Legs Benedict (10 page)

“Which means the missing Minerva isn't Mrs. Schwartz,” Renie noted.

“Assuming that Minerva is really his mother,” Judith added with a sly expression.

“And the other missing female, Darlene Smith? Who is—was—she?”

“Who knows?” Judith responded. “A girlfriend, I thought. But they didn't sleep together last night. Grandma Grover's lounge had been made into a bed.”

“Ah.” Renie clasped her hands behind her head. “So the car was found by Dooleys' house?”

“That's right. As I told you, J. J. has requested that it be towed downtown. But I doubt that they'll find anything to tell them where Darlene has gone.”

A short silence passed between the cousins, who were each lost in thought. Then Judith remembered to tell Renie about O.P.'s sighting of the Malones. “It may not mean anything,” she admitted, “but it's suggestive, don't you think, coz?”

“Could be,” Renie said. “I'll tell you one thing—the Malones are jerks. Judging from what you've told me, they could also be crooks, and thus, not the Malones.”

“J. J. is checking them out through their license plate,” Judith said. “Until he's got a rundown on everybody, they're all stuck here. Sorry, coz, but so are you.”

“Hm-mm.” Renie seemed unperturbed. “Roland
seems
okay, but what do we know about him except that he likes jazz?”

“We don't know anything,” Judith admitted. “The only personal information he's volunteered is that he once lived in New Orleans.”

“J.J. and his partner must be coming up with something by now,” Renie said, sitting up. “Will they share?”

“With Joe, maybe. Not with me.” Judith's tone was wry.

At that moment, Joe entered the bedroom. He was surprised to see Renie, astonished to find his wife in bed. “What happened?” he asked, hurrying to Judith's side.

“Flu, I think,” Judith said, holding up a hand. “Don't kiss me. I might be contagious.”

“Well, damn,” said Joe, looking helpless as men do when faced with insoluble problems such as illness, birth, death, and women's obsession with shoe sales. “Is this your backup?” He gestured at Renie.

“Yes, thank goodness,” Judith replied. “She's made some nice sardine dump for dinner.” Ignoring the aghast expression on her husband's face, Judith turned to Renie. “How did Mother like it?”

“Loved it,” Renie replied, slipping off the bed. “Why not? It's her recipe.” Renie left the room, presumably to check on the guests.

Removing his tie and keeping his distance, Joe glanced at Judith. “So when did you get sick?”

Judith touched only lightly on her collapse after Barney Schwartz had been cuffed by the FBI. “I think I was coming down with this bug all day,” she said. “That was the last straw.” Judith paused, giving Joe a kittenish look. “I don't suppose you'd want to relieve my mind by telling me what happened after they took Barney away?”

“It's not my case.” Gingerly, Joe sat on the edge of the bed and took off his loafers. “You really think you're contagious?”

“Probably.”

“It didn't seem to bother Renie.”

“She's a woman.”

“What?” Joe frowned at Judith.

“Never mind. Do you mean you haven't heard
anything
about this case?”

Going to the closet, Joe shook his head. “Not really, except that J. J. is still checking out the other witnesses. He's also got two missing persons on his hands, including a possible suspect in Darlene Smith.”

“Who is actually…?” Judith prompted.

“I don't know. Honest. Woody and I had a hair dryer homicide today.”

“A what?” Judith raised her voice as Joe went into the bathroom.

“A hair dryer fryer,” he shouted. “You know, husband's in the tub, wife tosses hair dryer at him. Sizzle, zap, hubby's got a permanent perm.”

“Oh.” Judith waited for Joe to return. “No sign of Minerva or Darlene?”

Joe was toweling off his face. “Not that I know of. I think I'll fix myself a steak.”

“Good idea.” Judith finished her tea. “Speaking of food, tell Renie I might be able to eat some toast a little later.”

“Will do.” Joe finished changing in a hurry, then escaped to what he hoped was a germ-free area. Renie reappeared ten minutes later, bearing more tea and two slices of lightly buttered toast.

“J. J. and Rich Goldman just arrived,” she announced. “They're grilling the witnesses again in the front parlor.”

“Damn!” Judith exclaimed. “I wish I felt better. I'd eavesdrop.”

“I could do that,” Renie volunteered. “Shall I take notes?”

“Would you?” Judith gave her cousin a grateful smile.

“Sure,” said Renie. “I'll start right now.”

“Wait,” Judith called. “One thing—ask the guests to reregister. I want to compare their handwriting to those two notes.”

Renie frowned. “Why not ask J. J. to do that?”

