All the Pretty Hearses Page 3

  “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.”

  Chapter Three

  Joe was in a better mood that evening. Renie’s husband, Bill, had stopped by during one of his long walks on Heraldsgate Hill’s south slope. Like Joe, Bill Jones was semiretired, but still saw some of his longtime patients in his capacity as a psychologist. He also occasionally guest-lectured at the University, where he’d taught for many years.

  “What did Bill have to say?” Judith asked during dinner. “Would I be wrong to guess it has something to do with winter steelheading?”

  “Yes, you would,” Joe replied, ladling more pot roast gravy onto his potatoes. “Or do you already have some things you want me to do around the house like cleaning out the basement or fixing the broken garage window?”

  “Well . . . that window should be replaced. The pigeons fly in there sometimes.”

  “Why did anyone ever put a window that high up? It’s useless.”

  “Grandpa Grover did that because of the chickens they kept there during the Second World War. They nested in the loft. He could check on them through the window.”

  “Why would he do that?” Joe suddenly waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t actually want to know. Besides, Bill has a real job for me.”

  Judith almost choked on a carrot. “You . . . mean . . .” she sputtered, “a . . . paying job?”

  Joe nodded. “Indeed.”

  Judith narrowed her eyes. “It better not involve Oscar.”

  “It doesn’t,” he asserted. “It’s a former patient who believes he’s being stalked.”

  Judith was still leery. “In other words, Bill didn’t cure this patient.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Joe said, looking serious. “This guy has physical proof that there’s some kind of harassment if not actual stalking going on. Whoever is pestering him leaves souvenirs at his residence or sends them through the mail.”

  “Why doesn’t he call the cops?”

  “For the same reason I mentioned earlier,” Joe explained. “He did call, but this sort of nuisance stuff isn’t a high priority with limited resources. Admittedly, it sounds a little goofy, but that doesn’t mean whoever is doing it might not escalate the situation.”

  Judith considered taking a second helping of pot roast but changed her mind. Joe was already forking more onto his plate and Gertrude would want the leftovers for sandwiches. Judith was watching her weight as she always did, especially after the holidays. “Dare I ask who’s on the receiving end of this harassment?”

  Joe shook his head. “Doctor/client/PI privileges.”

  “Then you’re taking on this job?”

  “Sure.” Joe’s cheerful expression changed to puzzlement. “I thought you wanted me to get out there and earn.”

  “I do,” she assured him. “It just sounds a little . . . strange.”

  “Bill’s patients usually are a little strange,” Joe said drily. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t be his patients.”

  “You told me this person was . . . healed.”

  Joe made a face. “Nobody’s ever ‘healed’—as you of all people know. This kind of thing could cause a relapse, or whatever shrinks term backslidin
g behavior.”

  “Bill usually refers to such conditions as ‘going off his or her nut.’ ”

  Joe nodded absently. “Bill speaks laymanese to the rest of us.”

  “Can you tell me what sort of things his patient is getting from the alleged would-be stalker?”

  “Innocuous stuff,” Joe replied, dishing yet more pot roast onto his plate. “A leather belt. Little restaurant cups of mustard and ketchup. A Serpentine Downs program from last summer.” He paused. “Oh—a wilted carnation bouquet.”

  Judith stared at Joe. “That’s a very eclectic, not to mention bland bunch of items. What does Bill—or his patient—make of it?”

  “They don’t, which is why the ex-patient is concerned.” Joe eyed Judith warily. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Let it go. The client’s agreed to pay my usual fee. That should satisfy you.”

  Judith didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally she shrugged. “Okay. It’s not my problem. I’ll dismiss it from my mind.”

  Both Flynns knew better than to believe her words. But neither of them said so out loud.

  By Thursday afternoon, there had been no other requests for Room Three, though Judith had added one more guest, a single woman for Room Two. Rooms One and Five remained vacant, but at least the B&B was over half full.

  By the time her four Wednesday-night guests had checked out and the remaining middle-aged couple in Room Six had left for the day, Judith headed up to Falstaff’s Grocery to check out the weekly specials. She brought along the notes she’d taken for the Paine family’s complicated dietary requests as well as some lactose- and gluten-free recipes she’d printed out from the Internet.

  The first stop was the produce section. She wondered if broccoli counted as a leafy green vegetable. Spinach would, but not carrots, green beans, or peas. Judith bagged two pounds of green beans and the same amount of carrots. Salad was problematical. If one of the Paines couldn’t eat leafy greens, she’d make something with fruit or serve raw vegetables. She was still mulling when someone bumped her from behind. “Move it, lady,” Renie barked. “I have to get to the oyster mushrooms.”

  “Coz!” Judith exclaimed, turning around. “I need mushrooms, too. I’m trying to figure out what to feed those Paines.”

  “Try poison,” Renie suggested, bringing her cart alongside Judith’s.

  “Don’t say that!” Judith exclaimed in a hushed voice. “Have you forgotten that the first time I encountered a murder, it was at my dining room table?”

  “So?” Renie said as they moved on to broccolini. “Didn’t that first corpse reunite you with Joe?”

  “Well . . .” Judith paused to reflect on her reaction when, after a twenty-year absence, the love of her life had walked through Hillside Manor’s front door. Detective Joe Flynn had been the primary assigned to the apparent murder of a fortune-teller. The victim’s death had set a new life in motion for Judith—and Joe. “Everything has its upside.”

  “I can still help tomorrow night if you want me,” Renie said.

  Judith studied the broccolini. “Leafy or not leafy?”

  “What?”

  “One of the Paines can’t eat leafy green vegetables.”

  “Oh.” Renie thought for a moment. “Some think it’s a cross between broccoli and asparagus, but it’s not. The broccoli is paired with a more obscure vegetable related to cabbage. Stick to the asparagus.”

