Legs Benedict (6 page)

“I'll wait,” Joe said, then turned to Judith. “Go ahead, feed the guests. I'll…”

A fierce pounding resounded from inside the toolshed. Everyone turned, including J. J., who had jumped right off the wet ground. “What's that?” he asked in alarm. “Somebody in there?”

“No,” Joe replied with a straight face. “Ignore it.”

“It's my mother,” Judith snapped, pushing past Joe and trying to step around the corpse. “Mother! Can you wait?”

“I already did,” Gertrude yelled back. “That horse's behind you call a husband locked me in!”

J. J. had grabbed Joe's arm. “Is that a witness? Or a suspect?”

Joe brightened. “Both?”

Judith glanced over her shoulder. “Neither. It's
my mother
,” she repeated. “She hasn't had her breakfast, and she's upset.”

Rich Goldman exchanged a worried look with J. J. Martinez. “We can't move the body until the M.E. gets here. Does this…building have a back door?”

“No,” Judith retorted. “And it's not possible for Mother to get through a window. She's very elderly and quite frail.”

“Is she armed?” Rich asked, his earnest young face still troubled.

“Of course not!” Judith couldn't quite get around John Smith's body. “Oh, drat! I might as well go back to the…”

“Moron!” Gertrude shouted. “Idiot! Open this door or I'll torch the place!”

Judith paused. She wouldn't put it past her mother to start a fire. She'd done it before, in extreme circumstances. “Mother, please!” Judith begged. “Try to relax. We'll take care of you in just a few minutes.”

“Take care of me, huh? How? Like that pinhead on my doorstep? What's going on around here, mass murders?”

Fortunately, another city car entered the drive. “The M.E.,” Joe breathed. “Get back inside, Jude-girl. I'll deal with the old bat.”

“She's not an old bat,” Judith asserted as she headed for the house. “You be nice, Joe!” she warned from the porch steps.

The Santoris were seated at the dining room table when Judith returned. Popping more bread in the toaster and dishing up more ham and bacon, she listened to the snatches of conversation that floated over and under the three-quarter swinging door.

“We should leave at once,” Minerva Schwartz was saying. “This isn't a reputable place.”

“We paid in advance,” Sandi said. “Preschool teachers don't get paid much. We can't afford to waste our money.”

“This John Smith is nothing to us,” Mal Malone de
clared. “What do you say, Bea? Go or stick around?”

“I don't like it here,” Bea answered. “Let's pack as soon as we eat. This trip has been a disaster.”

“Where's Mrs. Smith?” asked Roland du Turque. “The poor woman must be distraught.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Marie Santori. “If anything happened to my Tootsie-wootsie, I'd…”

The toast was done. As Judith carried the plates of food into the dining room, everyone went silent.

“Mrs. Flynn,” said Roland in what sounded like relief. “Can you tell us what's going on?”

Judith grimaced. “I'd prefer to wait for my husband to fill you in.”

Barney leaned around his mother. “Because he's a cop?”

“Yes.” If word of Joe's profession hadn't already reached the other guests, it was pointless now to keep up the deception. “He's worked Homicide for most of his career. He's consulting with the other detectives and the M.E.”

“But you can tell us about Mr. Smith, can't you?” Pam put in.

Judith started to hedge, then relented. “I can't tell you much. Unfortunately, I was the one who found his body.” She explained the situation, adding that the victim probably had been shot a few hours earlier. “Joe—Mr. Flynn—will ask if any of you heard or saw anything unusual.”

Glances were exchanged around the table. Pete Santori was the first to speak. “Marie and I heard a commotion this morning. It woke us up. But nothing during the night. Right, Sweet-treat?”

Marie nodded vigorously. “It was screaming. You, probably, Mrs. Flynn.”

“Probably.” Judith scanned the faces of her other guests. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was resentment, maybe it was because the hour was still early—but it struck Judith that everyone gathered around the oval table seemed guarded.
“Anyone else?” she prodded. “Perhaps you woke up at some point, but didn't know why?”

“That mattress bothered me,” Bea complained. “I don't feel rested.”

“I was up twice,” Minerva acknowledged. “My age, you know. Bladders become uncertain.”

