Legs Benedict (15 page)

“Where is he?” Judith's voice was strident.

“He's fine,” Renie insisted, turning the key. “Come on, get in. Let's go.”

But Judith refused to budge. “I want to see him. Alive.”

Renie uttered a strangled sigh. “Okay, okay,” she said, leaning down to flip the latch to the trunk. “Check him out. He's back there.”

Hurrying to the rear of the car, Judith lifted the trunk lid. There was no sign of Sweetums. Then she saw the heavy cardboard box that the Joneses used to hold their emergency equipment. The box was upside down—and jiggling.

“Sweetums!” Judith cried, lifting the box.

His eyes were bright; indeed, blazing would have been a better word. Except for a few missing patches, his fur stood straight up and the growl that came from low in his throat was ominous. Taking a chance, Judith grabbed the cat, slammed the lid of the trunk, and got into the car.

“You mangled the poor little guy,” Judith said in reproach. “How could you?”

“It was either me or him,” Renie said, backing out of the parking place. “I chose me. Don't you dare let him get out of your lap.”

There was no use arguing further with Renie, so Judith dropped the subject, preferring to talk about how beautiful the baby was, how alert, how utterly extraordinary. Renie had listened with apparent interest, though Judith noticed that her cousin had caressed Cammy's steering wheel several times during the drive home.

By the time Renie dropped Judith and Sweetums off at Hillside Manor, the TV crew and the reporters had left. The officers who remained on duty were sitting at the curb in their squad car. Judith recalled that the guests weren't required to return until three o'clock. There was no other sign of activity in the cul-de-sac, which came as a relief.

As usual, she entered the house through the back door. Sweetums, obviously relieved to be on his own turf, leaped out of her arms and ran for cover in the Rankerses' hedge. Judith was heading for the phone when Vivian appeared in the kitchen.

“Are you a grandma?” she asked with a big smile.

Judith nodded. “A boy, named Dan.” It took willpower not to gulp at the name. “Eight pounds, nine ounces. He's adorable.”

“Of course he is!” Vivian hurtled the length of the kitchen and hugged Judith. “Grandma Flynn! How I envy you! And how you look the part! Granny!”

Judith wriggled free. “Maybe,” she said with a touch of asperity, “some day Caitlin will finally find a man and provide you with grandchildren.”

“Caitlin,” Vivian said, referring to the daughter she had had by Joe, “is a dedicated career woman who has found plenty of men but not one who suits her. She's terribly fussy.”

Unlike her mother
, Judith thought, and for once, didn't regret being mean-minded. “I thought one of your two sons by your first and second husbands had married.”

“They did,” Herself replied airily. “Both of them. Twice. But so far, no kiddies. It's just as well—I'm too young to be a grandmother.” She waved a magenta-clad arm and simpered at Judith.

“Mm-mm,” Judith murmured, keeping her thoughts buttoned up. “Did Mother have lunch?”

Herself nodded. “She ate a beautiful meal. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, peas. She lapped it up and said she'd never had better.”

A TV
dinner
, Judith thought. And, in fact, Gertrude actually enjoyed them. Unless she pretended she did, just to be contrary. Judith refused to serve her mother frozen meals.

“I'm off now,” Herself declared. “I must see if DeeDee would like to go shopping. She and I used to buy out the stores in Florida.”

With Joe's money
. But again, Judith kept the thought inside. “Thanks for everything,” she said, and hoped she sounded as if she meant it. “I really appreciate it. I know Mother does, too.”

“Of course.” Herself examined her crimson nails. “Your mother and I had such a nice visit. She's in quite a chipper mood. I think it's all the company she's had the past few days. Guests cheer her immensely. I tried to get that Minerva to join us, but she's stuck up, isn't she?”

Judith gave a little start. “Minerva?”

Herself nodded. “The one whose son was arrested for killing that gangster. She came by right after you left. Of course I didn't realize you'd gone, so I looked all over for you, but…”

“Minerva came here?” Judith interrupted. “Why?”

“She wanted her money back for last night, since neither she nor—Barney, is it?—stayed here,” Herself explained calmly. “Minerva was—oh, I don't know where, she's very closed-mouth. Anyway, she was somewhere, and Barney was in jail. By the way, she dropped off a raincoat she borrowed.”

“Did you give her credit?” Judith asked, thinking that Phyliss would be relieved to have her coat back.

Herself chuckled. “Are you serious? I know all about motels and hotels and inns and such. From traveling,” Herself added hastily, lest Judith get the wrong idea, which of course she already had. “You have a cancellation policy, I'm sure. They are never retroactive. I put a flea in her ear and sent her on her way.”

