Legs Benedict (20 page)

It took several minutes of apology, directions, and humbling herself before Judith was rid of the would-be guests. They left, dazed and confused, at precisely nine-thirty. The last thing she heard was the husband ask the wife why the cops were at the corner.

“To protect the guests?” the wife suggested.

Judith firmly closed the door.

 

Judith couldn't resist calling Renie. Since all of the guests except Roland were still in the living room, she went
into the kitchen to seek privacy. As she dialed her cousin's number, she glimpsed Mike, going out the back door to visit his grandmother. Judith smiled. The bond between the generations was strong. Gertrude's propensity for sharp-tongued criticism seemed to have skipped her grandson.

“So,” Renie said after Judith had recounted the evening thus far, “Mike scared the bejeezus out of you. Can't you screw in a lightbulb?”

“I can, but why should I?” Judith responded in a defensive tone. “I do everything else around here, including the garden. It wouldn't hurt for him to take on some of the simpler chores.”

“I tell you,” Renie said, and Judith could picture her cousin shaking her head in despair, “when Joe retires, you'd better join our Key Club. It's certainly reduced the frustration quotient in my life.”

“Come on, coz,” Judith said, irritated. “Joe and I wouldn't go along with that sort of thing.”

“You're being silly,” Renie chided. “Frankly, you could use Bill's services right now. I hear the need in your voice.”

“Coz! I wouldn't! I couldn't!” Judith was practically shaking with indignation.

“You aren't doing so hot on your own this time,” Renie asserted. “Bill could bail you out.”

“How?” Judith demanded. “Why can't Joe—as you so crudely put it—bail me out?”

“Because he's a cop, not a psychologist,” Renie said, sounding reasonable.

“Huh?” For once, Judith didn't seem to be on Renie's wavelength.

“Bill could talk to those people in a different way than Joe or J. J. do,” Renie went on. “Isn't that why they have psychologists and psychiatrists on the force? I'll bet Bill could tell whether or not someone was capable of murder.”

“What,” Judith said slowly, “are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the Key Club,” Renie said, her usual impatience surfacing. “Every member has a skill or a tal
ent. Unless you haven't been listening for the past thirty years, Bill's gifts aren't limited to teaching and psycho-analysis. He also understands people and counsels them. For example, if somebody in the club has a troubled teenager, Bill talks to the kid and tries to figure out what's going on. In return, the husband checks out our wiring. Or whatever.” Renie's voice suddenly sharpened. “What the hell did you
think
I was talking about?”

“Uh…you know. Sex,” Judith gulped.

“Oh, good grief!” Judith could now visualize Renie twirling around in a frenzied circle. “I can't believe you could be so dim. In fact, I'm insulted.”

“Coz,” Judith said in a pleading voice, “you never explained how the Key Club worked. What was I to think?”

“Something terrible, apparently,” Renie snapped. “You know Bill hates household tasks. He's like Joe. Several of the couples in the club can't afford appliance repair calls or counseling or auto maintenance or a trip to the dentist. My contribution is design advice, like what color to paint your house or putting together a brochure for the Senior Service Center. If you and Joe join, he could offer safety tips or even provide security. You could cater an event or donate a room for an anniversary getaway. It all evens out, and saves money, especially for retirees on fixed incomes.”

Now that Renie had explained the Key Club, it made perfect sense. Feeling weak in the knees, Judith leaned against the refrigerator. “I'm so sorry, coz,” she said meekly. “I knew it didn't sound like you and Bill. But you never clarified your…ah…duties.”

“Skip it,” Renie said, still irked. “I'll get over it. In about twenty years.”

“Do you want to hang up on me?” Judith asked, still meek.

“No. Why did you call in the first place?” Renie asked, her tone softening slightly. “Go ahead, tell me. Bill's watching Clint Eastwood blow away a bunch of scumbags. I've seen all these movies a hundred times, and Clint never misses.”

“I know the feeling,” Judith murmured, then finished recounting the evening's events.

