Legs Benedict (17 page)

Getting up, Judith crossed the short distance to hug her mother. “Even if we did, it wouldn't matter. It's about love. It's about
us
.” She felt Gertrude shudder in her embrace. “Hey,” Judith asked softly, “what's wrong?”

The voice that answered was not at all like Gertrude's usual rasp. “I'm scared. I'm old, I'm useless, and I'm scared.”

Judith tightened her hold. “We're all scared. But you're tough, Mother. If you weren't, you wouldn't have gotten to be so old. Now you have a great-grandson, you've got something new and wonderful to live for.”

“Hunh.” Gertrude gave a little shake of her head. “So what next?” Judith started to respond, but the old woman answered her own question. “I just keep getting older, right?”

“That's what you do,” Judith said trying to keep the catch out of her voice. “That's what we all do.”

“Older,” Gertrude repeated, leaning against her daughter. “Older and tougher. I guess I can do that.”

“You're doing it now,” said Judith, and felt her mother hug her back.

 

The garden seemed peaceful under the late afternoon sun. Judith paused by the small patio and the statue of St. Francis. Foxgloves stood taller than she was, almost all of the rose bushes were in full bloom, the Oriental poppies provided brilliant splashes of red, pink, and orange. By the back fence, the dahlias were coming up, the Peruvian lilies were leafing out, and spears of gladiola leaves were showing above the soil. The three remaining cherry trees from the old Grover orchard were in blossom, though crooked with age and unlikely to bear much fruit.

There was no sign of the Malones, and the Rankerses' house still looked empty. Judith went back inside to find Renie talking to Pete Santori.

“Pete is repeat,” Renie said, obviously annoyed. “He insists he's really Pete Santori, and has papers to prove it.”

Judith stood next to Pete's chair. “We think we know better.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the medal. “CW2RP. This is yours, isn't it?”

Pete seemed to pale under his tan as his hand automatically flew to the gold chains around his neck. “What? No, of course not. I've never seen it before.”

Judith pocketed the medal. “Okay. I'll ask Sandi about it. Or should I say Cassandra?”

“Whatever.” Pete's finely chiseled chin was thrust out. “I don't need this crap. Marie and I want to get the hell out of here.”

Pulling out the chair next to Renie and across from Pete,
Judith sat down. “Look,” she began, trying to sound reasonable, “as long as guests are well behaved and discreet, I don't pry. It doesn't matter to me if you and Marie are married or not. But the least you can do is spare us the phony—and sickening—lovebird stuff. Okay?”

Not only did Pete's color return, but it heightened. He cuffed the can of beer in front of him and stared at the table. “We're not doing anything wrong,” he muttered.

“Define ‘wrong,'” Renie put in.

A harsh laugh escaped from Pete's lips. “You define it. I mean, morally.”

“How about legally?” Renie retorted, and gave Judith a nudge under the table.

“Let's try ethically,” Judith said, on cue. “As in bringing guns here. That's not allowed by the management, which is me. I understood that a gun had been confiscated from you and Marie. But there's still a weapon in your room. How come?”

Pete's gaze, hostile and challenging, locked with Judith's. He took a big swallow from the beer can, set it down hard on the table, and stood up. “Ask your old man about that,” he said to Judith, and exited the kitchen.

The cousins were left staring at each other. “Joe?” Judith said in a puzzled tone. “Did he mean I should ask Joe?”

Renie shrugged. “He wasn't talking to me. Anyway, I doubt that Bill would have an answer to that one.”

Judith went to the cupboard to refresh their drinks. “Speaking of Bill, if he's…ah…um…out this evening, do you want to have dinner with Joe and me?”

“Oh,” Renie replied with a wave of her hand, “Bill will be finished by dinnertime. He's not one to linger after the deed is done. Besides, the kids will be home tonight.”

Judith handed Renie her bourbon. “How do your kids feel about this Key Club thing? Or do they know?”

“They like the idea,” Renie said. “They thought that when Bill retired, he might get bored, even though he retained some of his private patients and still serves as a
consultant to the university. But Tom and Anne and Tony all feel that the Key Club has perked up our lives. The kids were afraid that Bill and I would just park ourselves in our respective places at night in front of the TV and never budge. As Anne puts it, we have a whole new energy force going for us. After all, variety is the spice of life.”