“Sandi snores,” Pam said, poking her companion. “She won't admit it, but she does.”

“Do not,” Sandi retorted. “Anyway, you wiggle a lot.”

“I stayed awake for a long time,” Roland said. “I'd heard some wonderful jazz riffs at one of your downtown clubs. They kept playing in my head.”

Judith heard Joe come into the kitchen. She turned, seeing J. J. and Rich behind him.

“Go ahead,” Joe said to Judith over the top of the swinging door. “The body's being removed. Go ahead, you can feed the old vulture in the toolshed now.”

“Joe…” But the reproach died on Judith's lips as he moved past her into the dining room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Joe said in his most professional voice, “meet J. J. Martinez and Rich Goldman, Metro Homicide. They want to ask you a few questions. The interviews will be conducted in the front parlor.”

“Interrogations?” cried Bea. “Hey!”

“Sez who?” muttered Mal.

“We were just checking out,” Barney declared, getting out of his chair so fast that he pulled some of the tablecloth with him and upset a cream pitcher.

“Come on,” Pete drawled, “we're honeymooners. Doesn't that make us immune?”

“Wild,” breathed Sandi.

“Yucky,” said Pam.

“Now I've lost it.” Roland's mellow voice was wistful. “The phrase, that is, from last night.”

Judith didn't stay around for the arguments, which she knew her guests would lose. Of course, she'd also lose the guests. It wasn't likely that this bunch would become repeat customers.

She did, however, hear Joe deliver what must have been bad news. “Someone mentioned leaving. I don't think that will be possible for a while. I'm not in charge here, but as of now, you're all suspects. So sit back, relax, and enjoy your stay at Hillside Manor.”

As Judith carried her mother's breakfast out the back door, an eruption of protests, squeals, and curses followed her.

 

Similar invective greeted her at the toolshed. Gertrude was fit to be tied, among other things. Judith's mother was in no mood to listen to explanations or anything that resembled reason. The blame for her tardy meal rested solely with that boob, Joe Flynn—or, as Gertrude veered off on another tangent—with Judith and her dumbbell guests. Either way, there was a conspiracy to deprive a helpless old lady of her breakfast.

Judith suffered in silence. For once, she had more serious problems than her mother's harangue. As if to emphasize that point, Judith flinched as she exited the toolshed and walked around the outline that the police had made of John Smith's body.

Joe was in the kitchen, making a second pot of coffee. “I'm not going in to work until later,” he said, his irritation with Judith apparently quelled. “It's in our—yours and mine—best interests to keep a handle on this.”

“Of course, Joe,” Judith said meekly as she heard muffled voices in the dining room. “By the way—did you check Mr. Smith's ID?”

“Oh, yes,” Joe replied, settling into his favorite captain's chair. “He didn't have any.”

“
What
?” Judith half-fell into a chair on the other side of the kitchen table.

Joe nodded. “That's right. He had a wallet, money intact, but no driver's license, no credit cards, zip. How did he pay for the room?”

Judith tried to remember. “I'm not sure. Most people use credit cards, but some send in a money order or check.”
She got up and went to the computer. “I can tell by looking up the reservation. Let me see…” She clicked the mouse a few times, then scratched her head. “Hmmm. I'm getting that same problem I had last week. Now what did Renie tell me to do…?”

Joe, who hated computers despite his occasional dependence upon them at work, ignored the remark. “What's with Mrs. Smith?” he asked.

“She was hysterical…I think.” Judith tried deleting extra space, as Renie had showed her. Nothing happened. “Anyway, she wanted to be left alone. You can hardly blame her.”

Joe jumped out of his chair. Without a word, he ran to the back stairs and disappeared around the corner. Judith considered following him, but didn't want to lose track of what was happening—or not happening—with the computer. She was still facing a blank screen.

Looking up at the old schoolhouse clock, she noted that it was almost nine. Renie might be up, though not necessarily lucid. Judith decided to take a chance and call her cousin. If for no other reason, the news of a murder at the B&B wouldn't keep.

But before she could get to the phone, Joe came tearing back down the stairs.

“She's gone!” His face was very red and he looked furious. “How the hell did she get out of here without you noticing?”

Judith clapped a hand to her head. “I don't know! But I've been in and out…The car! Is that gone, too?”