“You've had quite a time of it,” Renie remarked when Judith had finished. “Do you really believe they'll be gone by tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Judith replied with conviction. “I see no legal way the police can insist on them staying.”

“So where did Minerva end up?” Renie asked, sounding more like her normal self.

“I have no idea,” Judith answered. “A downtown hotel, maybe. I can't understand her running out on Barney, though. I guess she had to be mixed up in his criminal activities. Still…” Her voice trailed off.

“Still, she's his mother, right? Would we leave our mothers in prison?” Renie chortled a bit.

“You know we wouldn't,” Judith said. “We might fantasize about it, but we'd never do it. In fact, we'd raise hell about it.” She paused. “I wonder if Minerva has done as much for Barney. How do we know she really is his mother?”

“We don't,” Renie replied. “Maybe,” she added, chortling again, “she's his girlfriend.”

“You know,” Judith admitted, “I don't know when I've been involved with a case where I felt so at sea. The irony is, this murder happened on my own premises, with my own guests. And yet, I'm utterly—I hate to use the word—baffled.”

“It's not your job,” Renie said.

“But you know me,” Judith protested. “I like to try. It's not always so difficult, especially if you understand people and apply logic. And sometimes I succeed.”

“Coz,” Renie sighed, “you're not a professional detective. Oh, sure, you've had some terrific successes, but you're an innkeeper, you've been a caterer, a bartender, a librarian, and while going through college, you sold roller-skates. Now you've got a new job. You're a grandmother. Knowing you, you're going to love it.”

Judith smiled into the receiver. “That's true. I will.
Thanks, coz. You made me feel better. Right after you made me feel worse.”

“That's what I'm here for,” said Renie.

 

Judith didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was the excitement of having the new baby coming home or her reluctance to give up on the Legs Benedict case or her anxiety over getting the current guests out of the B&B. Perhaps it was even the aftermath of the flu. For whatever reason, she tossed and turned and woke Joe up twice. If Mike hadn't been sleeping in his old room, she would have slept there and left Joe in peace. Instead, from four o'clock on, she tried to lie as quietly as possible until the alarm went off at six.

Finally, she decided that waiting was pointless. At five-thirty, she got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs. Breakfast would be simple: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, and coffee. Judith didn't care to expend any extra energy or expense on the lame-duck visitors.

She heard Rob Simon, the regular morning carrier, send the newspaper against the front door screen around six-fifteen. Rob was already pedaling out of the cul-de-sac when she retrieved the latest edition. Skimming the front section and the local news, she saw no mention of the “Hillside Manor Case.” Relieved, she sat down to drink her first cup of coffee.

Forcing herself not to think about Legs Benedict, Judith tried to concentrate on the rest of the paper. Joe would be down shortly. The bacon was already sizzling on the stove and two eggs sat side by side on the counter. She shifted her thoughts to little Dan. Mac. She liked that much better.

What other baby items were in the garage
, she wondered? First-time fathers didn't realize what was involved with newborns. Sometimes the mothers didn't either, as in the case of the umbrella stroller. Judith realized that they had no cradle. The white wicker bassinet, which had first held Renie, then Judith, and eventually the cousins' chil
dren, was out there, together with the stand that Uncle Cliff had made for his only child.

Judith went outside. It was too early to check on Gertrude, who usually woke around six-thirty. At least officially. Judith's mother often spent restless nights, her arthritis making it difficult to find a comfortable position for sleep.

It was still raining, a gloomy morning that felt more like January than June. Summer was only two days off on the calendar, but Judith knew the damp weather could continue until the Fourth of July.

She entered the garage, recalling that the bassinet and the stand were in the loft that Uncle Cliff had built sixty years ago to house a small rowboat that he and Grandpa Grover had eventually abandoned on a fishing trip to a lake with a virtually impassable trail. Getting out the step ladder that leaned against the wall, Judith set it up and began climbing the six steps to the loft.

Peering into the gloom, she saw a man with a rifle. Judith laughed. “Mike, what are you doing here with that stroller? Didn't I tell you…” The words stuck in Judith's throat.