  “Good idea,” Judith murmured, backing up to the asparagus bin. “But,” she asked after rejoining Renie, “what about Bill?”

  “He’s going to the University’s basketball game with Uncle Al. Freebies, of course.”

  The cousins had reached the diverse mushroom section. “Has Uncle Al ever actually paid for a ticket? I’ve never figured out how he’s so connected to every political, athletic, labor union, and entertainment segment in the city without getting arrested. Several of his close friends, including a former sheriff, have done prison time.”

  Renie shrugged before putting her oyster mushrooms into a produce bag. “Uncle Al’s a bit of a con artist and he’s always been lucky, even when he gambles in Nevada. He also has enough moxie for three people. Say,” she said suddenly, “would Joe like to go with Bill and Uncle Al? Surely he doesn’t want to be home while the Paines are there.”

  “I’ll ask,” Judith said, finding the freshest button mushrooms.

  “Okay.” Renie picked up two packages of udon noodles. “Did you know that Uncle Al already won a grand at Santa Anita since the track opened the day after Christmas?”

  “Via his bookie?”

  Renie nodded. “He calls the guy his stockbroker. Maybe he’s that, too. Who knows with Uncle Al.”

  “Not me,” Judith said as they moved on to the meat-and-seafood department. “So what’s with this patient who’s being harassed?”

  “Oh . . .” Renie paused where turkey parts were on sale. “Wings, drumsticks. Good. I’ll freeze them until Bill and I stop gobbling from Christmas and Thanksgiving.” She moved on past chicken and duck.

  “Wait, coz,” Judith said. “I think I’ll do something that clucks. Tell me about the patient Joe is supposed to take on as a client.”

  Renie shot her cousin a disparaging look. “You know Bill never talks to me about his patients, except in vague generalities. The only time I hear specifics is if his practice has an impact on our private lives, like the time he couldn’t go to San Francisco because a patient was threatening to jump off a window ledge. You had to fill in for him, as I’m sure you recall.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t forget that,” Judith admitted, putting a dozen skinless, boneless chicken breasts into her cart. “Not so much about the patient, as about the body in the piano.”

  “Right.” Renie had picked up some baby back spareribs and a couple of Cornish game hens. “Bill wouldn’t have liked that part. I assume Joe is equally discreet.”

  “Yes.” Judith studied the four different kinds of shish kebab skewers. She chose six of the teriyaki beef variety, despite knowing Gertrude would complain about being served wooden sticks for dinner. “What did you think of the story in the paper about Joe’s surveillance subject getting whacked?”

  “I haven’t had time to read the paper the last two days,” Renie admitted. “You know I never watch TV news unless I’m with you and you’re going to be part of the latest homicide case. I’ve got too many projects that keep me from reading more than sports scores in the paper. I assume Joe’s been cleared of suspicion?”

  “You mean officially?” Judith shook her head. “I don’t think the bullet and weapon tests have come back yet. The police department is in a serious budget bind.”

  “The whole city’s in a budget crunch,” Renie remarked. “Yum . . . yearling oysters.” She picked up two jars. “They’re on sale. That doesn’t happen very often. You’d better get some.”

  “Oysters are one of the few fruits de mer I don’t like,” Judith reminded her cousin. “I can’t serve them to the guests because one of the Paines has a bad shellfish allergy.”

  Renie nodded. “Prudent. You know what happens to me with nuts and peanuts. Certain death with the latter, slower death with the former. But I thought Joe liked them.”

  “He does,” Judith said. “My father used to go oyster hunting on the peninsula and slurp them right out of the shell. Mother never cared for them, but she was a sport about it.” She shook her head. “I always wonder what she’d be like if my father hadn’t died so young.”

  Renie’s expression was wry. “Maybe not so different. Aunt Gert would just take out her venom on Uncle Donald instead of you.” She smiled. “I remember being with you and your folks on the peninsula in search of oysters. That was fun. As a midwesterner, it’s taken Bill years to eat different kinds of seafood. The only oysters he’ll eat is if we’re out to dinner and somebody orders an appetizer tray on the half shell with
a side of vodka shooters.”

  “Ah, yes,” Judith said. “Dan used to do that, too. Except he’d eat them all himself and his idea of a shooter was a pint. It’s a wonder I didn’t shoot him.”

  “You should have,” Renie remarked. “Don’t you remember Cousin Sue always told you if you did kill Dan, she’d swear in court that she was with you the whole time? The rest of the family would’ve done the same.”

  Judith shook her head. “I didn’t have to kill him. He did that to himself between the food and the booze.”

  “You still didn’t get off cheap,” Renie murmured. “Nineteen years is a long prison sentence.”

  “And hard labor at that,” Judith said. “Holding down two jobs was no picnic with Dan rarely holding any.”

  When Judith and Renie reached the dairy section, they parted company. Realizing that it was already past the noon hour, Judith hurriedly polished off her list and checked out. Gertrude would be annoyed because lunch was late.

  By the time she got home and unloaded the groceries, she realized that Joe apparently had left. His winter jacket was gone from the peg in the back hallway. Judith knew he’d planned to study Bill’s information regarding the patient’s background and his harassment complaints, but he hadn’t told her what was on his schedule for the rest of the day. Maybe he’d learned enough to meet his new client.

  After putting away the perishables, she hurriedly prepared Gertrude’s lunch. It was going on one when she went out through the falling rain to the toolshed.

  “Well!” Gertrude exclaimed, looking up from the game of solitaire she’d been playing. “It’s about time. I thought you were dead.”

  “I went to the grocery store,” Judith said, moving some of the clutter around on the card table to make way for the lunch tray. “Pot roast sandwich, canned pears, some of those sour-cream-and-onion potato chips you like, and oatmeal cookies.”