Legs Benedict (11 page)

“No kidding. Coz, are you feeling dizzy, too?”

Renie shook her head. “Not at all. It's an aria from
La Traviata
. Anyway, that's what I thought of, and Giacalone reminded me of
La Gioconda
. You know, the Ponchielli opera.”

“I don't know,” Judith said, but decided that maybe Renie, whose knowledge of opera far surpassed her own, wasn't crazy after all. “Were those two guys mobsters?” She didn't attempt to pronounce their names.

“I think so. One of them—I forget which—had alleged
mob ties. The other was definitely a crook. They were from Detroit. I think.”

Nibbling on a cracker, Judith grew thoughtful. “Admit it, coz. Americans are fascinated by gangsters, going back to the highwaymen. Killers like Jesse James and John Dil-linger were heroes, in a way. Heaven knows, I've always been intrigued. But when they're under your roof, there's nothing glamorous about them. It's just plain scary.”

The phone rang on the nightstand. “My mother?” Renie said as Judith reached for the receiver. “Tell her I went to Antarctica to catch some rays.”

But it wasn't Aunt Deb who was on the other end; it was Mike.

“Hi, Mom,” said the familiar, cherished voice. “Hey, we've got a favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Judith replied, then mouthed “Mike” to Renie. “What is it?”

“Can you put us up for a few days? The doctor told Kristin today that the baby may come early and he'd like to have her stay closer to a hospital. It's an hour from here at the park ranger lodgings, and that's in light traffic. Okay?”

Judith's jaw dropped. “Ah…When would you arrive?”

“Tomorrow,” Mike replied. “We thought of coming in tonight, but Kristin was tired from going in to see Dr. Fen-dall and we've still got to pack up some things.”

“Sure,” Judith gulped. “Come ahead. You can stay in your old room.”

“Great. We'll see you around noon.” Mike paused. “How's everything?”

“Umm…Great. Everything's just…great. Love you.” Hanging up the phone, Judith burst into tears.

“Coz!” Renie was alarmed. “What's wrong?”

“Everything,” Judith wailed.

“Huh?” Renie grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and handed it to Judith. “Everything's not great
then,” Renie said under her breath, waiting for Judith to calm down.

“Mike and Kristin are coming tomorrow to stay until the baby gets here.” Judith wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Joe won't come near me because I'm sick. Mother is driving me insane because I don't know whether she is—or not. The FBI thinks she's a Nazi. And some Mafia hit man got whacked right in front of my birdbath and who knows how many other mobsters are wandering around my dear old family home?” Judith burst into fresh tears.

“Hmmm.” Renie's expression was unusually sympathetic. “It's a mess, all right,” she finally said. “But you know things will work out. Come on, coz—you're the one who always sees the bright side of things. As Grandma Grover would've said, ‘Keep your pecker up.'”

Judith glared at Renie from swollen eyes. “A lot of good that did her. Grandma's dead, isn't she?”

Renie gave a start. “Well…yes, but she lived to be almost ninety.”

“How can I let Mike and Kristin stay here with all these mobsters? How can I get rid of these awful people? How can I convince the FBI that Mother was never at Auschwitz? How can I do anything when I'm sick?”

“I guess you can't,” Renie said, unable to remain sympathetic for more than a couple of minutes at a time. “You might as well just roll over and croak.”

Judith blew her nose again and gave Renie a sharp look. “You're mean.”

“Yep.” Renie lay down at the foot of the bed and yawned. “How soon do I put the guests to bed?”

“You don't” Judith's face softened as she dabbed at her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. “Are you tired?”

“I'm tired of
them
,” Renie replied. “You know I always stay up late.”

“Maybe I'm just tired, period,” Judith said in a hollow voice. “It's only the start of the tourist season, but I really haven't had a break since January. The B&B was full up for most of the spring.”

“You're run down,” Renie said, sitting up again. “When Arlene gets back, why don't you ask her to take over for a few days? Now that the two of you have cut out the catering business, she'd probably be glad to fill in.”

“Maybe.” Judith knew that Renie might be right. The catering arm that Judith and Arlene had run for several years had become too demanding and not as necessary to Judith's income after she married Joe. Then Carl Rankers had retired, and Arlene needed more free time. But Judith's friend and neighbor enjoyed being busy. It was very likely that she wouldn't mind running Hillside Manor for a few days while Judith and Joe slipped off to the ocean or to Canada.