Once again, Judith was forced to feel grateful to Herself. “Thanks, Vivian. Do you know where she was going?”

“To hell in a handcart, for all I care,” Herself retorted. “Don't get me wrong, I like people, they make great audiences. But that woman's a pain.”

Judith couldn't disagree. But she wished that Vivian had extracted more information from Minerva Schwartz. “Did she mention Barney?”

“The son?” Herself patted her platinum curls. “Is he worth mentioning?”

“You mean…?”

“Looks, Judith. Build. Endurance. All the important things when it comes to men.” Herself's tone was faintly patronizing.

“Barney's a crook,” Judith said.

“Nobody's perfect.”

“He's homely.”

“Oh.” Herself shrugged. “That's different. No, I don't think that even his mother thought he was worth mentioning. I must dash. Stand by, I may call you tonight to see if you and Joe can come over to meet DeeDee.”

Judith didn't bother to protest, though she assumed that Joe would want to go up to the hospital to see the baby. Finally getting a chance to check her messages, she saw
that her husband had called while she was out. Judith dialed his number; he answered before the first ring had finished.

“We're grandparents,” Judith said, the excitement rekindling. “A boy. He's adorable.”

“Wow.” Joe sounded awestruck. “Maybe I'll swing by the hospital on the way home. Have they named him?”

“Uh…yes.” Judith swallowed hard. “Dan McMonigle II.”

Joe didn't respond for what seemed like a long time. “Okay. That figures.” He laughed, a wry, sharp sound. “Who does he look like?”

“You.”

“Then I guess that's my revenge.”

“It's your immortality.”

“Damn. I still wish…Never mind, Jude-girl. This is great news. I'll see you later.”

Judith stood by the phone for some time. She had made her decision when Mike and Kristin were married. Her son would never know that Joe Flynn was his real father. Despite Dan's faults, Mike had idolized him, especially in death. They had a bond, in name, in fact, and in deed. It was as deep as blood, as imperishable as memory. Despite Joe, Judith's respect for Dan's sense of duty as a father could not be revoked.

But that didn't diminish Joe's pain. Though he had unknowingly left her pregnant and eloped with Vivian, he still longed for the intimacy with Mike that a stepfather could never have. His feelings stabbed at Judith's heart, yet she couldn't change the past. The wound lay deep inside, an old scar that never quite healed, and festered at times like this, when blood was indeed thicker than water.

J. J. Martinez was at the front door, looking abject. “Couldn't get permission to put the witnesses up at a downtown hotel. They should be back in an hour or so.”

“
What
?” Judith was aghast. “You mean that you haven't cleared them as suspects, either?”

“Right.” J. J. shifted from one foot to the other on the welcome mat. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

Judith shook her head several times. “That won't do. I have all the rooms taken for tonight. The new guests will start arriving any time. You've got to do something, J. J. I have only two rooms available. I wouldn't have that many if Minerva Schwartz hadn't checked out this afternoon.”

“Minerva Schwartz?” J. J. looked startled. “She was here?”

Judith nodded. “But I wasn't. Didn't your uniforms tell you?”

J. J.'s response was to race off the porch and out to the curb where the officers sat in their patrol car. Still angry over the dilemma the police had put her in, Judith watched with a wary eye.

J. J. trotted back to the house. “Said they thought it was okay, as long as she came back by three,” he said, obviously annoyed. “When we let her go downtown, she told us she was going to spend the night here. Suppose she came back to get her things.”

“She'd already taken them,” Judith said, then frowned. “Why
did
she come back?”

J. J. gave a nervous shrug. “Couldn't say. That is, if she didn't check back in. Darn.”

Perhaps Minerva had returned merely to get credit for the unused room. But Judith wasn't entirely convinced. The only good news was that Minerva's departure freed up a room.

“Come on, J. J.,” she urged. “You've got to help me. Where am I going to put all these people? Or should I call the chief?”

J. J.'s dark eyes opened wide. “No! Can't cause trouble. Besides, it's not just us. It's the feds. Have to walk a narrow line on this one.” His gaze darted toward the vacant Rankerses' house. “Any chance of putting them up over there while your neighbors are out of town?”

“Heavens, no,” Judith shot back. “I wouldn't dream of imposing. I'm not even sure when they're coming back. It could be today.”

“Well…” J. J. fidgeted, his eyes still darting around
the cul-de-sac. “What about the other B&Bs around here? They full, too?”