It wasn't Mike.

It wasn't a stroller.

It was Agent Dunleavy, and Judith heard him cock the rifle and aim it straight at her.

Judith almost fell off the ladder. Her hands gripped the edge of the loft as she tried to steady herself.

“It's me,” she squeaked, her knees shaking and her mouth dry. “Mrs. Flynn. What are you doing?”

Dunleavy lowered the rifle. “Go back down,” he said. “Get the hell out of here.” His usually soft voice had deepened and even in the gloom, Judith could see that his youthful features had hardened.

Clumsily, Judith obeyed. Then she moved under the shelter of the loft. “What on earth are you doing up there?” she asked, still barely able to speak.

“Go back in the house.” Dunleavy didn't sound as if he were in the mood to argue.

“Not until you tell me what's going on,” Judith declared, summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed. “Are you going to shoot my mother?”

“Maybe,” Dunleavy said evenly, “I already did. Shouldn't you check on the old bat?”

“Oh my God!” On trembling legs, Judith hurtled out of the garage and staggered toward the toolshed. The door was locked; she hadn't brought her key. Racing back to the house, she grabbed her purse, then fumbled in it for the ring that contained the key that opened her mother's so-called apartment.

It seemed to take forever before the lock turned. Judith fell across the threshold and rushed into Gertrude's bedroom. The old woman was lying in bed, her head turned away from Judith.

“Mother!” Judith cried. “Are you okay?”

A muffled grunt came from under the covers. Judith gently pulled back the sheet, the electric blanket, and the comforter that Gertrude required even during the warmer months. There was no sign of blood. Judith expelled a sigh of relief.

“What now?” the old woman demanded, though the words were slightly indistinct. “Whath with thith crack-of-dawn vithitor thuff the latht few dayth? Whereth my teeth?”

“Here, Mother,” Judith said, handing over the glass in which Gertrude kept her dentures. “I'm sorry. I got up early, and I thought I'd check on you. I'm sorry.” she repeated, aware that her voice was shaking.

“You can all thop it right now,” Gertrude declared before putting in her teeth. “I'm thick of it.”

“Don't worry, I'm going,” Judith said, patting her mother's shoulder. “I'll be back soon with breakfast. You stay put.”

The dentures were in place. “Where else would I go, you moron?” Gertrude rasped. “You think I got a motor scooter in here and I can take off whenever I feel like it?”

“Yes. No. Of course not.” Judith was inching out of the
tiny bedroom. She didn't dare call the police from Gertrude's phone lest her mother become upset. Or worse, interrupt with another flurry of questions. “I have to go now.”

She had reached the living room when she heard several popping noises. Had some of the neighborhood kids gotten hold of illegal fireworks? It wouldn't be the first time, as Judith recalled the unfortunate episode that had reduced the original toolshed to rubble.

Slowly, she edged her way outside. Judith couldn't remember if the squad car had been parked in the cul-de-sac when she was on the front porch taking in the newspaper. If the watch had finally been canceled, Judith would call Homicide and hope that J. J. Martinez or Rich Goldman were in. Agent Dunleavy's situation had to be explained. Certainly it had nothing to do with Gertrude.

The rain had let up and the skies were brightening. Judith paused halfway down the walk between the toolshed and the house. If she moved just three steps to her right, she could see into the garage. In order to inform the police, she needed to know if Dunleavy was still there.

He was. It was easy for Judith to see him. His head, upper body, and arms dangled over the loft's edge.

Without getting closer, Judith was certain that Dunleavy was dead.

J
OE WAS PUTTING
bacon, one rasher at a time, in the frying pan when Judith came tearing into the kitchen. “What the hell…?” He yanked the pan off the burner and rushed to meet his wife.

The words that tumbled from Judith's lips were so incoherent that Joe had to give her a little shake. “Calm down. What is it? Your mother?”

If there was a trace of hope in Joe's tone, Judith didn't notice. She shook her head emphatically, then took a deep breath. This time Joe was able to make some sense of what she said.