“Hell, yes! I looked out the upstairs window.” Joe clenched and unclenched his fists, then rushed out of the kitchen, presumably to inform J. J. Martinez and Rich Goldman.

With a sinking feeling, Judith returned to the computer. As far as she could tell, Darlene's presence wasn't the only thing missing from Hillside Manor. All the reservations for Monday, June twentieth, were also gone, as if they had dropped into a deep, dark, bottomless pit.

E
VEN AS
J
UDITH
sputtered and muttered, Joe dragged her out through the dining room and past the curious gazes of the guests. In the entry hall, he stabbed at the register.

“License number,” he said as Rich Goldman came in from the front parlor. “Quick!”

Judith had already turned the register to Tuesday. She flipped back a page, stared, fingered the page itself, and gasped. “It's gone! Somebody tore out the Monday registrations.”

Joe swore so loudly that Rich jumped. “What about the computer?” Joe demanded.

“That's what I was trying to tell you,” Judith replied, tight-lipped and annoyed. “Everything's been deleted. At least as far as I can tell. Plus, the backup disk is gone. It was right there on the counter yesterday.”

Joe turned to Rich. “You're young, you must know computers. See if my wife screwed up.”

The accusation further riled Judith. “I did no such thing,” she said coldly. “It was all there yesterday when I entered the Malones into the computer.”

Joe ignored the denial, hustling a bewildered Rich Goldman out to the kitchen. Judith started to follow, but retreated a couple of steps. The door to the front parlor
was open just a crack. She peered inside to see who was first on the interview list.

J. J. Martinez was pacing the area in front of the small hearth. Leaning forward in one of the wingback chairs was Barney Schwartz. “…cross-country tour,” Barney was saying. “Ma's never been out west.”

Judith slipped into the living room where an extension phone sat on a cherrywood pedestal table. She hurriedly dialed her cousin's number.

Renie answered in a vague voice, which was not a good sign. “Can you come over?” Judith asked without preamble.

“Come over where?” Renie yawned.

“To my house.” Judith paused. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm…In a way.”

“Are you up?”

“Not quite.”

“Coz, it's almost nine-thirty!”

“Is it?” Renie made some muffled noises. Judith envisioned her cousin struggling to get a look at the clock. “You're right. So what?”

“So can you come? It's really, really important.” Judith's voice had a taut edge.

Renie yawned again. “Have your guests left any food?”

“I think so. Please?”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Renie said, somewhat more alert. “I got to bed late. Bill and I had a key club meeting last night.”

Despite her overwhelming anxieties, Judith was taken aback. “Key club? What are you talking about?”

“You know—mate-swapping. It's another hobby we've taken up since Bill retired. See you.” Renie hung up.

Maybe Renie was kidding; maybe Judith was crazy. Her head spinning, Judith went out into the kitchen where Rich was apologizing profusely.

“This is a PC—I use a Mac at work, just like you do,” the young detective explained to Joe.

“Mac, schmac,” Joe growled. “I only use the damned thing when I have to.”

“Renie's coming,” Judith said. “She may be able to help.”

Joe didn't look optimistic. “I don't suppose you noticed the license number on the Smiths' car.”

Judith grimaced. “No—just that it had New York plates and that it had three numbers and three letters, like ours in this state.”

Joe made a face. “Swell. What kind of car was it?”

“Black?” Judith tried to visualize the Smith vehicle that had so recently been parked at the curb between Hillside Manor and the neighboring Ericson driveway. “Dark, anyway. Very dark.”

“Make?” Joe had turned deadpan.

Her husband's professional demeanor was getting tiresome. She paid no attention to makes and models of cars, figuring she was lucky to find her own Subaru in Falstaff's parking lot. “Smaller than a bus, bigger than a bike. Wheels, windows, and whoop-de-doo.” Seeing the fire bank in Joe's green eyes, Judith grew more serious. “It had a symbol like some kind of a medal with wings. Red and gold, I think.”

Joe and Rich exchanged swift glances. “A Chrysler, maybe,” said Joe, giving Rich a shove towards the back door. “Come on, let's radio this in from your car so we can get out an APB.”

