’t drink upstairs,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant.

  “No problem,” he retorted. “Downstairs, outside, inside—you name it, sweetie. Where’s the rocks?”

  Resignedly, Judith got out a highball glass and shoved it under the ice dispenser. “Here,” she said. “To your health.”

  Freddy gazed up at her with admiration. “Say, you’re a big one! Nice. I like tall women. Got some curves, too.” Apparently noticing Judith’s black eyes snap, Freddy held up the hand that didn’t hold the highball. “No offense—I’m giving you a sincere compliment. I may be small, but I’m perfectly formed. You got good features, I can see that. Strong, even, all of a piece. I’ll bet you can go the distance. A mile and a sixteenth wouldn’t bother you at all, huh?”

  Judith fa
vored Freddy with an arch little smile. She noted that he was beginning to bald on top, though he had carefully combed his dark hair over the offending spot. “It wouldn’t bother me,” she replied, looking over his head to the back door, “but it’d make my husband mad as hell. Hi, Joe. Shoot anybody today?”

  “Only one,” Joe replied. “He’s in intensive care.” Joe threw his summer-weight jacket on the peg in the entryway by the back stairs and unfastened his holster. “Hi, Freddy,” he said, putting out his free hand. “How about a game of William Tell? If you’ve got the apple, I’ve got the gun.”

  Freddy ran out of the kitchen. The swinging door rocked behind him. Rover barked and a woman screamed. A hissing sound followed. Furniture fell. More voices were raised in alarm. Judith started for the living room, but Joe caught her by the waist.

  “Relax,” he said, his round, faintly florid face close to hers. “These people are crazy. I’m not. How about a hug?”

  Judith obliged. With gusto.

  TWO

  PUNCH AND HORS D’OEUVRES were late. The couple from Idaho and the nurses from Alberta didn’t linger in the living room. Both parties had seven o’clock dinner reservations. The Chatsworth ménage planned on being fashionably late for an eight-thirty table at a waterfront bistro.

  Upon arriving with the punch bowl and the appetizer tray around six-fifteen, Judith learned the reason for the scream: Rover had cornered Sweetums under the baby grand piano. The dog had barked, the cat had clawed, and Dagmar had reacted with anguish. Sweetums had wisely fled via the open French doors. Rover didn’t try to follow.

  “Your cat is undisciplined,” Dagmar announced angrily when Judith finally appeared. “He attacked my precious.”

  “Gosh, that’s terrible,” Judith said, feigning dismay. “I can’t think what got into him. Normally, he’s such a sweet-tempered little guy.” Like Hitler, Judith thought to herself, but for once, she blessed her pet’s rotten disposition.