“Jesus!” he breathed, racing for the back door. “Get the uniforms,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Judith steadied herself against the counter, then walked shakily to the front door. There was no sign of the squad car. She picked up the pace and went halfway down the cul-de-sac to see if the officers had moved their vehicle around the corner.

They hadn't. Judith hurried back into the house and called 911. After giving the pertinent information, she asked the dispatcher to transfer her to J. J. Martinez.

J. J. wasn't in yet, which didn't surprise Judith, who then requested that he be paged. The voice on the other end was reluctant until Judith revealed that she was the
owner of Hillside Manor and the wife of Detective Joe Flynn.

By the time Judith hung up, Joe still wasn't back. She went outside, carrying the cordless phone with her in case J. J. should return her call immediately.

Joe was in the driveway when he saw Judith. “Get inside,” he called, then jogged toward the house. “I have to get my weapon. We don't know if the killer is still out here.”

Judith stood uneasily in the entry hall as Joe strapped on the holster that he'd hung on its usual peg prior to leaving for work. “Dunleavy
is
dead, I take it?” Judith asked.

Joe nodded. “No pulse. He's been shot. I'm going to check out the vicinity.”

“No!” Judith cried. “The uniforms are gone—they must be changing shifts. Wait until the other officers get here. It's too dangerous for you to go it alone. J. J. is supposed to call us back. Please wait.” Still trembling, she clung to his arm.

“I can't wait,” he said. “I'm a cop, remember?”

“I don't care,” Judith said stubbornly. “You're my husband. You might get shot, too. Oh, Joe, when will this nightmare end?”

Joe shook Judith off. “Where I work, we call it a job. Stop fussing, I'll be careful. You stay right here and wait for J. J. to call.” He gave Judith a long, hard look and went outside again.

Frantically, Judith glanced at the old schoolhouse clock. It was twenty to seven. Unless the commotion had awakened them, the guests might not be down for another hour. Noticing that the burner for the bacon was still on, Judith clicked the dial to off. Then she collapsed into a chair and held her head.

In less than two minutes, she heard sirens. Jumping up, she went to the front porch as a patrol car pulled into the drive. She was about to join the officers when the phone rang in her hand.

It was J. J. Judith quickly explained what had happened.
“Will you come over?” she asked when she'd reached her breathless conclusion.

“On my way,” J. J. said, and rang off.

A second siren sounded as Judith started for the back door. An ambulance, perhaps, though there was no need to rush. Judith was going out onto the porch when a voice called from behind her.

“Who's dead now?” It was Mal Malone, unshaven, and wearing a gaudy bathrobe over striped pajamas.

“It's not a guest,” Judith said, trying to force a reassuring smile. “No need for alarm.”

“Sheesh.” Mal passed a hand over his high forehead. “I never been in such a lousy place. Is there a fire?”

“No, no.” The smile felt peculiar on Judith's lips, probably because they were twitching with nerves. “It's nobody you know. Go back to bed, breakfast won't be ready for an hour.”

But Bea had joined Mal. “I heard a shot,” she said. “Who got whacked this time?”

Was there any point in keeping the tragedy a secret
? Judith decided there wasn't. The police—and the FBI—would be interrogating the guests. Again. Judith groaned. The sun was barely up and the day had already disintegrated around her.

“An FBI agent was murdered,” Judith said, swallowing hard. “No one connected to this case,” she added feebly. “As far as I know.”

Mal looked taken aback. “One of them guys who hauled off Barney Whatshisname?”

Judith shook her head. “No. Someone who was working a different investigation.”
How in the world could she have two, maybe three, separate investigations going on at the same time in what was supposed to be a quiet, restful B&B
? Contrary to what Joe had said, the last few days were definitely a nightmare. Judith felt it was about time to wake up and laugh it all away. Indeed, she felt a wave of hysteria coming on, but managed to fight it off. “Excuse me, I have to see what's happening…”

Behind the Malones, Judith saw Marie Santori. Or Mary Lou Desmond. Judith felt it was almost impossible to keep everybody straight as their real names emerged. Maybe she should still think of her as Marie, since the federal marshal didn't want her cover blown with the other guests.

