Legs Benedict (18 page)

Judith gave the agent a faint smile. “I hope you've figured out that Mother isn't the Gertrude Hoffman you're looking for.”

“Not at all,” Dunleavy responded. “She's been most cooperative. Naturally, I realize she's elderly and therefore confused about some things. Not to mention that she doesn't remember certain specific situations.”

Shaking off the bartender's inquiring glance, Judith
stared at Dunleavy. “That's ridiculous. Tomorrow I'm going to the federal building, or wherever your offices are located, and show your superiors Mother's records. For one thing, she and my father were married before the war, right here in this very city. I was born here, two months to the day before Pearl Harbor. My father, Donald Grover, had a rheumatic heart and couldn't serve in the armed forces, so he was an air raid warden during the war. My mother worked with all sorts of volunteer organizations, and received several certificates of commendation. All of this is stored in the house someplace. I can even find their ration books from the OPA.”

Dunleavy, who was drinking very dark beer, grimaced slightly. “As I told you, those things can be forged. Believe me, it's happened with many war criminals. How else do you think they've eluded the law for so long?”

Frustrated, Judith slammed her hand on the mahogany bar. “That's idiotic. What exactly has she told you that's so blasted helpful?”

“I'll give you an example,” Dunleavy said in his reasonable manner. “There were two sisters named Greenberg at the women's camp at Auschwitz. They came from a very illustrious Jewish family. Your mother remembered them, and how she and an accomplice tortured them until, as she put it in her own words, ‘They threw in the cards and crawled off to die.'”

“Greenberg?” Judith gaped at Dunleavy. “Esther and Hannah Greenberg? They were in Mother's bridge club years ago. They had a system of signals, and Mother and Aunt Deb wanted to get back at them for cheating. Neither Mother nor Aunt Deb would dream of cheating in return, so they devised a bunch of diversions, like snapping their girdles and singing Gershwin songs off-key and spilling lemonade in the Greenbergs' lap. Naturally, Esther and Hannah finally dropped out of the bridge club. And yes, they came from money. Their father had a carpet store south of downtown.” Judith gave Dunleavy a pugnacious
stare. “That's how the Greenberg sisters threw in the cards. Literally.”

If Dunleavy was taken aback, he didn't show it. “A very glib explanation.”

“If you don't believe me, ask Aunt Deb. She still has all her marbles. Or most of them,” Judith amended.

“I intend to canvass the neighbors for background,” Dunleavy said, as if he hadn't heard Judith. “Frankly, the agency is more interested in how your mother got out of Germany after the war. That information has been somewhat difficult to extract from her. So far, I've learned that she took a bus to some place called Corafatale. It must be in Italy, which is very odd. I can't find it on a map.”

Glancing over at the booth where Joe was calmly eating his meal, Judith sighed. The steak and mushroom pie must be getting cold. It was useless to argue with Agent Dunleavy. He would never believe anything she said, including the fact that Corafatale wasn't a place, it was a person. Grandma Grover's nickname had been Cora Fat Tail, for reasons that had never been explained to Judith or Renie, no doubt because the grandchildren were never allowed to use it.

Without another word, Judith turned away and went back to the booth. “Hopeless,” she said, and resumed eating her steak and mushroom pie.

She was right. It was cold. So, suddenly, was she.

For the first time since opening the B&B, she had forgotten about her guests
. No provision had been made in case the last of the Wednesday reservations showed up in her absence. Leaping out of the booth, Judith announced that they had to go home at once.

Joe hadn't quite finished his prime rib. “Why?” he asked, mildly surprised.

Judith explained. Joe shrugged. “So? The other guests know you'll be back. The new ones will just have to wait.”

“But that's wrong, that's terrible,” Judith asserted. Then, a slightly unsavory idea popped into her head. “Never mind. I'll call Herself.”

The pay phone was beyond the bar, near the rest rooms. Vivian Flynn answered on the third ring. “I hate to ask.” Judith said, at her most humble. “But would you mind…?”

The request was brief and to the point. Herself said she'd be delighted. “DeeDee's making dinner, so I'm free as a bird. I'll tell her to put everything on the back burner. Oh, by the way, can you and Joe stop in tonight?”