Judith looked mulish. “Because he isn't telling me anything. Thus, I'm not telling him. Not yet, anyway. Get it?”

“Of course,” Renie replied. “I know you.” She left on her mission.

Judith felt restless and frustrated, but knew she still wasn't sufficiently recovered to get out of bed. After finishing her toast, she dialed Chicago information on a whim. After going through at least three area codes, she finally came up with an address for Malachy Malone in the suburb of Winnetka. Next, she tried Miami, for the Santoris' address.

“That's a nonpub, nonlist, at the customer's request,” the soft female voice informed Judith.

“But there is such a person?” Judith asked.

“As I told you, the number is unlisted at the customer's…”

“Thanks,” Judith said, trying to sound like she meant it.

She already had an address on the FedEx envelope for Barney Schwartz, but decided to check with Royal Oak directory assistance anyway. Sure enough, there was a list
ing in the 248 area code. As an afterthought, she asked about a Schwartz Cadillac dealership.

“There's no such listing,” the nasal-sounding operator replied, “but there is one for Barney's Buick and Cadillac in Royal Oak.”

Judith was appropriately grateful. So even if Barney wasn't really Barney, he did live in Royal Oak and owned a car dealership. Judith felt as if she were getting somewhere. Her problem was that she didn't know where.

Joe kept away for most of the evening, except to check from the doorway on the status of Judith's health. Renie, however, returned around eight-thirty.

“I'm not a very good eavesdropper,” she confessed. “I kept going from one door of the front parlor to the other, but I got caught twice by J. J. and once by Joe, who doesn't approve of my sleuthing methods. My notes are a shambles.” Renie spread several sheets of spiral notebook paper onto the bedclothes. “I couldn't hear a damned thing during the Santori interviews. Both Pete and Marie—not to mention J. J.—kept their voices down. Fortunately, Mal and Bea tend to shout.”

“They also tend to be real,” Judith put in. “I checked them out through Chicago information.”

“Hmm.” Renie rubbed at her pug nose. “Then maybe they're as innocent as they claim to be. That was the gist of it—they own a dry-cleaning business in one of the suburbs…”

“Winnetka,” Judith filled in.

“Right, that was it,” Renie went on, “and they were on vacation, heading out here and then down to the Oregon Coast and back home through Reno and Salt Lake. They left their nephew in charge of the shop.”

“So why has the trip been such a downer?” Judith asked. “Mal and Bea are always complaining about bad things happening to them, not to mention those references to Corelli and the mob-type names I heard on the phone.”

Renie grimaced. “No names were brought up that I could hear. But they did say the vacation had been a dis
aster. When J. J. asked about their gun—which I gather he'd inquired about earlier—Mal said he always brought a weapon along when they traveled by car. Just in case. He said he usually keeps it in the shop.”

“Is that it?” Judith asked.

“For the Malones,” Renie answered. “Roland was sort of a surprise, though not necessarily in a bad way. I didn't get to hear everything—he speaks so softly, you know. However—you'll love this, coz—Roland du Turque is not his real name.”

“Oh, great.” Judith threw up her hands. “Who is he—the Kansas City Bomber?”

Renie grinned. “Nothing so sinister. He's a writer who specializes in jazz. His real name is Orlando Turquette, but he prefers to travel anonymously so he calls himself Roland du Turque.”

“Which name does he write under?” Judith asked.

Renie ducked her head. “I don't know. That's when I dropped my Pepsi and J. J. shooed me away.”

“Oh.” Judith sat up straighter, noticing that the dizziness finally seemed to have passed. “What about the teachers?”

“Pam was hard to hear,” Renie said. “J. J. was questioning her about somebody named Isaac. That seemed to upset her, and after that, I didn't get much except that I gathered he's the late Isaac. Then another name came up, somebody called Rick. Pam's tone was defensive, but I couldn't hear more than a few words at a time.”

“Such as?” Judith pressed.

Renie sighed and studied her notes. “Pam said something about Rick and honor, then J. J. asked a question that sounded like, ‘Why didn't he stay?', and Pam got huffy and said, ‘He's no half-assed wiseguy, he's my…'” Renie gave Judith an apologetic look. “I didn't get the last part. That's when Joe came along and yanked my chain.”

Judith snatched at Renie's notes. “Let me see that. ‘Half-assed wiseguy'? That doesn't sound like Pam, our sweet preschool teacher.”

