Gone With the Win: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (23 page)

“Yeah?” she said, looking wary.

“I’m Mrs. Flynn—you know. From Hillside Manor.” Judith gestured toward her house. “This is my cousin, Mrs. Jones. We were wondering how Brick was getting along.”

“He’s still a mess, but he’ll live,” Lainie replied.

“That’s encouraging,” Judith said. “I spoke with Vivian, your landlady. Uh . . . would you mind if we came in for just a moment?”

Lainie looked as if she did mind, but after a long pause she stepped aside. “Go ahead. Herb’s in the can. He’s getting ready for work.”

Judith glanced around the living room, which looked as if no one had done any housecleaning recently. The two easy chairs were covered with magazines and dirty TV-dinner trays. The sofa appeared to be where Lainie kept some of her clothes and cosmetics. She made no effort to clear away any of the clutter.

“What about Mrs. What’s-her-name?” she asked.

“She wanted to know when Mrs. Frosch’s funeral would be held,” Judith said. “Vivian knew Mrs. Frosch from years ago. She’d like to send some kind of memorial.”

“Herb decided not to have a funeral,” Lainie said. “He’s not religious. They cost too much. He had his wife cremated. Maybe he’ll keep her ashes around for a while.” She shrugged. “Whatev’. All I want is to go home. Brick and I only came over here for him to check out a race car that was for sale. Turns out he never got a chance to see it.”

Judith put on her most sympathetic expression. “That’s a shame. Will he be able to race again when he recovers from his accident?”

“It’s not like it’s any more dangerous than walking across the street. Not that Brick is going to win any big races. He’s lost his edge. He might have to get a real job.” Lainie made a disgusted face. “I didn’t think I was hooking up with a loser. Serves me right for dissing Dirk McQueen. Oh, what the hell—my own fault. Bad judgment.” She shrugged.

Judith was momentarily speechless. Renie spoke up, if only to prove she could talk. “You know who hit him?”

“No,” Lainie replied. “Brick never got a look at him.” She punched her fist into her palm. “It was like
blam!
He didn’t come to until the next afternoon. A kid, maybe, going too fast and too scared to stop.”

“Possibly,” Judith allowed. “It must be especially hard on Brick to lose his mother while he’s laid up in the hospital.”

“Elma was his stepmom,” Lainie said. “They never got along too good. His dad’s okay.” She glanced into the hallway. “Jeez, what’s Herb doing in the can? Drowning himself? That sounds right about now with this bunch.”

“We should leave,” Judith said. “If you need anything, just—”

“I need a lot of things,” Lainie broke in. “But you can’t do any of ’em for me. Thanks anyway. See ya.” She turned and headed for the hall, apparently to see if Herb was underwater.

“She’s a piece of work,” Judith said when they got outside. “Let’s move on out. We’ll take your car for a change. It’s blocking the driveway.”

“Fine,” Renie said as they got into the Camry. “But I’d like to know where we’re going. Directions will help me get there.”

“Head downtown to Uncle Al’s former café on Fourth Avenue. The owners keep up with the sporting world. I want to check their archives or pick their brains for a big win when Opal might’ve gotten lucky. I know the approximate date. Who knows? We might hear some gossip about the current racing crowd.”

“Got it,” Renie said, pulling out of the cul-de-sac. “I could use a snack about now.”

“Go for it. What did you make of Lainie?”

Renie turned onto Heraldsgate Avenue, but slowed down as the traffic light at the bottom of the hill turned from amber to red. “She’s a self-serving twit with not enough class to qualify as a gold digger. She’d be lucky to find an agate.”

“You’ve nailed her,” Judith remarked. “I wonder if Brick was really hit by accident.”

Just before the light changed, Renie darted Judith a quick glance. “And if it wasn’t, then you think . . . ?”

“Lainie’s the one who hit him.”

Chapter 19

D
owntown parking during the day was at a premium. After circling around the immediate area where the Sporting Chance Café was located, Renie finally dropped off Judith and said she’d park in a garage about a block away.