“I don't think so,” Judith said, then, because she didn't want to be rude since she'd asked a favor, she added, “but thanks anyway. I've been derelict in my duties as it is. I'd better stick around the B&B the rest of the evening.”

Herself seemed satisfied with the excuse. “You should come tomorrow night then,” she said. “I don't think DeeDee will be staying much longer.”

Judith mumbled an ambiguous reply, then returned to the booth. Her steak and kidney pie was gone.

“I told Kevin to warm it up for you,” Joe said, wiping his mouth with a green linen napkin. “He's a nice kid.”

Judith reached across the table to pat Joe's hand. “You're a nice husband,” she said with a fond smile. “Usually.”

 

After Judith and Joe returned from T. S. McSnort's, Judith stopped off to see Gertrude and take her dinner things away. “Mother,” she began, trying to sound stern, “if that FBI agent comes around again, I don't want you talking to him. He has no right to question you. Just refuse to answer, okay?”

“You mean Bruce?” Gertrude asked. “Why shouldn't I talk to him? He's good company. Nice manners. His mother raised him right. He knows how to treat old people.” She shot Judith a reproachful look.

“That's not the point,” Judith sighed. “You know darned well this is a case of mistaken identity. It's not fair to you, it's not fair to him. He's wasting his time, and by leading him on, you could get him into serious trouble.”

Gertrude's answer was to turn up the volume on the TV. “Can't hear a word you say. You know I'm deaf.”

Realizing that arguing with Gertrude was as hopeless as arguing with Agent Dunleavy, she decided she might as well let them have at each other. It would serve them both right. But she still planned to call on Dunleavy's superior.

Carrying Gertrude's plate and silverware out of the toolshed, Judith jumped when a figure hurtled over the back fence. Blinking into the shadows, she caught her breath as she recognized O. P. Dooley.

“Hi, Mrs. Flynn,” he said, bounding across the lawn. “You miss me?”

“Huh?” Judith juggled the dinnerware and her handbag. “Have you been gone?”

O. P. nodded. “I got the flu, too. I wasn't on the route today. Did you know the police finally towed that Chrysler Concord away from our place?”

“Do you know if they found anything of interest in it?” Judith asked.

O. P. shook his head. “I was sick in bed when it happened last night. In fact, I got sick right after I left your place. Anyway, the police wouldn't search it there, right? They'd do that at headquarters.”

“That's probably true,” Judith conceded. “What's puzzling is that Darlene would leave it in the neighborhood. How did she get away?”

“There's a bus stop on Heraldsgate Avenue,” O. P. pointed out. “That's only three blocks away.”

“People don't go on the run by taking a bus,” Judith noted as the first drops of rain began to fall. “There's no pay phone nearby to call a cab.”

“She could have walked up to the top of the hill,” O. P. suggested.

“Yes,” Judith said, “she could have. It's not that far. But why not park the car up there and save the hike?”

“Maybe she ran out of gas,” O. P. said.

Judith uttered a heavy sigh. “Maybe. People do such inexplicable things. Thanks for telling me,” she added with a big smile. “I've got to get back to my guests. I hope you feel better, O. P.”

“I will,” he replied, heading for the fence. “I already do. I'll be back on the route tomorrow. Meantime, I'll keep my eyes open.”

“You do that,” Judith called as the boy climbed back over the fence and disappeared.

Music assailed her ears as she entered the house. Heading for the source, which seemed to be the living room, Judith saw Roland playing the piano and Herself lounging on top of it, belting out a smoky-voiced version of “St. Louis Blues.” Joe and the guests seemed enthralled, with the exception of Bea Malone, who was jabbering in her husband's inattentive ear.

Led by Pam and Sandi, enthusiastic applause followed the rendition. “More, more!” the teachers shouted.

Herself bowed modestly. “I was just telling Roland that all we need is a sax player. Then we could do a really great set.”

“What fun,” Judith said, hoping she sounded as if she meant it. “Did the other guests come?”

“Not yet,” Vivian responded airily, then signaled to Roland. “How about some Ma Rainey? ‘Jelly Bean Blues' will do.”

Roland plied the piano and Herself burst into song. Judith went into the kitchen to check her messages. Sure enough, there was one from the tardy Santa Cruz couple. They had stopped for dinner in the state capital, and would be late. Judith dialed the number for Chez Moi, which, unfortunately, was located in the south end of the city, and meant that the latecomers would have to backtrack. After alerting the Chez Moi innkeeper, Judith looked out the window over the sink.