Carl's retirement reminded Judith of Renie and Bill's key club. Though the thought horrified and puzzled Judith, she had to ask. “Tell me more about this hobby of yours,” Judith said, giving her nose one last blow. “What kind of key club is this that you and Bill joined?”

Renie shrugged. “The usual. Trading spouses. There are problems, of course. Sometimes you get somebody who can't deliver. They talk the talk, but they can't walk the walk. So to speak.” Renie yawned again.

“I see,” Judith said, and wished she didn't. Maybe it was better to talk of murder. “Are you sure you don't mind staying here tonight with these goons?”

“They may not all be goons,” Renie pointed out. “Still, it's a good thing those cops are on duty. Even if J. J. had let me stay on the second floor, I think I'd have passed. Who wants to sleep next door to Bad Manners Malone or Pop 'Em Off Perl?”

“Good point,” Judith agreed, finally finishing her soup. “How are we going to confront Roland du Turque about those notes?” She used her spoon to indicate the two slips of paper resting on the down comforter.

Renie scratched her head. “Well—the smart thing to do would be to turn them over to J. J.”

“Aside from that,” Judith said.

Renie sighed. “Do you want me to give it a try? Roland
was playing Uncle Corky's old ukulele the last time I saw him.”

Judith considered. “No. I'd like to see his reaction in person.” Reaching into the nightstand drawer, Judith took out her notebook and a pen. “For now, let's try to determine how everybody ended up here. As I've said all along—and I was right—it wasn't a coincidence that these people booked themselves at the same time.”

“You're dreaming,” Renie said, though she grinned at her cousin. “You must be feeling better.”

“A little.” Judith passed the notebook and pen to Renie. “Use your God-given artistic talent. Draw a map of the United States.”

Renie looked askance. “How detailed?”

“Rough—just so we can fill in the cities where these people came from.”

With quick, sure strokes, Renie drew a recognizable map. “Now what?”

Judith leaned forward, smiling appreciatively. “Good work. Start with Legs in New York. Then go west to Detroit.”

Renie drew a line from the east coast to Lake Erie. “Legs and Darlene arrive to find that Barney and Min have already skipped town, right?”

“You got it. Barney makes a reservation for Hillside Manor. Why here? Why make a reservation at all?”

Renie was studying her own handiwork. “Because of the overnight deliveries, we know that Barney, as well as Legs, left Royal Oak Friday. It's a long haul from there to here. When we've driven back to visit Bill's family in Wisconsin, we've always spent three nights on the road. But we take our time.”

“It's doable,” Judith said. “There were two drivers in each car. They probably traded off. The question is, how did Legs know Barney was headed here?”

“Somebody squealed?” Renie suggested.

“Maybe. Somebody squealed on Legs and his mission to kill Barney.” Judith paused, her brain clicking away.
“The FedEx envelope! You use FedEx quite a bit. When you've scheduled a pickup and have to leave the house, you put it in your milk box. I've seen you do it when we've gone somewhere together.”

“Sure,” Renie responded. “I just tell them on the phone where I'm leaving it.”

“So if Barney did the same thing—and he certainly would have been in a hurry to get out of town—Legs might have come along and found the envelope addressed to me at Hillside Manor. That means he knew where Barney was headed.” Judith gave Renie a triumphant smile.

“Brilliant, coz,” Renie said with a grin. “What about the others?”

Judith's smile faded. “That might tie in to whoever tipped off Barney. In terms of geography, Pam and Sandi were closest to Legs. Isn't Newark right across the Hudson River from New York?”

“More or less,” Renie said. “Close enough, anyway.” She looked again at her makeshift map. “Geography may have nothing to do with it. The telephone, E-mail, all the marvels of modern communication are at the disposal of contemporary crooks as well as honest working stiffs like us. You've got the Santoris in Miami, Roland in Kansas City, the Malones in Chicago. Any one of them, along with Pam and Sandi, could have tipped off Barney, and Barney could have reciprocated by telling them where he was going.”

“Don't forget, the Malones didn't make a reservation.” Judith rested her chin on her fist. “Again—why did Barney come here?”

“The most unlikely place to look for him?” Renie offered. “A cozy little B&B tucked into a neighborhood hillside? A big city not associated with gangsters?”

“You're forgetting one connection, coz,” Judith noted. “The Teamsters. Hoffa. And before him, our own Dave Beck.”