Judith turned away, lest Renie see her appalled expression. As soon as the current crisis at the B&B was resolved, Judith intended to take her cousin to task for such a moral lapse. Adultery—Judith refused to call the Key Club encounters by a gentler name—was totally out of character for the Joneses. She couldn't imagine what had made them stray from their usual virtuous path.

But for now, Judith held her tongue. “Well…that's…nice.” She took a big sip of Scotch and sat back down at the kitchen table.

“So,” Renie went on, “I'll finish this drink and be off. You have to get dinner, too, not to mention the appetizers for those fun-loving guests.”

“I'd rather skip that tonight,” Judith said, then frowned. “I assume they'll be allowed out for dinner. I have no intention of feeding them.”

Renie looked up at the old school clock. “It's almost five now. Say, do you want me to drop off that roll of film?”

“Oh!” Judith slapped at her temples. “I forgot again. Damn. Yes, would you? I wonder how soon they can get it back to me? The Malones may look for it. It's three-hour service when you get it in by four o'clock.”

Renie shook her head. “Too late. You won't have it until tomorrow morning.”

“But it'll be early, won't it?” said Judith, looking anxious. “I'll go up to the camera shop right after I serve breakfast.”

Polishing off her drink, Renie stood up as Judith handed her the film. “They open at eight,” Renie said, slipping the roll into her big purse. “Good luck, coz. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

Judith walked Renie to the back door and watched her go down the walk to the driveway. The clouds were moving in again, and the air felt faintly humid. More rain was on the way. As if to justify the prediction, Judith saw a rainbow in the eastern sky. The graceful arch of soft pastels did nothing to cheer her.

Neither, for that matter, did the Scotch.

 

Joe came home shortly before six, just as Judith was carrying the appetizer tray out to her grumbling guests. She ignored their complaints and went back to the kitchen to greet her husband.

“I stopped by the hospital,” he said, after kissing Judith. “The baby's great. I'm going to call him Mac.”

“That's a good idea,” Judith said. “Maybe I will, too. It's better than—gag—Dan.”

“Most things are,” Joe said, washing his hands at the sink. “By the way, I talked to J. J. The department has agreed to pay for the displaced reservations.”

“I should hope so,” Judith said. “None of this is our fault. Now please tell me they're also paying for their dinners.”

“I don't know about that,” Joe said, stretching and yawning. “The budget's tight these days.”

Judith started to fume. “They'd better be out of here tomorrow. I can't go through another day of uncertainty like this one. We still have one pair of guests who haven't showed up yet. Not to mention that Minerva Schwartz—I won't even attempt to pronounce her real name—came by this afternoon while I was gone, and then left again. Do you know where she went?”

“No idea. The last I heard, she was trying to finagle some kind of deal with the FBI. Don't ask me what it was, because I don't think J.J. knows,” Joe said, getting out a bottle of gin, and gesturing at Judith. “Martini?”

Judith shook her head. “I got a jump-start today. I needed it.” She waited for Joe to pour the vermouth and find an olive in the refrigerator. “Why would Minerva want
to cut a deal with the FBI? Does that mean she was in on her son's illegal operations?”

“Could be,” Joe allowed. “From what little I saw of her, she seemed like a very capable woman. Maybe she had a business background, maybe she kept the books for Barney. Who knows?”

Judith certainly didn't, so she changed the subject. “What's this about Pete and Marie still having a gun in their room?”

Joe's shoulders tensed as he manned the martini shaker. “A gun? We took their gun. It was a Beretta.”

“That was Gun Number One,” Judith said, her patience fraying. “Gun Number Two is a Sig Sauer. Don't pretend you don't know. Pete informed me that you did.”

Joe uttered a one-word expletive under his breath. He didn't respond until after he had poured his martini, added the olive, and taken a deep sip. “How'd you know it was a Sig Sauer?” he asked.

“It said so. I can read,” Judith snapped.

Joe gave a faint nod, then grew silent as he took another sip from his drink. “The Beretta belonged to Pete,” he finally said, leaning back in the captain's chair at the kitchen table. “We're hanging onto it until they leave.”

“What about the Sig Sauer? Don't tell me it's Marie's,” Judith said, her eyes narrowing.

“Okay,” Joe replied. “I won't tell you.”

“It
is
Marie's, isn't it?”

“You said not to…”

“You know I didn't mean that.” Judith had grown tight-lipped, a preface to anger.