“Find out,” Judith said, her chin jutting. “Let me know by three-thirty.” She backed into the house and slammed the door in J. J.'s startled face.

The phone was ringing. Judith rushed into the kitchen to grab the receiver.

Blanche Rexford was on the line. “You made me curious, Judith,” she said in that faintly wispy voice. “I looked up Mr. Turk in
Contemporary Authors
and
Who's Who
. I thought you might be interested in what his biographies say about him.”

“I am,” Judith assured the librarian.

“I won't read the whole pieces,” Blanche said, “but I'll summarize them for you. Mr. Turk's real name is Orlando Turquette, born in New Orleans. After graduating from college—LSU—he moved to Kansas City. His parents joined him there, where his father opened a night club. Apparently, he'd had one in New Orleans as well. His father's first name, by the way, was Parnell. Eight years ago, he was murdered. The killing was never solved, but the tragedy motivated Orlando to write about organized crime. Is that of any help?”

“It could be,” Judith allowed. “Poor Roland. I mean, Orlando. I can see why he took to writing about criminals. Or does it say specifically if his father's slaying was gang-related?”

“It was suspected, but never proved,” Blanche replied. “I flipped through Mr. Turk's book. He mentioned the Fusilli family. Does that mean anything to you?”

Judith said that it certainly did.

J
UDITH IMMEDIATELY ASKED
Blanche to put aside
Cosa Nostra: Not Our Thing
. She promised to check it out as soon as possible. Then Judith listened to the other messages that had accumulated in her absence. Fortunately, none of them was of immediate importance.

A trip to the grocery store was required, however. She could stop at the library on the way back. But first she went to the front door and peeked outside. The patrol car was still there, but Judith couldn't see any sign of J. J. Martinez or his unmarked city vehicle.

After closing the door, she bent to straighten the throw rug in the entry hall. On Wednesdays, Phyliss usually shook out the area rugs. While Judith didn't intend to go through the house to freshen up the rest of the rugs, she decided she might as well take care of the one in the hall. It got more wear than any of the others.

She opened the front door again, then picked up the rug, which was a small Oriental that matched the larger carpets on the rest of the main floor. She lifted the pad as well, then stopped and stared.

A small round object that looked like a gold coin lay just under the edge where the pad had rested. Judith opened the screen door, dumped the rug and pad on the
porch, and came back to examine what turned out to be a small medallion.

Her first reaction was that it had religious significance, a St. Christopher or a Miraculous Medal. But upon close inspection, she recognized the figure as a cupid. Turning the medal over, Judith saw an inscription: “CW2RP.” A tiny heart had been engraved beneath the letters and the number.

It was possible, of course, that the medal might have lain under the pad for some time. But Judith didn't think so. Phyliss was very thorough. Pocketing the medal, Judith finished with the rugs, replaced them, and headed for Falstaff's on top of Heraldsgate Hill.

Half an hour and a hundred and forty dollars later, she was back at the B&B, unloading groceries. The phone rang again as she was putting milk and butter in the fridge.

“It sounds,” said Ingrid Heffleman of the state B&B association, “as if you're in a bind.”

“Oh, Ingrid, thank goodness,” Judith said in relief. “Can you help me?”

“I suppose I'll have to,” Ingrid responded in her customary dry manner. “The authorities have stepped in. Honestly, Judith, you have more problems than any other innkeeper in the Pacific Northwest. I marvel that you stay in business.”

“Well, I do,” Judith retorted, stung by the criticism. “My occupancy rate is one of the highest in the area.”

“Baffling,” Ingrid murmured. “All right, this Martinez person says you need four rooms in the vicinity. Would they be smoking gun or nonsmoking gun rooms?”

“Very funny, Ingrid,” Judith snapped.

“With or without a view of the crime scene?” Ingrid seemed to be on a roll.

“Please, Ingrid,” Judith pleaded. “It could happen to anyone.”

“But it usually happens to you.” Ingrid's voice had sharpened. “Okay, I've got two at Marvin Gardens, one at Cozy Nook, and another at Apple Blossom House. They're
not as close to downtown as you are, but as you know, they're first-rate.”

“Yes, they're excellent,” Judith agreed, feeling a need to humble herself. “Ingrid, can you find two more?”

“Why?” Ingrid asked, not unreasonably. “Mr. Martinez said you had two vacancies.”

“I do,” Judith admitted, “but I'm not sure that…” She bit her tongue before saying
innocent people
. “…That newcomers should have to mingle with the holdovers. You see, they're witnesses in the homicide case.”