“Maybe. But Beck goes back forty years or more,” Renie pointed out. “Hoffa took over from him—when?
The early sixties? And Hoffa was never associated with this area.”

Judith sank back against the pillows. “True. But it was a thought.”

Except for the constant patter of rain against the dormer windows, the room was silent for a few moments. The twilight had almost faded into darkness, and Judith had turned on the bedside lamp, which cast a golden glow under the eaves. At last, she sat up again and regarded Renie with a curious expression. “We're forgetting somebody.”

“Who?”

“In the original batch of reservations made last Friday, there was one that was canceled later in the day,” Judith explained. “Meanwhile, Roland called—or someone did, requesting Monday and Tuesday nights.”

“That's right,” Renie said. “I remember that when I scrolled down and found your reservation list there was one for somebody who isn't here. It wasn't a very common name. What was it?”

“Doria,” Judith replied. “From Las Vegas. Who do you suppose he really is? And,” she added ominously, “did he cancel—or was he canceled?”

“D
AMN
!” J
UDITH EXCLAIMED
. “I can't remember Doria's first name. And of course it got deleted when somebody dumped the reservations from the computer.”

“A first name might not help,” Renie noted. “Las Vegas is a huge city these days. If it was a common Christian name, there might be more than one of them in the Vegas phone book. Then again, it could be an alias.”

“I don't recall much of anything about the man's voice,” Judith said, “but it was perfectly normal, no accent of any kind. I do remember that the woman who called in the cancellation sounded kind of husky.”

“Disguised?” Renie suggested.

Judith gazed at Renie. “Possibly.” She flexed her legs under the covers, then batted at her temple in a frustrated gesture. “I should have gotten Caller ID for me, not just for Mother. She doesn't need to screen her calls in the toolshed as much as I need to know who's called here at the B&B.”

“I think,” Renie said, “I mentioned it at the time.”

“I know, I know. Sometimes I tend to put things off.”
How long had it been? Two, three years
? Judith silently chastised herself for procrastinating.

“Couldn't live without my Caller ID,” Renie chirped.
Then, seeing Judith sink into gloom, she mustered a bit of compassion. “Stop beating yourself up. It might not have showed the number. Sometimes long distance calls come up only as out-of-area. Besides, you really don't know if this Doria fits into the rest of the puzzle.”

“True,” Judith acknowledged, taking her watch from the nightstand. “It's not quite nine-thirty. I feel a need to apologize to my guests for this inconvenience.”

“Why? You didn't shoot Legs.”

Judith's gaze narrowed. “Don't be dense. I want to talk to these people.”

“You're sick.” Renie fixed Judith with a hard gaze.

“I'm convalescing,” Judith replied, stare for stare. “Bring them up. Start with Roland.”

“Jeez!” Renie threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. What if they don't want to come? What if they're afraid of germs?”

“They
are
germs,” Judith retorted. “At least some of them may be. Hint that I might be willing to refund some of their money. Not that I will. Tell them I have spells. Quinsy. That's always a good one, if only because nobody knows what it is anymore.”

“Did we ever?” Renie responded, but dutifully headed for the door.

Five minutes later, Roland du Turque appeared, looking concerned.

“You gave us quite a fright,” he said, gingerly seating himself on the dressing table bench. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” Judith replied, then went into her personal apology for upsetting Roland's plans.

“Oh, no,” he assured her. “I'm not bound by a fixed schedule. There's no need to reimburse me. Writers are their own bosses, you know. Except when it comes to deadlines.” He grimaced slightly.

“Yes,” Judith said vaguely, then reached into the drawer and removed the two small slips of note paper. “Which reminds me—I believe you mislaid these?”

Roland got up and came over to the bed. A bit warily—or so Judith thought—he put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Oh, my,” he murmured, “so I did. Do you mind telling me where you found them?”

“I found only the one with the names on it,” Judith said. “It was under the piano. The other was retrieved by my cleaning woman.”

“Indeed.” Roland's smile was thin. “Do you know where she found it?”

“Somewhere on the second floor,” Judith answered blandly as she held out her hand. “If you don't need them anymore, I'll put them in the wastebasket.”

Roland hesitated. “Why no. They're of no use to me now,” he responded, lowering his gaze and putting the glasses in the pocket of his blue dress shirt. “Thank you. I hate to be so careless.”

Judith feigned consternation. “Oh, dear—then whoever you asked to meet you outside never got the note. Is that a problem?”