Feeling insignificant, Judith brought a fresh carafe of coffee out to the dining room. Minerva was now absent, apparently having followed her son as the next interviewee. Barney was nowhere in sight. Judith poked her head around the corner and saw him sitting in the living room, leafing impatiently through an auto racing magazine.

“This is crazy,” Bea Malone declared. “Why can't we go? These cops are making us feel like a bunch of cheap crooks.”

Pete Santori laughed, an unexpected, rather nasty sound. His bride, however, spoke in a reasonable voice. “The po
lice have to follow procedure,” Marie said. “This B&B is now a crime scene, and we're witnesses. Maybe it won't take too long.”

“Ha!” Mal snorted. “Cops are dumb. They won't figure this out for months. If they ever do,” he added with a dark glance at Judith.

“My husband,” Judith said with dignity, “has one of the best arrest and conviction rates on the force.”

“All things are relative.” The comment came from Roland du Turque, and was offered softly, almost apologetically.

“I think it's kind of exciting,” Pam asserted. “Though we probably can't use it for sharing time, can we, Sandi?”

Sandi giggled. “I guess not. We can't share our adventures at the Hexagon, either.”

Both of the preschool teachers embarked on a fit of the giggles. Somehow, the merriment sounded hollow. Judith went into the kitchen just as a wide-eyed Renie came through the back door.

“I can't believe it!” Renie gasped. “Joe just told me what happened! Coz, are you okay?”

Judith nodded a bit uncertainly. “I don't think the horror has quite set in. This has been a terrible, terrible morning.”

Though sympathetic, Renie gave Judith a wry smile. “But not a first.”

Judith sighed. “No. But the fortune teller murder seems so long ago. And because of the circumstances, we knew the killer was one of the people in the B&B. This time, it could be anybody. John Smith was shot outside.”

Renie's brown eyes narrowed. “Do you really believe it was someone prowling the neighborhood?”

“Well…” Judith uttered a weak laugh. “No. I guess not. This group of guests is all wrong. Oh, maybe not
all
of them. But there's something more than odd about
most
of them. Which is why I wanted you to come over.”

After serving Renie the last of the egg dish, Judith explained about the deletion in the computer and the missing
page from the register. “Do you think you could retrieve it?”

“Where's your backup disk?” Renie asked.

Judith grimaced. “It's gone, too.”

“Great.” Renie looked dismayed. “Even if you found it, whoever took it might have erased that, too.”

Judith's expression was pleading. “Can you at least check the computer for me?”

“You've got to get a better system, a program, a more efficient way of handling this stuff,” Renie declared. “The half-assed method you've been using isn't practical, even when you're not dealing with a homicide.” She sat down and began clicking the mouse. “This way, it's not that hard to dump something from the computer, especially if you know what you're doing. Which, alas, you do not. I'll check, though.”

But Renie came up empty. “Sorry,” she apologized, leaning back in the chair at Judith's makeshift desk. “I give up.”

Judith's hands were clenched into fists of frustration. “Why? To cover up an address or phone number?”

“Maybe.” Renie stood up and removed a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “What about checks and credit cards? You have records, don't you?”

“I can't remember who used what,” Judith replied, not bothering to reprimand Renie for lighting up. “Of course, I can get copies of the checks from the bank, and the credit card receipts are in my file. Everybody paid in advance, except the Malones, and they used cash.”

Renie frowned through a blue haze of smoke. “So why dump the reservations and tear out the register page? It doesn't make sense.”

“None of it does.” Judith sank into one of the captain's chairs. “I wish I could listen in on the interviews. I feel like a prisoner in my own house.”

Renie had wandered over to the swinging door. “The teachers are still in the dining room. So is Roland du Turque. But the detectives must have finished with the rest
of them.” She moved back by the sink and looked out through the kitchen window. “Where's Arlene? Has she shown up yet? She'll love your latest fatality.”

Judith was well aware of how, despite the kindest of hearts, her friend and neighbor thrived on disaster. “The Rankerses left early this morning to visit some cousins for a few days. They must have taken off before I found the body. Arlene will be sorry she missed this.”

Renie looked surprised. “Carl and Arlene are away? Drat. Bill and I were thinking of inviting them to join the key club. Carl would be great. He has all the right equipment.”