“So it's Marie's,” Joe said calmly.

“Why does she get to keep it?” Judith demanded.

Joe sighed. “Because,” he finally answered, “as you've probably guessed, she's not Marie Santori. She's Mary Lou Desmond, and she's entitled to keep the weapon under any circumstances. Mary Lou, you see, is a U. S. Marshal.”

J
UDITH DEMANDED AN
explanation. It was clear that Joe was reluctant to give one, but having opened the door a crack, he couldn't slam it shut.

“Mary Lou Desmond works out of the Justice Department's Miami office,” Joe began after Judith had poured another finger of Scotch into her glass. “As you probably know, given your inquiring mind when it comes to criminal activities, federal marshals are assigned to people who have gone into the…”

“When do we eat?” It was Bea Malone, holding the swinging doors open with her broad behind. It looked to Judith as if she'd been crying.

“Eat what?” Judith snapped, aware that coupled with the aggravating guests, the Scotch might be taking a toll on her disposition. Noting the grief in Bea's eyes, Judith was immediately repentant. “I'm sorry, I'm a bit jumpy. What did you say?”

“I said dinner,” Bea shot back. “Those doodads with the shrimp and the mushrooms and the funny cheeses with all those little holes aren't what I'd call filling.”

“I'm afraid no one told me you'd be here for dinner,” Judith said in a truculent tone. “Aren't you allowed out this evening?”

Pam had come up behind Bea. “We only got afternoon recess,” she said.

Judith had planned a simple meal of ham-filled crepes and salad for herself and Joe. A stuffed pork chop was already baking for Gertrude, along with a potato.

“I don't have anything prepared,” Judith finally said, as her brain took a hasty mental inventory of the freezer. “I hadn't planned on dinner for seven extra people.”

“Hunh,” snorted Bea. “You mean you want us to starve on top of everything else we've gone through?”

“Well…” Judith took pity. “I went to the grocery store today, so I…”

But Joe had picked up the phone. “Hold it, Jude-girl,” he urged. “Hello? Four large, the works, and seven Caesar salads.” He gave the name, address, and phone number for Hillside Manor. “Thirty minutes? Fine. Thanks.” Hanging up, he looked at Judith. “Problem solved by Athens Pizza. Not to mention your mate. Come on, let's go.”

“Go?” Judith asked in surprise.

“To dinner,” Joe responded, polishing off his martini.

“Pizza?” Bea said, making a face. “Deep-dish, Chicago style?”

“Greek,” Joe responded, getting his jacket from the peg in the hallway. “Via Heraldsgate Hill. You'll love it.” The tone of his voice suggested that Bea wouldn't dare do otherwise.

“Pizza!” cried Pam. “Sandi and I love pizza. We make them in class, and our students help. You wouldn't believe what they use for toppings.”

“Yeah, I would,” Bea said in a caustic voice. “Pizza. Hunh.”

The two women left the kitchen area, however. Judith turned to Joe. “I have to get Mother's dinner. Can you wait five minutes?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “I'll be out in the car.”

Judith quickly opened a can of string beans and heated them on the stove. Five minutes later, she was in the toolshed where Gertrude accepted the meal with a minimum of
criticism. The stuffing in the pork chop was nowhere nearly as tasty as what Gertrude herself used to make. It wasn't as good as Grandma Grover's, either, and if Gertrude had to tell the truth, even her daughter made better dressing, at least for turkey and chicken.

Judith joined Joe in the red MG at exactly six-thirty. “Who's paying for the pizza?” she asked as he backed out of the driveway.

“They are,” Joe replied. “Even a Mafioso wouldn't stiff Stavros. Haven't you ever wondered why Athens Pizza has such big ovens?”

Judith smiled. “No, but I've watched customers who dared to complain get thrown out onto Heraldsgate Avenue. When it comes to the no-nonsense business approach, he's right up there with Cal the Cobbler. About now, I wish I had their nerve.”

“It should be over by tomorrow,” Joe said, turning right onto the avenue and heading down the very steep hill that led to the lower Heraldsgate business district. “Those guests can't be held indefinitely. Shall we try Freddo's?”

“Uhhh…” Judith grimaced. “I'm not in the mood for Italian tonight. How about T. S. McSnort's?”

“Sounds good.” Joe braked for the light at the bottom of the hill. “I'll finish my federal marshal tale when we get there.”