Roland's brown eyes had hardened, though he tried to sustain his smile. “Not at all. It turned out that the person I hoped to speak with had no knowledge whatsoever about Fats Waller.”

“Oh—yes,” Judith said with a big smile. “You write about music, I hear. Have you been published?”

Roland's manner was self-deprecating. “In a small sort of way. You probably couldn't find any of my work in stores or libraries.”

“That's a shame,” Judith responded. “I would have enjoyed reading what you had to say about jazz.”

“A minor contribution,” Roland shrugged.

“A major loss,” Judith said. “For me.”

Roland sketched a bow. “You're too kind. Thank you for finding my notes.” He started for the door.

“One thing,” Judith called after him. “What does Hoffa have to do with music?”

Roland turned ever so slightly, not quite meeting Judith's gaze. “Detroit, the Motown recording industry. I've been
seeking a connection between Hoffa and the music business. There've been rumors, you see.”

“Rumors,” Judith echoed. “You mean the Teamsters tried to take over Motown Records?”

“As I said, rumors.” Roland sketched another small bow and made his exit.

Drumming her nails on the bedclothes, Judith wondered about those rumors. It was possible, of course. Certainly Hoffa had been head of the Teamsters in Detroit while Motown Records had surged to the top of the charts. She was still trying to figure out whether or not Roland was lying about Hoffa, about the note that had been found in Barney's room, and maybe just about everything else when Pete and Marie Santori entered the room.

“I feel terrible,” Judith declared as the couple sat down pressed against each other on the dressing table bench. “This episode has ruined your honeymoon.”

Clinging to Pete's arm, Marie simpered. “We'll make up for it during the next fifty years.”

“No problem,” Pete said, squeezing Marie's knee. “Maybe we can head out tomorrow.”

“For where?” Judith inquired, in what she hoped was a casual tone.

“Canada,” Marie replied.

“California,” Pete answered at the same time.

The couple looked at each other and burst into laughter. “I guess,” Pete said between chuckles, “we have irreconcilable differences.”

Marie leaned her head on Pete's shoulders. “Shall we get a divorce, Pooky-wooky?”

“Why not, Sudsy-wudsy?” Pete said, rubbing noses with Marie. “Then we could get married all over again.”

“I gather,” Judith said, still trying to maintain her casual manner, “that you had no planned itinerary.”

Taking Marie's hand and getting to his feet, Pete shook his head. “We figured this would be a good jumping-off point. Canada, California—about now, I'd prefer some sun. How about you, Cutsey-wootsey?”

Marie toyed with the gold chain around Pete's neck. “Sure. Carmel. Santa Barbara. San Diego. Sounds good, Doodily-woodily.”

“Then that's where we'll go,” Pete said, steering Marie through the door. “Thanks, Mrs. Flynn. You've been great.”

“But…wait,” Judith said, no longer sounding casual. “I have a couple of other questions to…”

Pete waved a hand. “Not to worry. We won't bother you any longer. You've been sick.”

The Santoris exited the bedroom. Judith swore under her breath. “A washout,” she muttered, then wondered if that was true. The Santoris had no idea where they were going after they left Hillside Manor. Perhaps they intended to go back to Miami. Honeymoon or not, Heraldsgate Hill might have been their destination point.

Judith was still mulling over the Santoris when Pam and Sandi all but skipped into the room.

“A is for apple,” Sandi chanted. “A is for animal, A is for April, A is for…”

“Arrest,” Pam filled in. “Isn't that something? About Mr. Schwartz, I mean.”

“A is for agreement,” Judith said dryly. “As well as for apology, which I offer you now. I hope all of this hasn't completely spoiled your visit.”

The preschool teachers glanced at each other. “Applesauce?” said Sandi, and Pam broke into the giggles.

“Sorry, Mrs. Flynn,” Sandi said, giving Pam a playful little shove. “We were still on A. Honestly, though, it's been kind of a thrill. Sometimes our world shrinks to the size of three-and four-year-olds.”

“Really,” Judith breathed. “I think it's rather charming. Alphabet games are fun. How about H? As in H is for headcrusher?”

Sandi blanched and Pam cringed as if she'd been struck. “That's not a word we teach our kids,” Pam declared with a hint of anger.

“I don't even know what it means,” Sandi said with indignation. “Is it like bonecrusher?”

“I'm not sure,” Judith admitted. “It just suddenly popped into my head. Maybe I thought it was an East Coast colloquialism. It's interesting how we speak the same language, but different parts of the country have different expressions and terms.”

