Legs Benedict (13 page)

Judith checked the messages that had accumulated since the previous day, which totaled four. Two were for reservations in late July and mid-September. The third was from Mike, saying that he and Kristin would be late as they wanted to stop at the mall and pick up some last-minute
baby items. The fourth and the last call, which had interrupted J. J., was from Phyliss Rackley.

“The demons must have got you,” Phyliss said in a mournful voice. “Glory be. I suppose I'll read about it in the papers. By the way, I'm sick. If the good Lord permits, I'll see you tomorrow. Unless you've gone to your heavenly reward.”

“Great.” Judith erased the last two messages, but took down the number of the out-of-state caller. “Now I have to clean this place by myself.”

Renie blew out a big cloud of smoke. “No, you won't. I'll help. Where do I start?”

“Ohhh…” Judith rubbed her temples. “I don't want you cleaning house. That's beyond the call of duty.”

“Stick it,” Renie said, putting her cigarette out in a clean saucer. “You've been sick, your wack-o cleaning woman probably caught it from you, no doubt I'm next, so take advantage of this opportunity before I keel over.”

With a sigh of resignation, Judith gave in. “You start with this floor, including the breakfast things. I'll take care of the guest rooms.”

Renie stopped halfway into the dining room. “Aren't you going to eat something?”

Judith shook her head as Sweetums jumped onto the kitchen counter. “Not yet. My stomach's still unsettled.” She grabbed the cat and put him on the floor. “What about you?”

“I never eat until after eleven,” Renie replied, heading through the swinging doors. “My brain may be in gear, but my body's still asleep.”

Sweetums's growls had deteriorated into pitiful mews. Judith opened a fresh can of Feline Feast and left the cat happily swilling down his breakfast. Collecting a load of cleaning equipment, Judith headed up the back stairs.

J. J. met her outside of Room Six. “One last check,” he said, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

Out of breath, Judith set the hand vacuum and the dust
mop against the wall. “I thought you finished searching the guest rooms yesterday.”

“Never hurts to be sure.” J. J. checked his watch, which looked as if it should adorn the wrist of a commercial airline pilot. “Anyway—nothing.”

“Okay, J. J.,” Judith said, grabbing the dustmop and making a churning gesture with the handle, “what's really up with Barney?”

J. J. ground his teeth. “Waiting to hear from the FBI. If not murder one, a grand jury in Detroit has already indicted him on organized crime charges.”

“Barney doesn't strike me as being very organized,” Judith sniffed. “What kind of crime is he involved in?”

“Hot cars,” J. J. replied. “Sells them off his dealership's used car lot.”

“Why don't they take the dealership away from him?”

“Maybe they tried. Maybe he convinced them it was a bad idea.”

“Barney sent in the headcrushers?”

J. J. looked startled. “How'd you know about guys like that?”

“I read a lot,” Judith answered with a wry smile. “So what did Barney in Detroit have to do with Legs in New York? Was Barney part of the Fusilli mob?”

“The Fusilli family was trying to get a piece of the action in Detroit. An illegal gambling operation,” J. J. said with a pained expression. “Shouldn't be telling you all this. But it'll come out sooner or later. Anyway, some of Fewer Fingers's—Barney's—pals were running the gambling show. The Fusilli family tried to muscle in on the action. Fewer Fingers didn't like seeing his pals get hurt. He sent in some enforcers.”

“Goodness.” In a gesture of dismay, Judith shook her head. “It all sounds so…seedy.”

“It is.” J. J. gave Judith a bleak expression. “Lucky for us we live here, not in some of those other cities. Wouldn't want to deal with these people on a regular basis.”

Judith agreed. “So you'll continue to hold Barney until the FBI says otherwise?”

“Guess so.” J. J. didn't seem very happy about the idea.

“Which means,” Judith said, taking a deep breath, “you don't know who killed Legs Benedict.”

J. J. 's dark eyes seemed to have trouble meeting Judith's. “You might say that. Then again, you might not. Can't rule him out.”

“Oh, shoot.” Judith tossed the dustmop against the wall and fixed J. J. with a rueful expression. “I've got something for you,” she continued, unlocking the door to the stairs that lead to the third floor. “It probably doesn't mean much, and I can't believe Roland du Turque is involved, but…”

On the way up to the family quarters, Judith explained about the notes. “I kept them,” she said, entering the bedroom and retrieving the notes from the nightstand, “after I showed them to Roland.”

J. J. carefully studied the small slips of paper. “You say this one about meeting someone outside was intended for Fewer Fingers?”

Judith nodded. “Phyliss found it under the rug in the Schwartzes' room. By the way, does Minerva plan to come back here? I really don't have room for her or any of these other people.”