Getting out in front of their uncle’s former eatery and backroom betting establishment, Judith noticed that whoever now owned the place had done some refurbishing. The plain wooden door had been replaced with a Victorian-era oval of etched glass set in dark oak. Inside, the marble counter remained, though the dozen stools sported new green covers. The booths had also been reupholstered and the white globe ceiling lights were gone. Art Nouveau canopy shades hung in their place.

The café was fairly busy for midafternoon. Judith slid into an empty booth not far from the door. A young server with a black bow tie and long sideburns came over to ask if she was ready to order. Judith told him she was waiting for someone and was in no rush.

Five minutes passed and Renie hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe the garage had been full. It wouldn’t be uncommon during a workday. Having studied the menu, she was putting it aside when she heard a familiar voice and looked up to see Marv Farrell leaning on the back of the booth.

“We meet again,” he said. “It must be fate.”

“Have a seat,” Judith said, trying to hide her surprise. “But beware. My cousin is coming. Don’t steal her food or drink this time.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Marv said. “I’m just hanging around for the race results.”

“Funny you should mention . . .” She stopped as her cousin appeared.

“Good grief!” Renie exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me you were rendezvousing with your secret lover from the track. Move over,” she said to Marv. “And keep any other moves to yourself. It turns out we know each other. How’s life after the billing section at the lighting department?”

“Good,” he replied, looking puzzled. “How do I know you?”

“I’m Serena Jones, graphic designer. We only talked on the phone way back when.”

Marv laughed. “I’ll be damned. I always pictured you as a willowy blonde with blue eyes that could cut glass. You’re a brown-haired squirt.”

“I’m in disguise,” Renie retorted. “Give me a menu or I’ll have to hurt you.”

Marv complied. “Why do I feel this meeting isn’t accidental?”

“But it is,” Judith said. “Our uncle used to own this place.”

Marv frowned. “Al Grover? I remember him. Helluva guy.”

“He still is,” Renie said. “I want a hamburger and fries. I can make something I don’t like for Bill tonight and then I’ll have an elaborate snack before I go to bed.”

The server returned. Renie gave him her order, adding a vanilla malt. Judith asked for chips and salsa. Marv mulled for a moment, finally saying he’d indulge himself with a slice of blueberry pie and a refill on the empty coffee mug he’d left at the fountain.

“Chips and salsa?” Renie said after the server had left. “That’s a lame snack, if you ask me. And you’re only drinking water?”

“I’m fine,” Judith said, sounding irked. “I like chips and salsa.” The truth was that it was the first item she’d glimpsed on the starter menu. Her brain was primarily engaged in thinking of ways to elicit information from Marv about his days as a lighting repairman in the Thurlow District.

It was Renie, however, who broke the brief silence. “Hey, Marv,” she began, “is it true that after being a food inspector, you had to hit the streets—or should I say the wires?—to keep everybody out of the dark?”

Marv chuckled. “I sure did, but only for a couple of weeks to—as they put it—‘get a feel for life in the field.’ I wore a hard hat, but I never had to climb any poles, thank God.”

Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “So what did you do? Watch other people climb poles and yell, ‘Look out! Here comes a woodpecker!’?”

Marv didn’t answer until the server had brought their beverages. “I checked on complaints, handled shutoff notices, did some safety inspections, whatever I could do and still stay on the ground.”

The food arrived. Judith saw an opening of her own in Marv’s recital of his experience in the field. “Wasn’t delivering shutoff notices as dangerous as being up on a pole?”

He shook his head. “I probably didn’t have more than a dozen. You just hang them on a doorknob and walk away. The customer’s already gotten a notice in the mail. The hand-delivered ones state the exact date power will be shut off with a twenty-four-hour warning. More, if it’s a Friday.”

As far as Judith could tell, Marv was perfectly at ease. She decided to press the issue. “Did you ever have to deal with anyone face-to-face?”

Marv frowned slightly as he took a sip of coffee. “No. The closest I came was some old guy who was out in his yard. But it turned out he didn’t live there. He was looking for his missing cat.”

Renie scowled at Marv. “Are you sure he wasn’t a burglar?”

“On a walker?” Marv shook his head. “I tried to help him find the cat. No luck.”