“What's going on?” Marie asked in a sharp tone.

Judith noticed that Marie was dressed, and had on a cotton jacket that could easily have concealed a weapon. “See for yourself,” Judith said, taking a chance that the Malones wouldn't follow Marie.

They did, however, but only as far as the back porch. They remained there, huddled in their ugly bathrobes, looking like a pair of toadstools.

“I know who you are,” Judith said under her breath as she and Marie approached the garage where Joe, the patrol officers and the ambulance attendants had gathered. “It's okay. Joe told me.”

“Keep it to yourself,” Marie said in a much deeper voice than Judith was used to hearing. “I'm still Marie Santori as far as you're concerned.”

“Sure. Fine.” The smile of acknowledgment that Judith tried to give Marie didn't quite materialize.

Agent Dunleavy's body still hung from the loft. Now that the initial shock was over, the sight seemed even more sickening to Judith. She took a couple of backward steps, then caught Joe's eye.

“J. J.'s on his way,” she said.

“That's what we're waiting for,” Joe replied, his manner brusque.

“Who is this guy?” Marie whispered to Judith.

Judith explained how Bruce Dunleavy had been sent on a fool's errand to question Gertrude. “Of course my mother was never a Nazi,” Judith said, still finding the situation incredible. “I can't imagine that the FBI would waste its time and resources on such a silly quest.” She glanced up at the loft. “And look what it led to. A needless tragedy. I can hardly believe it.”

“Then don't,” said Marie, and walked away.

 

Before J. J. arrived, Pete, Pam, and Sandi had also come outside. The officers, who had turned out to be Mercedes Berger and Darnell Hicks, herded the guests inside, including Marie. There was no sign of Roland, but as his room faced the front of the house, Judith thought he might not have been disturbed.

J. J. showed up at exactly seven o'clock, just as Gertrude came out of the toolshed on her walker. The last thing Judith wanted her mother to see was Bruce Dunleavy's body.

“Mother,” Judith said in her most compassionate voice, “you shouldn't be out here in the damp. It's bad for your arthritis.”

Gertrude clumped forward, using the walker to nudge Judith out of the way. “What's all this hullabaloo?” she asked. “Shoo, I want to see what's going on.”

“No, you don't,” Judith said, putting a firm hand on the walker. “Go back inside. I'll come with you.”

“Where's my breakfast?” Gertrude demanded, though she didn't try to move any further.

“It's going to be a little late,” Judith said, taking her mother by the arm. “Come on, I'll try to explain what's happened.”

Back in the toolshed, Judith settled her mother in her favorite chair. “There was an accident this morning.” It would be futile to keep Gertrude completely in the dark. Her mother's questions would drive Judith crazy. “Agent Dunleavy got hurt. He won't be coming by again.”

Gertrude's face fell. “He won't? But he was such good company.”

“I know, Mother. But he's…off the assignment. Because of his injury.”

“What injury?” Gertrude's gnarled hands clawed at the card table's edge.

“He got hurt in the garage.” Judith hesitated, then continued. “And he decided you weren't a Nazi.”

“I wasn't?” Gertrude's wrinkled face was puzzled.

“Of course not.”

“Hunh. Well, maybe not. I've always been a lifelong Democrat,” Gertrude said. “I don't suppose you can be both.”

“No, you can't. You wouldn't want to renounce your Democratic party membership, would you?” Judith asked slyly.

“Never,” Gertrude responded. “I'm voting for FDR.”

“There you go.” Judith rose from the arm of the sofa where she'd been perching. “I'll be back in just a little while with your breakfast.”

“You better be,” Gertrude said darkly. “I'll miss that boy. He had such nice manners. Did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you did.” Judith smiled at her mother.

“What day is it?” Gertrude asked suddenly.

“Thursday,” Judith replied.