“What?” Intent on the notes, J. J.'s head snapped up. “Minerva? Mrs. Schlagintweit?”

“Yes. I assume you're not going to hold her in the jail.”

“No. No, no.” J. J. pocketed the notes. “Thank you. Should have seen these sooner.” He gave Judith a vaguely reproachful look.

“I forgot,” Judith fibbed. “I got sick.”

“Right. Oh. Mrs. Schlagintweit wants to be put up at a downtown hotel. Probably the Plymouth,” J. J. said.

“Good.” Judith replied, leading the way out of the bedroom. “Why don't you put the others there? I've got a houseful tonight.”

J. J. sighed heavily. “Have to check with the boss.
Where'd you say you found the note about Hoffa?”

“Under the piano.” Judith and J. J. started downstairs. “Do you have any idea what it means?”

“Sort of,” J. J. replied, a step behind Judith.

Reaching the second floor, she turned to look at the detective. “Like what?”

“Like several things.” J. J. hesitated. “Maybe you guessed.”

“What?” Judith asked, perplexed.

“Like du Turque.” J. J.'s eyes darted around the empty hallway. “He's not who he says he is.”

Judith was surprised, though she knew she shouldn't have been. Nobody was what they seemed to be, and in her present uncertain state of mind, she could picture Gertrude in an SS uniform, saluting Hitler, and herding prisoners at Auschwitz.

R
OOM
S
IX WAS
still occupied by the Malones. Bea and Mal weren't particularly tidy, though Judith had seen far worse in her years as an innkeeper, including the couple from Iowa who had managed to sneak a pot-bellied pig named Gustav into Room Three.

After stripping the bed, Judith rearranged the lace curtains and flowered drapes. She put fresh linen on the bed, ran the dust mop around the room, and vacuumed the hooked rug that Gertrude had made before her eyesight began to fail. Then, because she was there and couldn't resist, she went through the drawers and the closet.

The only thing of interest that she found was a roll of unprocessed film. She debated with herself for a full minute: The film did not belong to her but to the Malones. The Malones had behaved badly during their entire stay at Hillside Manor. Taking the film would be a theft. Taking the film might provide insight into the Malones, and perhaps even into the homicide case. The Malones had suffered a terrible loss on their trip from Chicago. Judith offered up a prayer for them. And took the film.

Room Five, with its clusters of pink rosebuds, was also still occupied. Pete and Marie Santori were surpris
ingly neat visitors. Even the bed was partially made up. Their clothes, which were few in number, hung on hangers in the closet. Two pairs of slacks and a cashmere sweater made up Pete's wardrobe. Marie also had two pairs of slacks as well as two blouses and a cotton turtleneck pullover.

“There you are,” Renie said from the doorway. “I thought I'd better let you know that your guests have left.”

Judith whirled around. “Left? What do you mean?”

“It's stopped raining,” Renie explained as she came inside the room and closed the door behind her, “so J. J. told them they could take off for a few hours as long as they came back here by three. I got the impression that he was having them all tailed. Meanwhile, those uniforms—or their replacements—are outside again. Not to mention what looked like some reporters and at least one TV crew.”

With a disgruntled sigh, Judith sat down on the bed. “Damn. I was so hoping they'd be sent somewhere else. I thought J. J. might find other accommodations for them. What am I going to do with the new guests?”

Renie shrugged. “Maybe J. J.'s working on that. He's gone, too. The guests would have to come back here anyway to collect their belongings.”

“That's true.” Judith's eyes strayed to the open closet. “Speaking of which, what's wrong with this picture?”

Renie turned. “The closet?”

“What's in the closet. Or isn't in it, I should say.” Judith folded her arms across her bosom and waited for Renie's response.

“Cashmere,” Renie remarked, feeling the sleeve of Pete's pale blue sweater. “He's wearing one just like it now, only in cream. No shirt, just the sweater and all those gold chains.”

“Go on.”

Renie rubbed at the fabric of Marie's lime turtleneck. “Cotton. Cheap. These slacks are polyester.” Renie looked stunned. “You're right—this is all wrong. No wife should ever wear clothes that are inferior to or less expensive than
her husband's. It's shocking and probably violates the constitution.”

Judith's smile was wry. “So what do you deduce?”

Leaning on the walnut bureau, Renie grew thoughtful. “What you suspected all along—they're not married. Where are the frilly negligees and sexy underthings?”

Judith bent down to pick up a pair of bunny slippers, one of which was missing an eye, and the other had no whiskers. “Not romantic.”

“So who are they?” Renie asked.

Judith set the slippers down on the floor. “We're told Pete went to high school with Pam and Sandi. Do we believe that?”