Judith was getting desperate. The chips and salsa were making her thirsty. She’d already downed over half of her water. “Say,” she said, as if taken by surprise, “do you remember a family from my old neighborhood named Tooms?”

“Tombs?” Marv said. “As in graves?”

“No.” Judith spelled the name. “Meat & Mingle patrons.” It was only half a fib.

Marv’s face darkened. “Yes. I do. Wasn’t the owner killed right after I finished working in the neighborhood?”

“That’s right. I’d moved away by then, but I heard about it later.”
Much later,
she thought.
Not a fib, just an exaggeration
.

“I think,” Marv said slowly, “she was one of the customers I had to leave a notice for. I’d forgotten all about that. It must have been at least fifteen years ago.”

“What do you do when that happens?” Judith asked. “Collect from the estate?”

“Sometimes.” Marv’s color had returned to normal. “Usually, that’s not necessary. Survivors pay the bills, though it can take a while. Now that I think about it, somebody stepped up to pay the Toomses’ bill. A relative, maybe. It’s somewhat easier nowadays with online billing.” He took another drink from his coffee mug. “Time for me to head home. My condo’s only about eight blocks from here. It’s good exercise.” He stood up, got out his wallet, and tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. “For the pie. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” He winked—and was gone.

“I’m losing my touch,” Judith murmured. “That was a bust.”

Renie frowned. “Could he be innocent?”

Judith gazed up at the high ceiling. “Of what? I’m not even sure now what I thought he was guilty of. Maybe Duke Swisher paid the light bill.”

Renie didn’t speak until she’d eaten her last french fry. “We don’t know exactly when Marv worked in the neighborhood. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know what matters anymore,” Judith admitted. “I thought I could read people fairly well. Granted, Marv seemed just a tad shaken by my mention of the Tooms name, but maybe it was the memory of having had some sort of contact with Opal about the time she was killed.”

“It could creep a person out,” Renie said, before taking a sip from her malt. She frowned. “This is very good, but some of the malt’s stuck.” She blew lustily into the straw, splattering drops on the table. “Damn,” she muttered, using her fingers to wipe up the mess. “At least I missed my cashmere sweater.” She licked the residue off her fingers. “Don’t look at me like that,” she admonished Judith. “Nobody’s watching.”

“Missing,” Judith said, as if she hadn’t heard her cousin. “That’s what’s missing from Woody’s file.” She pointed to the spot Renie had just wiped clean. “Fingerprints.”

Renie’s eyes widened. “You’re right. Apparently the killer didn’t leave any. You’re thinking premeditated?”

“Yes, possibly. Who’d carry around or wear gloves on a pleasant day in June?”

“Are we back to a guy on a pole?”

“I don’t know. Unless . . .” Judith shook her head. “I have to refocus. Are you finished?”

“Almost,” Renie replied, then polished off her malt. “Now what?”

“We check the boys in the back,” Judith said, catching the eye of their server. “I wonder who runs the operation these days. In fact, I wonder what kind of ruse they use to keep it quasi-legal.”

“The recent investigation of the police department obviously didn’t shut it down or Joe would’ve told you,” Renie remarked, taking out her Visa card as their server arrived. “For both,” she told him. “My treat.”

The server smiled and moved off to the register. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ll pay for parking.”

“Yes, you will. It’s twenty bucks for an hour during the day unless you have a monthly rate. I got off cheap.”

“You’re cunning, I’ll say that for you,” Judith said, getting out of the booth. “I’ll head for the back room and meet you there. I’m still not walking quite as fast as I should today.”

Renie arrived at the unmarked knotty-pine door almost at the same time Judith did. It was locked. The cousins both noticed a peephole almost hidden in one of the knots.

“Who’s there?” an echoing deep voice inquired.

Judith saw some tiny circles that must be the speaker just below the peephole. “Al Grover’s nieces, Judith and Serena.”

There was a pause. Then the door swung open. “It’s me, Swede Lundquist,” the tall, broad-shouldered man with the snowy-white hair said. He held out a beefy hand. “How are you two scamps doing? I haven’t seen you in ten, fifteen years.”

“At least that long,” Judith said, smiling up at Uncle Al’s old chum from their basketball-playing days. “Don’t tell me you finally retired from being a longshoreman.”