“So Mr. Martinez indicated,” Ingrid said in that familiar, dry tone. “In other words, you're afraid the new guests might be in danger?”

“Well…not exactly. But,” Judith added, “they might feel uncomfortable.”

“Like with a hole through their heads?” Ingrid's sigh was audible. “All right. But we'll have to go much further out, almost to the city limits. I'll let you know as soon as I find some vacancies. It's almost three o'clock, so some of your guests could be arriving at any time.”

Not to mention returning
, Judith thought, then wondered if indeed the current crew would show up at all. Maybe she should have waited. But that wouldn't be fair to the incoming visitors.

Thanking Ingrid profusely, Judith disconnected, then called Renie. “Coz,” she began, at her most obsequious, “can you do me a huge favor?”

“Again? In the same day? What now?” Renie's exasperation wasn't entirely feigned.

“I went to the store and forgot to swing by the library to pick up Roland's book. I'm anxious to read it, and Blanche is holding it for me.” Briefly, Judith recounted what the librarian had told her on the phone. “Could you pick it up for me and drop it off?”

“No, I could not,” Renie retorted. “I am not allowed on the premises of the Heraldsgate Hill library. Our children—some or all of them—borrowed my card several years ago, and I owe two hundred and forty dollars in fines
and lost materials, including a video on
How to Raise Your Own Ant Farm
, not to mention the sequel,
What to Do When Your Ants Get Out
. I refuse to pay for something I didn't do. Thus, I am barred.”

Judith ground her teeth. “Then would you fill in for me here while I go get the book?”

A long silence ensued at the other end of the line. “Okay,” Renie said grudgingly. “It's a good thing the wheels turn slowly if at all at the Boring Company. I'll be over in fifteen minutes.”

The first of the new guests, a couple from Augusta, Maine, arrived before Renie did. Judith apologized, and sent them off to Cozy Nook. Renie pulled into the driveway just as the Malones entered the cul-de-sac.

“Return of the suspects,” Renie said as she entered through the back door. “I'll handle them. You take off for the library.”

The Heraldsgate Hill branch was only five minutes away, which meant that Judith should have been back in a quarter of an hour. But Blanche was full of questions, and it took twice as long for Judith to get back home. It was almost three-fifteen when she came through the back door of the B&B.

“The so-called Santoris are here, too,” Renie said. “They've gone upstairs. So have the Malones. No Roland or preschool teachers yet.”

“They're late,” Judith said, frowning at her watch. She remembered the medal she'd found under the hall rug and reached into her pocket. “What the heck…?” She let out a little gasp as she pulled out not the medal, but the roll of film she'd found in the Malones' room. “Damn! In all the excitement about the baby, I forgot about this film. Now where's that…?” Digging into her other pocket, she produced the medal.

“What do you think?” she asked Renie after explaining where she'd found it.

“I think you're right,” Renie responded, turning the gold piece over in her hands. “It probably hasn't been there for
more than a few days. Shall I guess as to its owner?”

“Pete Santori?” Judith cocked her head at Renie. “He's the only one in this group who wears gold chains and medals.”

“Exactly.” Renie handed the medal back to Judith. “But what does CW2RP stand for?”

“CW2RP,” Judith repeated. “As in, CW to RP? Sandi's last name begins with W.”

“But her first name is Sandi, which I assume stands for Sandra,” Renie noted. “And who's RP?”

“P for Perl?” Judith gazed at the medal. “What was the man's name that you overheard when the teachers were being interrogated? The one that seemed to upset Pam?”

Renie grimaced. “Dick? No, Rick.”

Judith's lips curved into a faint smile. “Rick Perl? Pam's brother?”

Renie also smiled. “Who is really Pete Santori?”

Judith's smile widened. “Which would explain a lot. Pete is Rick. Rick is Pam's brother, and also Isaac Perl's son. But who,” she continued, the smile disappearing, “is Marie?”

Renie sat down at the kitchen table and lighted a cigarette. “Not his sister. Not his wife. Not his girlfriend—maybe.”

“But pretending to be,” Judith put in, finding an ashtray in the cupboard. “Coz, when are you going to quit?”

“I've barely started,” Renie said, then waved a hand.

Judith made a face, then snapped her fingers. “We're wrong about Sandi. Her first name is Cassandra. Remember the mailing label on that magazine? Sandi and Pete—or maybe Rick—in the garage. Sandi and Pam lying about how they knew Pete—or Rick. But why?”