Luck was with them. A parking space right in front of T. S. McSnort's opened up. Two minutes later, Judith and Joe were seated in a wooden booth, directly across from the usually noisy bar. On this Wednesday night in June, however, the restaurant was comparatively quiet.

After ordering their drinks, Joe resumed telling Judith about Mary Lou Desmond's role in what the police department was calling—unfortunately—the Hillside Manor Case.

“Let me back up a bit,” Joe said, keeping his voice down. “When J. J. and Rich Goldman conducted their search of the guest rooms, they found both guns. Pete allowed us to hold his Beretta, but Mary Lou refused. She
knew the local laws, and that she was allowed to retain a handgun as long as she had a carry permit. She was right, of course. That's legal in this state. But this was a homicide investigation, which changed the rules. The weapon had to be confiscated in case it turned out to have fired the shots that killed Legs Benedict.”

“But,” Judith interrupted in an effort to keep her train of thought from derailing, “it was the Glock that had been fired.”

Joe nodded. “But, as it turned out, that wasn't the gun that was used to kill Legs.”

“It wasn't?” Judith's eyes widened. “But I thought…”

“It was a natural assumption, until the ballistics report came back,” Joe said, glancing up at the TV over the bar, which showed a baseball game underway. “A Colt .45 was the weapon. The bullet casings were found by the body. But the gun has never turned up.”

Judith was shocked. “You mean…Legs really might have been killed by someone who wasn't staying at the B&B?”

“Yes. But,” Joe added quickly, “let's not get sidetracked. When J. J. demanded the Sig Sauer, Marie showed him her badge. The story came out then, but J. J. had to agree to keep it to himself and continue treating Mary Lou as a suspect. The only reason he told me is because he felt a personal responsibility. He wanted me to know that at least one of these people staying at the B&B wasn't a crook. And the only reason I'm telling you now is so that you know the gun belongs to a law enforcement officer.”

Judith paused, sorting out this new information in her mind. “But why is Marie—Mary Lou—here in the first place?”

Joe grimaced. “What do you know about Pete Santori?”

“That he's not Pete Santori,” Judith replied. “And frankly, I didn't think Marie was Marie, either. They didn't fit as a couple. Opposites may attract, but despite all the goo-goo cuddle talk, they came from different planets.”

Joe gave a slight nod. “Okay. So maybe you know who Pete really is.”

“Rick Perl, Pam's brother, and probably Sandi's boyfriend.” Judith couldn't help but look smug.

Joe grinned over the rim of his martini glass. “You do amaze me sometimes, Jude-girl. So why are he and Mary Lou posing as husband and wife?”

“Well…” Judith gazed into her Scotch. “If Mary Lou is a federal marshal, she's on the job. Said job has something to do with Pete—Rick—but he's not a cop, or he could have kept his gun, too. Neither of them is using their real names or identities. Thus, I'm left with the impression that Pete—Rick—might be in the witness protection program.”

The gold flecks in his green eyes danced as Joe nodded. “That's right. Can you guess why?”

The waiter, a young man named Kevin with a blond crewcut and two spots of high color on his cheeks, arrived to take the Flynns' dinner order. Judith ordered the steak and mushroom pie; Joe opted for the prime rib. Neither could resist starting with T. S. McSnort's delicious clam chowder.

“My guess?” Judith said after Kevin had left. “Rick somehow got involved in the murder of his father, Isaac Perl. I don't mean that he was an accomplice, but he must have done something that made him go into hiding from the Mafia, or more specifically, from the Fusilli family.”

Joe selected a slice of rich dark bread from the basket that Kevin had brought earlier. “Excellent. Every so often, it occurs to me that you could have been a detective.”

“How often?” Judith asked, unsure whether or not her husband was teasing her.

Joe, however, avoided the question. “After Isaac Perl found himself under the Fusilli family's thumb, his son, Rick, tried to infiltrate the mob. Naturally, I haven't talked to Rick about this—in fact, I've hardly talked to Rick and Mary Lou at all—but according to the FBI, Rick was successful in the beginning. Under an assumed identity, he
became a mechanic, or a shill for some of their illegal gambling operations. It was a hopeless idea. He was only what is known as a half-assed wise guy who was probably never going to become a made guy, or an actual mob member. Consequently, Rick couldn't figure out a way to get his father unconnected from the mob, let alone to save Isaac's life. Rick was still working as a mechanic when his father was murdered. Somehow his cover was blown after Isaac was killed, and Rick was forced to go into hiding. End of story.”