Sandi's pretty face had grown hard. “Is that why you asked us up here? To discuss regional idiosyncrasies?”

Pam's eyes had narrowed. “If you have something to say, say it. Just because we teach preschool, do you think we're really stupid?”

With an ironic smile, Judith shook her head. “No, I don't. Far from it. Look, I know both of you recognized Pete and Marie Santori. Why is that such a secret?” Sandi and Pam exchanged quick, sharp glances. “We knew him in high school,” Pam said in a rush.

“It had been at least ten years since we last saw him,” Sandi put in. “It was such a surprise to find him here.”

“We weren't even sure it was him,” Pam added. “We'd never met Marie. She's not from Jersey.”

Judith was certain they were lying, but there was no point in pressing the matter. Instead, she recalled the notes that Renie had taken, and resorted to surprise tactics. “What happened to Isaac?”

Pam covered her mouth with both hands; Sandi's soft features sharpened, green eyes glinting like a feral cat.

“Who are you?” Sandi demanded, the growl in her voice a full octave lower than usual.

“What do you mean?” Judith asked innocently.

Pam's hands fell away from her face, and she jabbed a finger at Judith. “Are you the reason Legs came here?” She took a menacing step towards the bed. “Are you Doria?”

Judith was flabbergasted. The dizziness returned. The cozy bedroom, with its yellow and green tulip motif seemed topsy-turvy, as if a mad gardener had planted the bulbs upside-down.

“Doria?” Judith echoed, her voice sounding far away. “Doria, from Vegas?”

“You know Doria.” Pam's face wore a shrewd, calculating expression. “But are you Doria?”

“No. No,” Judith added hastily, trying to gather her wits and her equilibrium. “Doria canceled.”

The young women again exchanged glances. “I'm not surprised,” said Sandi. “Doria's reputation is erratic.”

“Why,” Judith began, “don't you tell me who Doria is? And about Isaac?”

Resignedly, Pam sat down at the far end of the bed, while Sandi perched on the dressing table bench. “Doria's just a name, someone who seems to surface in some very sticky situations,” Sandi said, her usually cheerful face troubled. “All we know is that he—or she—isn't somebody you mess with.”

“I see,” Judith said, though of course she didn't. “Isaac's quite another matter, I believe.”

“He certainly is,” Pam sighed. “Or was.” She paused, turning her head away from Judith. “I'm not sure why we should tell you about him, except that you know more than you ought to. How come?”

Judith raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “This is my house. My husband's a cop. I've already had an accused killer try to take me hostage under my very own roof. Not to mention finding a corpse in my backyard. Why wouldn't I try to find things out?”

“That's a good point,” Sandi allowed, looking more like her usual harmless self. “We hadn't thought about it from your perspective.”

Pam nodded. “Mrs. Flynn—you really are Mrs. Flynn?” She waited for Judith's nod. “Anyway, Mrs. Flynn's caught in the middle. It's not fair to keep her in the dark.”

“So enlighten me,” Judith urged.

Sandi squirmed on the bench. “I don't know…It's not a pretty story.”

“That's not
our
fault,” Pam retorted.

“But,” Sandi persisted, “it might give Mrs. Flynn the wrong impression.”

Judith shook her head. “I'm fairly good at zeroing in on the truth.”

Sandi remained dubious, but Pam leaned back on her elbows, eyes on the low dormer ceiling. “First of all, Isaac is dead. He wasn't a criminal, but he got in a bind over some business debts several years ago. He was in import-export, mainly leather goods. He made the mistake of going to the mob for money. When things improved for him, he was able to start paying them back. But they didn't want the cash as much as they wanted his services. Isaac was in a position to launder money for the mob. And that's what he did, until he couldn't stand it anymore and wanted out. What he didn't realize was that you don't get out—ever. Foolishly, he quit. Just quit. And what was even worse, he threatened to go to the police.” Sadly, Pam shook her head. “The mob had him killed last year.” There was a catch in Pam's voice. “Isaac—Isaac Perl—was my father.”

 

Judith's condolences were heartfelt. “Was the term ‘headcrusher' a reference to whoever killed your father?” she asked after her sympathy had been expended.

“Not exactly,” Pam said. “A headcrusher is an enforcer. The headcrusher came around a couple of times before my father was killed. Of course Papa tried to keep all of this to himself, but my brother and I could see the bruises. We began to piece together what was going on.”