“Just last year,” Swede replied. “But I couldn’t just sit around, so your uncle saw to it that I had something to do.” He made a sweeping gesture at the large, paneled room where a couple of dozen people—all men—sat in comfortable chairs watching TV screens showing various sporting events and making notes on laptops, iPads, and old-fashioned paper tablets. “We privatized. You’re now members.” He reached into a beer stein and took out two small bronze pins with gold lettering that spelled out win. “I’ll defer your dues for now. Or did you pay for some grub here?”

“I did,” Renie said. “Can we grandmother her in? She actually has grandchildren. I, alas, do not. Yet.”

“Sure. Al wouldn’t have it any other way. How is he? I haven’t seen him for at least a month.”

“As far as we know, he’s fine,” Judith said. “Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince are coming down from the island over the weekend, so we’ll probably have a family gathering.”

Swede nodded. “I remember Vince when he drove a truck. Does he still go to sleep at the wheel?”

“Oh, sure,” Renie replied, “but Auntie Vance stabs him with a fork and he wakes up.”

“She’s a character,” Swede declared. “Got a real mouth on her. Great gal. Okay—so why are you here?” He looked at Judith. “You wouldn’t be involved in one of your mysterious adventures, would you?”

“I would,” Judith said. “
We
would, I mean. Renie’s a big help. For starters, do you have archives from the old racetrack?”

“Sure. Got it all on the computer now, back to the early days in the thirties. I almost know how to run the damned thing. I can even turn it on. Come on into what I call my office. It’s where I take my naps. Not as young as I used to be.”

Swede’s office was small, cluttered, and faintly redolent of cigar smoke. He lowered his husky frame into the old-fashioned swivel chair behind the oak desk. “Got dates for what you need to find out?”

Judith gave him the three weekend days she thought that Opal and Duke might have been at the track. “I’m looking for big winners,” she said, “which would probably mean Saturday or Sunday.”

Swede nodded once. “Got it. Early in the season, so could be some upsets. Not many big-stakes races then. And, as you know, no betting on any races but the local track.”

Judith nodded. “That came along after the new course was built.”

“Dang!” Swede exclaimed. “They don’t make these keys big enough for my paws. Hold on. At least I got the right year.”

Judith gazed at the walls, which were covered with all sorts of sports memorabilia including some from Swede’s own ball-playing days.

“There’s Uncle Al,” Renie said, after joining her cousin in the stroll down memory lane. “Imagine—being a center back then at only six four.”

“Got it,” Swede announced. “Only one long shot that weekend, ninth race on Sunday. Went off in the feature at twenty to one. A five-buck bet would get you over a hunsky.”

“That’s it?” Judith said in disappointment.

Swede shrugged. “Depends on the amount wagered. Just do the math if you think somebody bet the house.”

“True,” Judith allowed, wondering if Opal—or Duke—had wagered more than a fairly conservative amount. “What was the horse’s name?”

Swede looked at the screen. “Two-year-olds and up, winner was a local chestnut gelding trained by Jorge Gonzales, ridden by Omar Alvarez, horse was Duke’s Dream. Is that any help?”

“It might be,” Judith said, smiling. “That reminds me—do you know a trainer named Duke Swisher?”

“I’ve seen him around.” Swede stared off into space for a moment. “Fairly successful, though he came late to the game. I think he spends part of the year in California.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Hold it. Is there some connection between Swisher and Duke’s Dream?”

“I think he may’ve bet on that horse in the race you just looked up,” Judith said. “He’s also got a stake in Ali Baba Stables. The other owners are Lee Watkins and a Mr. Alipur, who owns The Persian Cat in the Thurlow District, my old neighborhood.”

Swede chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Mr. Alipur. Now, there’s a slippery character. I don’t know anything about Watkins, but Alipur ran book out of his joints in California. That’s why he moved up here.”

“But he’s stayed clean since then?” Renie asked.

Swede shrugged. “Can a leopard change its spots?” He frowned. “Maybe snow leopards can. But not cats like Alipur.”

“Interesting,” Judith murmured. “We’d better leave you in peace, Swede. Thanks for the information. And the membership. We just might come by more often.”