“Coz!” Judith was aghast. “You have to explain this to me. It simply blows me away that…”

Bea Malone had entered the kitchen. “The coffee urn is dry as a bone. In fact, it's smoking. You want to refill it or call the fire department? They're about the only emergency crew that hasn't shown up yet.”

“Oh!” Judith whirled around. “I'll be right there.”

Retrieving the urn, Judith refilled it, then suggested that she and Renie join the guests in the living room. “We might learn something,” Judith murmured.

As they passed through the dining room, Judith noted that Sandi and Pam were the only ones remaining at the table.

“Crazy, huh?” Sandi remarked.

“Is it okay to tinkle?” asked Pam.

“What?” Judith paused on the threshold. “Oh—yes, of course. The bathroom's right off the entry hall, remember?”

The scene that greeted the cousins was like a tableau from some dark Russian play. In the bleak, gray morning light, the Malones huddled on one of the sofas, Minerva Schwartz stood like a sentry in front of the big bay window, her son sat on the windowseat with his head bowed, and, on the other sofa, the Santoris held hands and exchanged whispered words.

“I'll be serving lunch around twelve-thirty,” Judith an
nounced, surprising herself as well as her guests. “That is, if you can't leave the house, I'm more than willing to provide food. No extra charge.”

To Judith's amazement, Bea Malone burst into tears. “I can't stand it! First Corelli, now this. The whole world's out to get us. I want to die.”

Mal cradled his wife in his arms. “Hey, hon, calm down. We're okay, we're fine. We'll be out of here by tomorrow.”

“Who's Corelli?” It was Barney Schwartz who asked the question with something akin to alarm.

“Never mind,” Mal growled. “Keep your snout out of this.”

“Now just a minute…” Barney was on his feet, punching a fist into his other hand. “You can't talk to me like that.”

“Mr. Schwartz,” Roland exclaimed softly. “Your poor hands—how did you lose those two fingers?”

Whirling on Roland, Barney hid his hands behind his back. “What kind of a sick question is that? Why do
you
care?”

Roland, who had just come from the front parlor, backed off. “I'm sorry, Mr. Schwartz. It's just that I love the piano so much, and it struck me as terribly sad that someone who wanted to play might be…impeded.”

Barney snorted. “I'm no music lover.” He turned to Minerva. “Am I, Ma?”

Minerva lifted her chin. “You certainly never took to the classics, though you were exposed to all my fine Wagnerian recordings and an occasional touring performance.”

“Ma…” Barney gave his mother a sheepish look. “All those fat women yelling their heads off with wings on their hats. Besides, they sang so long that my butt went to sleep before the rest of me did.”

Marie looked up from her place next to Pete on the sofa. “Don't you live near Detroit, Barney? How about that Motown sound?”

“The Supremes were okay,” Barney acknowledged. “But that was a long time ago.”

Roland cleared his throat. “Historically, the Motown sound—specifically, Motown Records—was important because their artists' popularity created a new enthusiasm for so-called black music and consistently put their songs on the best-seller charts.”

“Really.” Pete sounded bored. “Is the coffee ready yet?”

“Not quite,” Judith answered as Roland quietly moved the length of the living room and sat down at the piano. Seeing him at the bench reminded her of the piece of paper she'd found the previous night. “Did anyone misplace some notes?” she asked.

“Notes?” Roland fingered a chord. “What kind of notes?”

“Just…names,” Judith replied. “On a slip of paper that had been torn out of a small spiral notebook.”

“What were the names?” asked Marie, looking faintly disturbed.

Judith had left the paper on her dresser. “I don't recall exactly. I think one of them was Hoffa.” She uttered a feeble laugh.

“Hoffa?” Barney echoed. “What about him?”

“We don't know any Hoffas,” Mal declared.

Bea, who had recovered from her bout of tears, gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Heck, no. Wasn't he some kind of union crook?”

“Teamsters,” said Pete. “Hoffa disappeared several years ago. He was probably murdered.”

“Tough,” Mal grunted, then scowled at Judith. “He wasn't staying here, was he?”

Before Judith could utter an indignant denial, she saw Phyliss Rackley standing in the entrance to the living room. The cleaning woman's sausage curls were practically standing on end and her face was a bright pink.