“You bet it didn't,” Renie agreed. “But wait 'til I get
to Sandi.” Renie grabbed the notes back. “Joe went up to check on you, so I got in after J. J. started with Sandi. She cried a lot, especially when this Rick's name came up again. ‘No headcrusher,'” said Renie, reading her notes. “‘Not on the pad.' ‘Serious headache.' ‘Hit the mattress.' And then—maybe the only big news I got out of all this—Sandi said, and I quote, because she wasn't blubbering anymore and I could hear her more clearly, ‘Legs was a real stone killer.'”

“Wow!” Judith's eyes were huge. “Sandi! And Pam! They're not such innocents after all. Maybe that might explain why they have a private plane.”

Renie was looking grim. “Maybe. What's a stone killer?”

Judith fell back against the pillows. “What's a headcrusher? What language is this?”

“I think,” Renie said with a little shiver, “you were right all along. The language is called ‘mob.'”

“T
HEY CAN'T ALL
be tied to the mob,” Judith declared, reaching for the Diet 7-Up Renie had brought her.

“They're not,” Renie replied. “I mean, Roland's a writer, and the Malones may be exactly what they say they are—a pair of pain-in-the-ass dry cleaners.”

Judith, however, shook her head. “No. I'm not ruling out the Malones, not with all those mob-style names they mentioned. Besides, what were they doing outside at five-thirty this morning nosing around their car?”

“It
is
their car,” Renie pointed out. “Maybe they get up early at home. Though I can't imagine why anyone would do such a thing, I've actually heard of people who rise before ten. Some of them haven't even been institutionalized yet.”

Judith hadn't listened to most of Renie's peculiar lack of understanding for people who didn't sleep in. “I get up at six,” Judith said, more to herself than to her cousin. “But why go to their car?”

“I woke up once at five-thirty,” Renie was musing. “There was this funny pink streak in the eastern sky. I thought there must be a huge forest fire in the mountains. Then I saw cars and buses and trucks driving on the bridge over the canal. To top it off, somebody in the
neighborhood slammed a door and drove away. It was amazing.”

“The real question is,” Judith continued, “when was John Smith—Legs Benedict—shot? Was he already dead when the Malones were in the cul-de-sac?”

“So then I thought maybe it would be interesting to see what went on in the middle of the night,” Renie continued. “Sure enough, more cars, more people—right on our own block. I was flabbergasted. Most of our neighbors seem like sensible folk.”

“What if Mal had two guns?” Judith was still mulling to herself. “The one that was found in their room and another stashed in the Explorer. Have J. J. and Rich searched the cars? You'd think so. But I've heard that criminals can be very clever about hiding their weapons in automobiles.”

“The pink streak over the mountains got brighter and turned to gold, and after awhile the whole sky was light.” Renie was looking vaguely awestruck. “Bill told me later that was what they call a sunrise.”

Judith turned to Renie. “Go watch the sunset. And while you're at it, take a peek at the Malones' car.”

“Huh?” Renie shook herself. “Is that the Ford SUV?”

“Right, Illinois plates. I told you, O. P. memorized the numbers.”

“What am I looking for?”

Judith's expression was sly. “Whatever the Malones were looking for. And,” she called as Renie started to leave the bedroom, “check on Mother, would you? I'm worried about her. She might be upset about that screwy FBI guy who showed up today.”

“Not as upset as he is,” Renie said over her shoulder.

To Judith's surprise, J. J. Martinez knocked on the door a few minutes later. “May I?” he asked, poking his head in.

“As long as you're not terrified of germs like Joe is,” Judith said with a smile.

“Well…” J. J. didn't sit down, though he could have pulled up the bench from the dressing table. “Sorry to hear
you're not feeling so good. Thought I'd let you know we're making some progress. Maybe we can let your guests leave later tomorrow.”

“That would be wonderful,” Judith said. “I've got more coming in Wednesday. Of course the ones who are here paid through tonight, so nobody's out of pocket.” She paused, giving J. J. what she hoped was her most ingratiating smile. “You mentioned progress. What kind exactly?”

“Too soon to go public,” J. J. responded. “Background stuff, mostly.”

“You mean evidence that points to Barney as the killer?”

In front of the old cherrywood bureau, J. J. shifted from one foot to the other. “In a way. Can't explain just yet. Oh—we're still keeping two uniforms on duty. Checked it with Joe, they'll stay mostly inside tonight. Lon and Don, last names, Chang and Lang. Young. Sharp. 'Course Joe will be here, in the other bedroom.”

“What?” Judith frowned at J. J.

“Well…he doesn't want to get sick,” J. J. replied. “He'll bunk in your son's old room. That okay?”