Renie exhaled a trail of smoke. “We know about the connection between the teachers and Legs. If we're right, and Pete is really Rick, the brother of Pam, and son of Isaac, then he was involved in their father's death, if only as an innocent bystander. Pam came here as herself. Why couldn't Rick?”

“We're guessing,” Judith cautioned.

“Since when did guesswork bother you?” Renie retorted. “Besides, it's all we've got.”

“True. Okay,” Judith relented, “let's see where it goes. For some reason, Rick had to change identities and add a bogus wife. Under what circumstances would a man go to such extremes?”

Renie considered. “To start a new life.” She shook her head. “To hide out. To lose yourself.”

Judith nodded in appreciation. “To hide from the authorities, or…?” She let the question dangle.

Renie eyed Judith with a knowing expression. “The mob.”

Judith started to speak, then heard the front door open. Hurrying into the entry hall, she saw Roland du Turque.

“The sun came out for a bit,” he observed with a small smile. “I strolled the waterfront.”

Judith nodded. “Very different from the Louisiana bayous, I imagine.”

Roland's surprise was almost imperceptible. “That's true. New Orleans is a fascinating place. So much rich music history.”

Judith wavered, then took the plunge. “It must have been wonderful growing up there. Is that why you became so interested in music?”

Roland seemed to relax, but his eyes were wary. “Of course. Music is such a big part of history. I literally grew up with the rhythm and blues movement. Professor Longhair—his real name was Roy Byrd—was the pioneer in the field right there in New Orleans.” Roland paused and lowered his voice. “How did you know?”

“I used to be a librarian,” Judith said.

The implication had the desired effect: Roland put a hand to his high forehead, then gave Judith a sheepish look. “You mean—
Cosa Nostra: Not Our Thing
?”

Judith nodded slowly. “It's been a popular work for some time. Until today, I didn't realize that you were Ronald Turk. Which isn't your real name, either.”

“If you know the book so well,” Roland said, squaring his shoulders and assuming a dignified air, “then you know why I don't write—or travel—under my real name.”

“Yes, that explains it,” Judith said quietly. “You can't afford to let your subjects know who you are. Like Legs Benedict, for instance.”

“Legs.” Roland expelled a great sigh. “Whoever shot him saved the state a great deal of money. Not to mention lives.”

Judith was aware that Renie had followed her as far as the dining room doorway. “Do you know who killed him?”

Roland shook his head. “Not for certain. Fewer Fingers—Barney—is certainly a possibility. But it could have been anyone, including an outsider. Your guests aren't necessarily the only suspects.”

Judith thought that Roland had a point. If most of the guests at the B&B had been alerted to Legs's destination, why couldn't other interested parties have been notified?

“I hope the police are considering that,” Judith said, then changed the subject. “You wrote that note to Barney and slipped it under his door. Why?”

Roland had begun to perspire. He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and mopped his forehead. “To get his slant on Legs. I knew there was trouble between Fewer Fingers and the Fusilli family in Detroit.”

“But you didn't have a chance to talk to him because he never got the note,” Judith pointed out.

“That's right,” Roland agreed. “Then Fewer Fingers was arrested. I assumed the authorities had the right man. But now…”

“Now what?” Judith urged.

“I have my sources,” Roland said, sounding a bit defensive. “There's some discrepancy about the weapon, I believe.”

“There is,” Judith said. “But the police still have Barney in custody.”

“Naturally. The FBI must have finally found grounds to hold him. Other than for murdering Legs.”

Now that the barrier had been broken between them, Judith had a dozen questions for Roland. But a glance outside revealed Sandi and Pam running out of a taxi cab and hurtling toward the front porch.

“Tardy isn't smarty,” Pam announced at the door.

“Being late isn't great,” Sandi chimed in.

“Whew,” Pam sighed in relief, “we were afraid that Mr. Martinez would give us a time out.”

“We couldn't find the right bus stop,” Sandi explained, “so we had to take a cab.”

“That's fine, you're here,” Judith said with a smile. “If you'll excuse us, Mr. du Turque and I were about to adjourn to the living room.”

Roland, as well as the teachers, looked faintly surprised, but he dutifully followed Judith into the living room. Renie followed Roland. The cousins settled into one of the sofas by the hearth; Roland sat down in its mate on the other side of the glass-topped coffee table.

“Would you care for a drink?” Judith asked, ever the hostess.

Roland shook his head. “I'm not much of a drinker,” he replied. “Liquor is the root of innumerable social problems. It's incredible how many great musicians have been cut down early by drink. And drugs, of course.”