Renie shook her head. “Probably not. Did you find anything in here that might suggest who they really are?”

“Nothing. Although,” she went on as she stood up and went over to a laundry bag that was sitting on top of the Santoris' suitcase, “I didn't look in here. Oof!” Judith juggled the bag, almost dropping it. “It's heavy. What…?”

Digging among the soiled items, Judith hauled out a gun case. The gun, a Sig Sauer P220, was still in it.

Gingerly, Judith dropped the gun and its case back into the laundry bag. “I don't get it. J. J. and Rich searched these rooms thoroughly. In fact, I'm sure J. J. told me that everyone staying here had a gun, and they'd all been confiscated.”

“Well…” Renie assumed a puzzled look and tapped her foot. “I can't explain it, unless the Santoris had two guns, and ditched one of them somewhere else in the house.” Brightening, Renie made one of her futile, noiseless attempts to snap her fingers. “The garage! That's where we saw Pete with Sandi. Could he have hidden this gun out there?”

Judith considered the suggestion. “Possibly. But Joe's in and out of there every day with his MG, and those uniforms have been all over the place. It'd be tricky.”

Renie gestured at the laundry bag. “What are you going to do about the gun?”

“I'm not sure,” Judith replied, fingering her chin. “The Santoris have gone off without it, and J. J. left. Maybe I should ask Joe. Even before Legs was shot, Joe was quick to confiscate what turned out to be Barney's gun.”

In the end, Judith left the Sig Sauer where she'd found it. Perhaps there was some logical explanation. Pete and Marie might be someone other than the honeymooners they pretended to be, but they didn't seem unreasonable. Still brooding, Judith went into Room Four, which Phyliss had cleaned the previous day before Barney's arrest and Minerva's flight. The room had been swept clean of personal items.

“Minerva must have taken their stuff with her,” Judith said to Renie, who had followed her down the hall. “I'm still not sure if she'll be back, so I guess I won't change the bed. Yet.”

“I finished up downstairs,” Renie said as they entered Room Three. “Want me to check the other two rooms?”

Judith was standing in the middle of the room that had been occupied by Legs Benedict and the woman known as Darlene Smith. Like Room Four, Phyliss had tidied it up.

“No, I'll go with you,” Judith replied, moving to the bureau, then the closet, and finally the bathroom. “Nothing here. Let's check Pam and Sandi's room.”

Room One was cluttered with clothes and cosmetics and magazines. At first glance, it reminded Judith of trips she had taken with Renie when they were both still single. According to the ship steward, their state room on the voyage to Europe had set a transatlantic record for disorder.

“What do we expect to find?” Renie asked, searching the closet. “You already know why Pam and Sandi are here.”

“True,” Judith replied, going through the drawers on the mirrored bureau. “But are they really Pam and Sandi?”

“Good point,” Renie responded. “So what are we looking for? False passports?”

Judith shot Renie a sardonic glance. “Hardly. We're looking for…” She stopped, staring at a copy of
Vogue
.
“Names, like this one,” she continued, reading from the magazine's mailing label. “Pamela Perl, 309 Parker Street, Newark, New Jersey. Or,” Judith went on, picking up two
New York
magazines, “Cassandra Williams, same address. They must be roommates.”

Renie, who had been looking through the teachers' luggage, gave a nod. “So it seems. And they are definitely Sandi and Pam. Pam has a motive to kill Legs. Pam and Sandi do everything together. They are as close as…”

“Cousins,” Judith put in, and grinned at Renie. “Would you kill for me, coz?”

“That depends,” Renie replied. “Who'd you have in mind?”

Judith, who had suddenly grown serious, didn't answer directly. “Why was Sandi in the garage with Pete Santori? The teachers claim they hadn't seen him since high school, they barely recognized him. Yet they both pitched a fit when he and Marie were checking into the B&B. At first,” Judith went on, sitting down in one of Grandma Grover's old rocking chairs, “I thought they were frightened. Then, when we saw Pete and Sandi in the garage together, fear wasn't the emotion that leapt to mind.”

“It wasn't,” Renie agreed, adjusting the mirror on the oak bureau. “In fact, there was a sense of intimacy. Or so I felt.”

“The Santoris and the teachers don't talk to each other much,” Judith pointed out. “You'd expect Pete and Pam and Sandi to reminisce about the old days. Most people who went to high school together would do that.”

“In other words,” Renie said, “you don't think high school is the connection.”

Judith shook her head. “No. And not only do I not think that Pete and Marie are on their honeymoon, I'm not even convinced that they're married. They're too phony. It's all an act.”

Renie agreed. The cousins worked together to put the room back in order, then moved on to Room Two, where Roland du Turque was staying.

