Free Nutty As a Fruitcake by Mary Daheim

medics race out of here?”
    Free of Arlene’s grasp, Mrs. Swanson fingered the silk scarf that was tucked inside her herringbone coat. “Mrs. Goodrich is still inside. The medical men took Mr. Goodrich away.” The black eyes filled with tears. “Poor man, he must have been overcome with remorse. He took pills to kill himself.” The tears overflowed, but Mrs. Swanson’s voice didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t you think he’d want to live without her? I would.”
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    As a rule, Renie tried to keep her distance from Hillside Manor when Phyliss Rackley was around. The cleaning woman’s chronic hypochondria and persistent evangelizing drove Judith’s cousin absolutely nuts. Renie wasn’t a morning person anyway, so she used the time until noon to run errands and do household tasks. Afternoons were usually devoted to hergraphic design business, which, except for occasional and much detested meetings, she did at home.
    But Enid Goodrich’s death brought Renie to Hillside Manor shortly before eleven. Fortunately, Phyliss was finishing the laundry and the ironing in the basement. A reluctant Arlene had gone to pick up Carl, who had left one of their cars at the repair shop. Thus, Judith was alone in the kitchen when Renie arrived.
    â€œHave you told your mother?” Renie asked, accepting a mug of fresh coffee from Judith.
    â€œYes. She was horrified—for about twenty seconds.” Judith sank into one of the four captain’s chairs. “Then she said it served the old bat right, she’d driven poor George to it, who could blame him, blah-blah-blah. But she insisted she hadn’t had a premonition. Maybe she did forget, and won’t admit it.”
    â€œMaybe,” Renie said, looking unusually grim, “she doesn’t want to admit she sensed death. At her age, that could be scary.”
    â€œIt’s scary at any age,” Judith noted, taking comfort from the warmth of her coffee mug. “But she’s definitely being herself otherwise. Mother decided to torment your mother by calling her and not telling her what happened.”
    Renie gave a shake of her chestnut curls. “Oh, jeez. I don’t know what’s more appalling—your mother using the telephone or being so perverse.”
    â€œUsing the telephone,” Judith replied calmly. Gertrude despised the phone, and since Judith had bought her a cordless style, the older woman persisted in losing it. As recently as the previous Saturday, Judith had found it in the birdbath on the patio.
    â€œSo that’s all you know?” Renie asked, removing the lid of the sheep-shaped cookie jar.
    â€œI’m afraid so. There isn’t much else to find out, except if George pulls through. I’ll try to call the house after the police leave.”
    The ambulance had departed while Judith was coming back from visiting her mother in the toolshed. She had seen it slowly pull out of the cul-de-sac, moving at a hearselike speed.
    â€œArt and Glenda are still there with the police,” Judith went on, ignoring the face Renie made after discovering that the cookie jar was empty. “Gosh, coz, I feel awful. I can’t spare a tear for Enid, but I could weep buckets over George. Mother’s right—she drove him to it. A man can only take so much. The really terrible thing is that I’m afraid this Christmas decorating project may have driven him over the edge.”
    Renie tried to look sympathetic. The expression somehow seemed foreign to her, even though the emotion was real. “After almost sixty years of marriage, it’s a miracle George didn’t kill her sooner. Don’t blame yourself. Whatever set him off must have been an accumulation of abuse and misery. He finally snapped. It happens.”
    While Judith appreciated her cousin’s commiseration, she remained glum. “This certainly puts a damper on the holidays.”
    â€œWhy?”