Judith sighed, then suppressed a smile. “Sure. Renie can stay in one of the empty guest rooms.”

“Renie? Oh—your cousin.” J. J. moved jerkily around the room, edging ever closer to the door. “Can't stay in the guest rooms. Still off-limits.”

“I see.” Judith considered. Renie would have to sleep in the master bedroom, germs and all.

“So that's it,” J. J. concluded, opening the door.

“Wait,” Judith called to the detective. “What about this Legs Benedict? Who was he?”

J. J. looked surprised. “You heard that? Who said?”

“The FBI agents who arrested Barney Schwartz. Come on, J. J. You really need to fill me in.” Judith gave the detective a reproachful look.

J. J. winced, but closed the door behind him. “We're working with the FBI on this. Our hands are tied. Honest.”

“Not entirely,” Judith asserted, annoyance bringing back a trace of dizziness. “I have a feeling some of this will be in the morning paper. When a disaster like this happens under my own roof, I shouldn't be the last to know.”

“We're keeping your name out of it,” J. J. said, on the defensive.

“Thanks. Now tell me about Legs and Fewer Fingers.”

J. J.'s face contorted as he apparently argued with himself. “Okay. Guess you can't say or do much, since you're sick. Legs Benedict was a New York hit man for the Fusilli family. According to Terrill and Rosenblatt, there was a leak in the organization. Legs was sent to Detroit to kill Fewer Fingers, but he—that is, Barney—heard he was a marked man and skipped town. Didn't do a very good job of it, since Legs followed him all the way here. Barney got to Legs first. Barney's gun had been fired in the last twenty-four hours. Haven't got the full ballistic report, but that's a real start. Good thing Joe had already put it in the safe. Open and shut case.”

“So it is.” Judith started to congratulate J. J., then gave a little jump. “Hold it—how could the gun in the safe have killed Legs? Joe put it there last night.”

“What?” J. J. looked shaken.

“Didn't he tell you?” Judith asked, trying to sort through the confusion. “Joe confiscated that gun earlier in the evening. Legs was still alive. Besides, the gun belonged to him—we think—and not to Barney.”

Bewilderment enveloped J. J.'s lean face. “I don't get it. Joe handed over the gun, said it came out of Room Four. It had been fired recently.”

“That gun came out of Room Three,” Judith asserted. “Joe got the rooms mixed up from the get-go. The Smiths were in Room Three, the Schwartzes in Room Four. I thought Joe had it straightened out in his mind.”

J. J. flopped down on the dressing table bench. “Damn!”

“Were there powder marks on Barney's hands?” Judith asked.

Forlornly, J. J. shook his head. “No. Figured he wore gloves.”

“Look,” Judith said earnestly. “That gun was in our safe in this very room last night. It couldn't possibly have been used to kill John…I mean, Legs.”

J. J.'s olive complexion had gone pale. He was clutching at the dresser scarf as if it were a lifeline. “Impossible,” he muttered, then bolted from the bench. “That safe—did you and Joe ever leave the room at the same time?”

Judith tried to remember; so much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe her illness had shorted out her memory. “I don't think so. After Joe confronted Legs with the weapon, and he denied owning it, the so-called Smiths went up to bed. We did, too, and never left the bedroom until we got up around six.”

J. J. nodded in his jittery fashion. “So the safe was unguarded after you went downstairs. Where is it, by the way?”

Judith pointed to the cherrywood cupboard. “There, on the other side of the bathroom door. There's a false panel inside.”

J. J. shook his head. “Shame on Joe. Too obvious. First place burglars look.”

“It was my idea,” Judith retorted. “I had that safe put in when we expanded the attic after I moved back home.”

“Sorry.” J. J. pressed his fingertips together, as if he were begging Judith's forgiveness. “Still, somebody could've come up here early this morning while you and Joe were downstairs, taken the gun, shot Legs, and brought it back. Didn't find the body until after seven-thirty, right?”

“Right,” Judith admitted. “But they would have had to unlock the door to the third-floor stairs.”

J. J. made a dismissive gesture. “No problem. Anybody who could've opened the safe could've picked the lock.” He gave Judith a shrewd smile. “Hear you're not so bad at that sort of thing yourself.”

“Right, I'm a real whiz.” Judith felt downcast. Was it possible that someone actually had removed the gun from
the safe? “They'd have to come and go outside via the front door,” she said out loud. “Otherwise, Joe and I would have seen them from the kitchen.”

“Who else knew Joe had the gun?” asked J. J.