The answer seemed to satisfy Gertrude. “What a week. Lots of company. It's been nice. Except for the early wake-ups. You scared me half to death this morning. Just like the other day.”

Judith paused at the door. “I didn't wake you up early the other day.”

“Yes, you did,” Gertrude insisted. “Monday, it was. Or Tuesday. I forget.”

Tuesday had been the day that Judith had found Legs Benedict's body outside the toolshed. But she hadn't wakened Gertrude, who had probably been up by then, anyway. Judith had gone straight back into the house to tell Joe.

As always, it was pointless to argue with her mother. Judith merely smiled again. “I promise not to do it anymore,” she said.

But she wondered just how confused Gertrude really was.

 

According to J. J., Agent Dunleavy had been shot from a distance of at least thirty feet. That meant, Joe explained, that his killer probably had been standing in the driveway or even on the sidewalk further down the cul-de-sac.

“I don't get it,” Judith said. “How many shots were fired?”

“One,” Joe replied. “It went straight to the heart.”

Judith shook her head. “That's not true. I mean, I heard more than one pop. Or shot. Three, maybe.”

Joe stared at Judith. “Why didn't you say so?”

“Nobody asked me,” Judith said, annoyed. “I haven't even talked to J. J. yet.”

J. J. was still outside. Joe hurried from the kitchen, apparently seeking his fellow homicide detective. Judith resumed frying bacon. All the guests had now gathered in the living room, including an astonished Roland du Turque. They were drinking coffee and engaging in bewildered conversation.

Five minutes later, just as Judith was dishing up fried eggs, Joe and J. J. returned. “Can you wait?” she asked. “I'd like to get these people fed. It'll only take three minutes.”

Joe poured coffee for J. J. while Judith served breakfast in the dining room. Then she begged for another two minutes while she took Gertrude's plate out to the toolshed. At precisely seven-thirty, she was back in the kitchen, having seen the ambulance carry away Agent Dunleavy's corpse.

Since neither Joe nor J. J. had eaten, she served them as well. Grabbing a piece of toast and a rasher of bacon, she finally sat down at the kitchen table.

“Three shots?” J. J. asked. “You sure?”

“I'm sure there were more than two,” Judith said. “There might even have been four.”

“Weird,” J. J. remarked. “Got the uniforms combing the area for stray bullets. We'll see. Tell me exactly what happened.” His knee was jiggling so hard that he actually raised the table.

Judith recounted the morning's events. To her surprise, J. J. and Joe didn't seem surprised when she told them how Dunleavy had seemed to threaten her when she'd found him in the loft.

“It was like he was a different person,” Judith said, then noticed J. J.'s eyes snap. She leaned across the table. “What do you know that I don't?”

Joe and J. J. exchanged quick glances. “Not much,” J. J. answered. “When I called the local FBI office to tell them that Dunleavy had been killed, they told me they'd never heard of him.”

 

It was Bruce Dunleavy who had told Judith several times that papers and documents could easily be forged. Maybe she should have guessed. Had he not been on a fool's errand after all? Or had Judith been the fool? Why had he come to Hillside Manor in the first place? Judging from Marie's attitude, Judith suspected it had nothing to do with Gertrude.

“All right,” she said, gazing from Joe to J. J., “who was he? If he was a phony, then questioning Mother was just an excuse to hang out on the premises. Do you two have any ideas?”

Joe was shaking his head and J. J. started to answer when Judith heard another siren.

“What's that?” J. J. jumped out of his chair, dropping his napkin.

“It sounds like an ambulance,” Joe said. “Maybe they dispatched a second crew by mistake.”

“Why not a fleet?” Judith asked, her voice unnaturally high. “The Red Cross, too, with field tents and truckloads of wounded and…”

Reaching across the table, Joe put a firm hand on Judith's arm. “Calm down,” he said in what Judith assumed was the voice he used on hysterical witnesses.

“I'm calm,” Judith said, swallowing hard and feeling bug-eyed. “I'm very calm.”