“Fried chicken?”
Gertrude didn’t bother to respond.
“We could play cribbage after dinner,” Renie suggested.
Gertrude’s head jerked up. “Never!”
“Oh, come on, Aunt Gert,” Renie said, putting a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “You know you’ll beat me. I haven’t played crib for so long that I’ll have to relearn the game.”
Gertrude pulled away from her niece’s touch. She was so upset that her head began to shake and she clamped her lips shut.
“Mother,” Judith said with concern, “what’s wrong? Are you sick?”
There was a long pause before Gertrude spoke. “Sick at heart.”
Judith leaned down closer to her mother. “About what?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Okay,” Renie said, moving away from her aunt. “Don’t. But we’ve got something to tell you.”
Gertrude’s face brightened. “You’re both getting a divorce?”
“No, Mother.” Judith sighed. “It has to do with…” She frowned and glanced at Renie. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” Gertrude demanded, looking more like her usual prickly self.
Renie gave her cousin a warning look. “Make a bet. Judith against Joe.”
“I like that part,” Gertrude said.
“Good,” Renie said. “Here’s the deal and what we want you to do.”
The old lady listened attentively, but didn’t comment until Renie had finished relating her plan to have Gertrude refer to Joe DiMaggio’s hitting prowess. When she did speak, she sounded confused. “I don’t get it. I always liked Lou Gehrig better. You know his nickname?”
Renie nodded. “The Iron Horse, because he never missed a game.”
“Oh, that’s so,” Gertrude agreed. “But he had another nickname—Biscuit Pants. I forget why, but I like it.”
“Interesting,” Renie remarked. “I didn’t know that. Remember—all you do is say, ‘Way to go, Joe,’ when he hits the ball.”
“Sounds screwy to me,” Gertrude muttered. “Do I win a prize?”
Renie nodded. “You don’t have to eat dinner at our house.”
“Sounds good to me,” Gertrude said.
The cordless phone rang, making Judith jump. Swiftly, she picked the receiver up from the card table and answered.
“You got a reprieve,” Ingrid Heffelman announced. “Not that I agree with it.”
“What do you mean?” Judith asked, moving away from her mother and Renie to hear more clearly.
“The board deadlocked, with one abstention,” Ingrid said in disgust. “They’ll have to vote again next month. Consider yourself on probation. Meanwhile, if you find another damned corpse, your innkeeping goose is cooked.”
“I won’t,” Judith asserted. “I promise.”
What a relief!” Judith exclaimed after the cousins left the toolshed. “I was sure that Ingrid would convince the board that I’m a blight on the profession.”
“Now you can focus on your vacation,” Renie pointed out.
“I will,” Judith promised. She looked through the window over the kitchen sink. “Darn. It’s starting to rain. I won’t be able to coax Joe out to the backyard to hit baseballs until tomorrow.”
“That’s okay,” Renie said, picking up her big black handbag from the counter. “It’ll give you time to remind your mother what to say.”
“True.” Judith followed Renie as she headed for the back door. “I thought you’d mention why we were making the bet—like asking Mother why she hasn’t called Joe by any of her more insulting names lately.”
Renie shrugged. “I assume that’s part of her recent lack of pep. But she perked up after she heard our plan.”
“You didn’t specify what the bet was for,” Judith pointed out.
“Of course not.” Renie slung the handbag over her shoulder and opened the back door. “Then I would’ve had to explain about the usual names she calls Joe and she might’ve turned ornery.”
“Oh.” Judith nodded. “And just as well you didn’t mention the vacation part. Mother might have balked. She hates it when I go away.”
“So does my mom,” Renie said. “Like to my own house instead of her apartment. See you.”
When Joe arrived at five-thirty, Judith was preparing appetizers for the guests’ social hour. “Where’ve you been all afternoon?” she asked.
“Research,” he told her, hanging his jacket on a peg in the hallway between the kitchen and the back door.