“No, it's not,” Judith asserted. “It doesn't explain what he's doing at Hillside Manor with a federal marshal to protect him.”

Pausing as Kevin delivered the chowder, Joe offered Judith a speculative glance. “Do you think I know that?” he finally said after the waiter had left.

Judith was disappointed. “I thought you might. Shall we conjecture?”

Joe shook his head. “I never speculate. And it's not my case.” He broke a couple of wafer crackers into his chowder.

“It's not my case, either,” Judith retorted, “but it
is
my B&B. And I
do
speculate. Here's how it goes: Pam and Sandi told Rick that they were heading out west to confront Legs. Or, maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, the sibilings wanted revenge for their father's death. But Rick can't travel without federal protection, so Marie has to come along. They pose as honeymooners. Then, either Rick or Pam kills Legs. How's that?” Judith gave Joe a self-satisfied look.

“Fair to poor,” Joe responded, as the baseball game on TV heated up along with the customers at the bar. “Are you saying that Pam or Rick would be dumb enough to kill somebody with a federal marshal watching them like a hawk?”

Judith wasn't daunted by her husband's quibble. “Human emotion drives people to do stupid—and self-destructive—things. I know, you're trained to look only at
evidence. If I ever thought about playing detective—” Judith paused and gave Joe an arch little smile, “—it would be because I'm interested in people and what makes them tick. You and I work in opposite ways, Joe. I'm Mrs. Inside, you're Mr. Outside.”

“Intuition,” Joe murmured, setting aside his empty martini glass. “We're discouraged from relying on that at the police academy.”

“Exactly,” Judith said. “Which is probably wise, especially when you're young. But I believe in it, and sometimes it works.” Before Joe could interrupt, Judith waved her soup spoon at him. “I'm not ruling out Sandi in this mix. It would be clever of Pam and Rick to have her commit the crime, and she had motivation, too. Isaac would have become her father-in-law, assuming the romance was serious. And, if you want to know the truth, I still consider Marie—I mean, Mary Lou—a suspect.”

“Interesting,” Joe remarked. “Fascinating. And absurd.”

“Why?” Judith countered. “Her job is to protect Rick Perl. She realizes he wants revenge. Legs is a known criminal. Why not whack him and eliminate the temptation for Rick?”

“Why not say so?” Joe asked. “Anyway, you're wrong. Mary Lou allowed J. J. to check her weapon. It hadn't been fired recently.”

Judith's face fell. “And nobody else's gun at the B&B had been fired, either. Except Legs's own weapon, which wasn't the one that killed him.”

“That's right,” Joe agreed as Kevin showed up with their entrees. “Which is why I figure they'll either release Barney tomorrow, or hold him on other criminal charges. That's up to the feds, not our department.”

“Then they'll also have to let the rest of them go?” Judith asked after thanking Kevin for serving their entrees.

“Yes. Your troubles should be over in a few hours,” Joe said with a wry smile.

“But the mystery will remain,” Judith said in a melancholy tone.

“It won't be your mystery anymore,” Joe noted. “Or does that make you sad?”

“I hate a lack of resolution,” Judith replied as she opened the flaky crust of her steak and mushroom pie. “I'd certainly like to know who killed Legs.”

“So would J. J.,” Joe said, his eyes straying to the baseball game.

Judith followed her husband's glance. The hand that held the fork that conveyed a large chunk of tender beef halted in midair. “Joe,” she whispered, nodding toward the bar, “that's Agent Dunleavy over there.”

“Who?” Joe turned to the customers who were lined up along the brass rail.

“Agent Dunleavy. The young man from the FBI who's been interrogating Mother about her alleged connection with the SS or whatever.”

Joe chuckled. “Oh, yes. Dark suit, white shirt, muted tie. I should have guessed. When is he hauling her away? Shall I buy him a drink?”

“Don't be nasty, Joe,” Judith chided. “He's on a fool's errand.” She removed her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “Actually, I'm going to speak to him. Maybe I can convince him he's wasting his time.”

Sliding out of the booth, Judith approached the bar. “Agent Dunleavy,” she said pleasantly, “I'm Mrs. Grover's daughter, remember?”

“Of course,” Dunleavy replied, though his youthful face looked surprised.