“No one,” Judith responded. “That is, Darlene knew. She was with Legs when Joe questioned him about it.”

“Darlene.” J. J. scowled. “Where the heck is she? We've got the car. What'd she do? Ditch it and take a bus?”

J. J.'s ruminations encouraged Judith to probe further. “Have you run her through the computer? She must have left prints somewhere. Like the glass on the nightstand.”

J. J. drew back as if Judith had waved a gun at him. “The glass? Right, the glass. We took it in.” His eyes roamed everywhere around the room, except in the direction of Judith.

“The glass.” Judith narrowed her gaze. “What was in that glass, J. J.? It didn't look quite right to me.”

Once again, J. J. seemed at war with himself. “You're right. Rich thought it seemed kind of cloudy. Had it analyzed. Some kind of sleeping drug.”

“I wondered,” Judith said. “Darlene was very hard to rouse. So what about prints?”

“Haven't heard yet,” J. J. said, then glanced at his watch. “Hey—got to go. Let you know what to do about these other guys tomorrow.”

“But J. J.,” Judith pleaded, leaning forward in the bed, “you haven't told me why Barney would kill Legs. With a nickname like Fewer Fingers, I have to assume he's a gangster, too.”

“Assume correctly,” J. J. said, but kept on going.

Exasperated, Judith threw off the covers and got out of bed. The recurring dizziness was still with her, but she attributed it to frustration. Judith needed a bath, a nice, long soak in the tub. She needed to change into her nightgown. She needed to eat something other than toast.

But most of all,
she needed to know
.

 

Renie returned while Judith was still in the bathtub. “Are you decent?” she called through the door.

“Since when did I take a bath with my clothes on?” Judith shot back. “Can you make me some chicken noodle soup?”

“Sure. Crackers?”

“Please.” A bit shakily, Judith got out of the tub and called out to Renie. “Hey—did you check the Malones' car?”

“Yep,” Renie replied. “Full of junk. Well, not exactly junk, but all the stuff you'd haul along for a cross-country car trip.”

“Okay. Thanks.” On wobbly legs, Judith toweled herself off. “I could drink more tea, if you didn't mind.”

“I don't mind. I'll bring a tray, just like the maid. You want a rose stuck somewhere?”

“I can guess where you'd stick it,” Judith called back, then heard Renie snicker as she left the bedroom.

Judith still felt weak by the time Renie brought the soup, crackers, tea, and the guest register to her bed. “Here are the signatures you requested, Madam. Deduce, if you will.”

Excitedly, Judith opened the register. “Were they cooperative? Did anyone balk?”

“Only Mal and Bea Malone,” Renie answered. “But they balk at everything.”

“What I'm banking on is that none of these signatures will match those notes,” Judith said, gazing at the entries, then opening the drawer on the bedside table and taking out the two small slips of paper. “I made copies of these on my computer,” she noted. “Just in case. You see, I figure they were written by John Smith.”

“Legs, you mean?” said Renie, getting a grip on the soup bowl lest Judith's movements upset the contents.

“Right. I keep forgetting to call him that, which isn't—wasn't—his real name anyway…Hunh.” She stared at the notes and the signatures. “I was wrong,” Judith said with a troubled expression. “There
is
a match.” She
shoved the register and the pieces of paper at Renie. “Both those notes were written by Roland du Turque.”

 

Renie agreed. There was no mistaking the similarities. “Why,” she asked, “would Roland want to meet Barney? He's not a musician.”

Judith had fallen back against the pillows. “Damn! I feel so…out of it. My poor logical mind seems to have skipped out on me. In fact, logic doesn't apply to this case. J. J. started to tell me some things, but then he clammed up. I don't know when I've felt so frustrated.”

Renie was still studying the notes. “‘Legs-Hoffa-Provenzano,'” she read. “What did Legs Benedict have to do with Jimmy Hoffa? And who's Provenzano?”

“How should I know?” Judith sounded grumpy. “Maybe Legs—who was a professional killer—whacked Jimmy Hoffa. But what does that have to do with Roland and jazz?”

“Good point.” Renie chewed her lower lip. “Giacalone,” she said suddenly.

“Same to you.” Judith started to taste her soup.

“No.” Renie bounced on the bed, causing Judith to grip the soup bowl. “Giacalone and Provenzano were the guys Hoffa went to meet when he disappeared. Bill and I watched an A&E biography on Hoffa awhile ago. I don't know why I remember the names, except that Provenzano reminded me of ‘
Di Provenza il mar
.'”