back into the living room.”
Joe nodded his approval. It was much smaller than the main parlor, but large enough for intimate parties. The stone fireplace was flanked by converted gaslights with an eighteenth-century hunting print over the mantel. The furniture was solid oak, from the pedestal table to the armoire which housed Judith’s overflow of linens, books, and tapes. Closing the door to the living room, Judith pulled two chairs covered with her mother’s petit point up to the table.
“Shall I light a fire? Get more chairs?” she asked, and 44 / Mary Daheim
inwardly cursed herself for sounding like a twittering ninny.
“Make some coffee?”
“Hang from the chandelier?” Joe Flynn’s green eyes twinkled, and Judith flushed like a schoolgirl. She’d actually done that once, in a semi-drunken stupor at what had then been the city’s most elegant—and staid—hotel. But Joe was already back to business, taking out a small spiral notebook and a red ballpoint pen.
“Price can help me,” he said, and called for the policeman with the walrus moustache and taciturn expression. “I might as well as start with you and Renie. Price, get Mrs.…” He stopped and turned to Judith. “What’s her married name? I assume she’s married, she was engaged the last time we—I saw her.”
“Renie was always engaged,” said Judith dryly. “At one point, she was engaged to three guys at once, all with the same first name.”
Joe shrugged one broad shoulder. “Kept her from making tactless mistakes, anyway. Which one did she marry?”
“None of them,” answered Judith, speaking more naturally now, almost as if she were picking up the threads of a conversation from almost a quarter of a century earlier. “Somebody told her she ought to see a psychiatrist because she must be nuts to keep telling men she’d marry them and then break it off. Renie said shrinks were a bunch of bunk, but finally, on a dare, she went to see some grad student at the university. After the first session, they got engaged. They’ve been married for over twenty years.” She looked up just as Renie entered the room with Officer Price. The foursome arranged themselves at the table, looking like bridge players in search of a tally sheet.
Joe folded his hands over the slight rise of his stomach and nodded at Price. “You take the notes for now. First things first,” he continued, looking back at Judith. “Full name.”
“Mine?” Judith sounded startled, but Joe’s half smile urged her on. “Judith Grover McMonigle. Widow.” Joe’s expression didn’t change. “Owner of Hillside Manor B&B
JUST DESSERTS / 45
since a year ago January after I bought it from Mother, Aunt Deb, and Uncle Al. Mother lives here and so does my son, Mike, when he isn’t away at school. I have the proper licenses and I’m up to code. No, I have no idea who Madame Gushenka really is, and I still can’t comprehend that she was murdered. I think the medics have made a mistake.”
Joe, however, hadn’t seemed to follow Judith’s statement to its conclusion. “So Dan died.” His voice held an undertone of awe. “What did he do, poison himself in one of his ill-fated restaurant ventures?”
Judith’s mouth turned prim. “That’s not funny under the present circumstances. He blew up.”
“No kidding?” Joe was grinning, much to the consternation of Officer Price, who had viewed the entire exchange with veiled curiosity.
Judith’s attempt to look disapproving lost ground. “He weighed four hundred and three pounds when he died. He hadn’t worked in six years, and we were living in a rental out on Thurlow Street. I was working days at the local library and nights at the Meat & Mingle. Life was hard, times were tough, my feet were killing me. What else do you need to know?”
“Gee,” remarked Joe, “and all this time I thought you were shacked up with that Dutch drug czar on the Costa Brava.”
“He dumped me in Rome,” said Judith, only
Joe nodded his approval. It was much smaller than the main parlor, but large enough for intimate parties. The stone fireplace was flanked by converted gaslights with an eighteenth-century hunting print over the mantel. The furniture was solid oak, from the pedestal table to the armoire which housed Judith’s overflow of linens, books, and tapes. Closing the door to the living room, Judith pulled two chairs covered with her mother’s petit point up to the table.
“Shall I light a fire? Get more chairs?” she asked, and 44 / Mary Daheim
inwardly cursed herself for sounding like a twittering ninny.
“Make some coffee?”
“Hang from the chandelier?” Joe Flynn’s green eyes twinkled, and Judith flushed like a schoolgirl. She’d actually done that once, in a semi-drunken stupor at what had then been the city’s most elegant—and staid—hotel. But Joe was already back to business, taking out a small spiral notebook and a red ballpoint pen.
“Price can help me,” he said, and called for the policeman with the walrus moustache and taciturn expression. “I might as well as start with you and Renie. Price, get Mrs.…” He stopped and turned to Judith. “What’s her married name? I assume she’s married, she was engaged the last time we—I saw her.”
“Renie was always engaged,” said Judith dryly. “At one point, she was engaged to three guys at once, all with the same first name.”
Joe shrugged one broad shoulder. “Kept her from making tactless mistakes, anyway. Which one did she marry?”
“None of them,” answered Judith, speaking more naturally now, almost as if she were picking up the threads of a conversation from almost a quarter of a century earlier. “Somebody told her she ought to see a psychiatrist because she must be nuts to keep telling men she’d marry them and then break it off. Renie said shrinks were a bunch of bunk, but finally, on a dare, she went to see some grad student at the university. After the first session, they got engaged. They’ve been married for over twenty years.” She looked up just as Renie entered the room with Officer Price. The foursome arranged themselves at the table, looking like bridge players in search of a tally sheet.
Joe folded his hands over the slight rise of his stomach and nodded at Price. “You take the notes for now. First things first,” he continued, looking back at Judith. “Full name.”
“Mine?” Judith sounded startled, but Joe’s half smile urged her on. “Judith Grover McMonigle. Widow.” Joe’s expression didn’t change. “Owner of Hillside Manor B&B
JUST DESSERTS / 45
since a year ago January after I bought it from Mother, Aunt Deb, and Uncle Al. Mother lives here and so does my son, Mike, when he isn’t away at school. I have the proper licenses and I’m up to code. No, I have no idea who Madame Gushenka really is, and I still can’t comprehend that she was murdered. I think the medics have made a mistake.”
Joe, however, hadn’t seemed to follow Judith’s statement to its conclusion. “So Dan died.” His voice held an undertone of awe. “What did he do, poison himself in one of his ill-fated restaurant ventures?”
Judith’s mouth turned prim. “That’s not funny under the present circumstances. He blew up.”
“No kidding?” Joe was grinning, much to the consternation of Officer Price, who had viewed the entire exchange with veiled curiosity.
Judith’s attempt to look disapproving lost ground. “He weighed four hundred and three pounds when he died. He hadn’t worked in six years, and we were living in a rental out on Thurlow Street. I was working days at the local library and nights at the Meat & Mingle. Life was hard, times were tough, my feet were killing me. What else do you need to know?”
“Gee,” remarked Joe, “and all this time I thought you were shacked up with that Dutch drug czar on the Costa Brava.”
“He dumped me in Rome,” said Judith, only
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