It was drizzling, and the clouds that had moved in made the evening seem much darker than it should have been at eight o'clock in June. Judith went out to the garage to get a pair of garden clippers and a box of slug bait. The clippers weren't where she'd left them, which was on a peg next to the shovels and trowels. Groping around on the garage's cement floor, she found them behind one of the larger shov
els. As she tucked the box of slug bait under her arm, she was reminded of her dad and Uncle Cliff, Renie's father, arguing over the merits of various methods of eliminating slugs. Donald and Cliff, whose resemblance was noticeable only in their heights and builds, had stood out on this same porch on a spring evening over forty years ago. Judith's father, who was scholarly by nature, had read that a shallow plate of beer would entice slugs and lead them to a merciful, possibly happily inebriated, death. Uncle Cliff, with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette, had responded that he wouldn't buy a beer for a slug. Judith could still see him putting out the cigarette, picking up a flashlight and a sharp shovel, and moving with his seaman's gait into the garden's deep shadows. He'd always count the slugs he'd killed, returning to the house to announce the toll in his terse, droll manner. “Eighteen.” “Twenty-two.” And if there had been no rain to bring the pesky gastropods out, a somewhat muted “Six.” Donald Grover never fared half so well with his saucers of beer.

This evening's light rain was barely noticeable to a Pacific Northwest native such as Judith. She wore no covering for her head, and hadn't bothered to put on a jacket. As she worked her way along the backyard, she could hear Herself and Roland through the french doors. Judith was forced to admit that Vivian had a decent voice, in a typical torch singer's style. She also had to admit that the singer, if not the song, still seemed to intrigue Joe Flynn. Her mind flitted back to the first—and fatal, from Judith's point of view—meeting, which must have been a scene very like the one that was being reenacted in her living room. After putting two teenagers in body bags, Joe had gone to a downtown bar where Herself had been draped over the piano. He drank, she sang. They eloped a few hours later to Vegas. Judith spotted two slugs under one of the azalea bushes by the second living room window. She poured an extra measure of bait onto them and smiled grimly.

Going around to the front of the house, she clipped a few errant branches from the lily of the valley shrub and a
couple of rhododendrons. At the far corner by the front porch, she stopped to trim the huge camellia that had been covered with lush pink blooms earlier in the spring. When she finished, Judith stood back to admire her handiwork.

“Not bad,” she murmured to herself. “The garden's beginning to shape up for the summer.”

Starting around the corner of the house, she paused. The ever-present squad car was still in the cul-de-sac, but now parked at the far corner, by the Steins' house. Judith's eyes strayed to the Malones' Ford Explorer, which stood at the curb. Judith moved toward the vehicle, wondering if Renie had overlooked anything when she'd given it the once-over the previous day.

The rear end, as well as the passenger seat, was jammed with belongings. Clothes on hangers, a big cooler, three more suitcases, a set of golf clubs, a big duffel bag, and some smaller items, including a steel fishing tackle box, a dirty brown blanket, a water dish, a mismatched pair of hiking boots, a pile of opera tapes, and several magazines filled the Explorer. There was no doubt that Bea and Mal had planned a lengthy car trip.

Judith continued spreading bait alongside the part of the house that was shielded by the Rankerses' hedge. Someone, probably something, like the Dooleys' dog, Venerable Bede, had been digging in the damp earth and had trampled two of Judith's snapdragons. It wasn't the first time the animal had made a nuisance of himself, but Judith never complained. The Dooleys were wonderful neighbors.

The snail bait was used up by the time she had come full circle. Dumping the empty box into the recycling bin by the porch, she headed for the garage to get a trash bag for the garden clippings.

As usual, the double doors were open. They were the originals, and one of them had been off its hinge for over three years. Joe had promised Judith to have an automatic door installed, but he hadn't gotten around to it. Like Bill Jones, Joe Flynn wasn't particularly handy around the house. Which, Judith thought with a frown, was also why
Joe hadn't replaced the garage light. Circumventing her Subaru and Joe's MG, she started to move toward the shelf where the trash bags were kept.