“Another Not-Who-He-Seems-To-Be,” Judith sighed. “But where does he fit in? I don't associate black people with the mob.”

“Gangs,” Renie put in. “Younger. Drugs. Definitely not Roland's sort of thing.”

Judith surveyed the long, narrow room with its curtained bed in the far nook. Roland was extremely neat, and it took only a couple of minutes to check out his belongings. The satchel and the briefcase were locked, but Judith found a notebook on a wicker stand next to the bed. It was much larger than the one from which the slips of paper had been torn, and appeared to be filled with Roland's handwriting.

“Listen to this,” Judith said, sitting on the edge of the bed and twitching with excitement. “‘Alfonso Benedetto, aka Legs Benedict, born 1956, the Bronx, New York. Started as a booster in Detroit'—what's a booster?” Seeing Renie's blank expression, Judith continued, “‘Returned to New York, joined Fusilli mob circa nineteen seventy-nine. Bag man. Married Elena Fusilli, nineteen eighty-four'.”

Renie evinced surprise. “Legs married into the Fusilli family? That must have given him—excuse the expression—a leg up. But what's this stuff got to do with jazz?”

“I don't know.” Judith continued reading. “‘Leg-breaker, circa nineteen eighty-seven. Assassin, nineteen ninety—. Cool customer, remorseless, can be patient, but has trigger temper. Weakness—women, fast cars, Sinatra ballads. Alleged hits—seventeen since ninety.' What do you think of that, coz?”

“I think he's left more bodies than breadcrumbs in his path,” Renie responded, now looking grim. “I hate to say it, but I'm glad he's dead. You wouldn't have wanted his return business anyway.”

“True.” Judith flipped through the rest of the notebook. “This thing's full of notes, apparently on other mob members. 'Teddy Fucillo—Boston, elder statesman, etc. Johnny Grasso—owned race horses, bookie. Joseph (The Fat Man) Magliocco—Profaci's underboss, also his brother-in-law.
Sam (Momo) Giancana—Chicago boss, fled to Mexico to avoid Feds.” Judith looked up from the notebook. “I recognize his name. Didn't he sleep with some woman who slept with everybody else?”

“Right,” Renie said dryly. “Her name was Judith.”

Judith gave a little snort. “No relation.” She turned another page. “Listen to this: ‘Cosa Nostra members are solely of Italian-Sicilian origin, often referred to as the Mafia.'” Judith frowned. Barney Schwartz—Bernhard Schlagintweit—isn't an Italian name. The Mafia should be sued for discrimination.”

Renie agreed. “Or defamation. They certainly give a bad name to all the rest of the Italians. I could weep when I think of great musicians like Puccini and Verdi and Caruso and Toscanini and Tebaldi being tarred with the same brush. It makes me want to become a bonecrusher or whatever they call them.”

Judith gave Renie a brief glance of sympathy. “Of course. But that's not my point—it's about Barney trying to muscle in on the Fusilli family. Maybe it's about turf, not nationality.” Pausing, she leafed through the rest of the notebook. “Everything in here seems to be about organized crime, not jazz. What's Roland up to?”

“No good?” Renie's expression was as puzzled as Judith's. “Maybe he's doing some kind of tie-in, like a connection between music and crime.”

“Some of the music the kids listen to today
is
a crime,” Judith murmured. “What if…?” She let the question dangle, replaced the notebook on the wicker stand, and hurried from the room. “Come on, let's call my friend Blanche Rexford at the library.”

In years gone by, when Judith hadn't been tending bar at the Meat and Mingle, she had worked as a librarian at the Thurlow Street branch in the neighborhood where she and Dan had lived their dreary existence. Blanche Rexford, who was now head librarian at the Heraldsgate Hill library, had trained with Judith some twenty years earlier. Using
the phone provided for guests in the hallway, Judith dialed the local branch.

After a rather long preamble, involving a dozen queries from Blanche about the murder at Hillside Manor, Judith asked her old friend to check on books about organized crime, especially those written by someone with a name like du Turque, Turquette, Roland, Orlando, or some sort of variation. It took Blanche less than a minute to bring up a title called
Cosa Nostra: Not Our Thing
.

“It was published in 1991,” Blanche said in her wispy voice. “The author is Ronald Turk.”

Judith gave Renie a thumbs-up sign. “Is there a picture of him?”

“I'm reading this from
Books in Print
,” Blanche said. “Do you want me to check the shelf?”

“Would you?” Judith said in a plaintive tone.

“Of course. I'll be right back.”

Judith gave Renie a full explanation. “It's got to be Roland. Ronald, Roland, Orlando—they're too similar to be a coincidence. Not to mention Turk instead of du Turque or Turquette.”