by Mary Daheim
Judith tried to remember; so much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe her illness had shorted out her memory. “I don’t think so. After Joe confronted Legs with the weapon, and he denied owning it, the so-called Smiths went up to bed. We did, too, and never left the bedroom until we got up around six.”
J. J. nodded in his jittery fashion. “So the safe was unguarded after you went downstairs. Where is it, by the way?”
Judith pointed to the cherrywood cupboard. “There, on the other side of the bathroom door. There’s a false panel inside.”
J. J. shook his head. “Shame on Joe. Too obvious. First place burglars look.”
“It was my idea,” Judith retorted. “I had that safe put in when we expanded the attic after I moved back home.”
“Sorry.” J. J. pressed his fingertips together, as if he were begging Judith’s forgiveness. “Still, somebody could’ve come up here early this morning while you and Joe were downstairs, taken the gun, shot Legs, and brought it back. Didn’t find the body until after seven-thirty, right?”
“Right,” Judith admitted. “But they would have had to unlock the door to the third-floor stairs.”
J. J. made a dismissive gesture. “No problem. Anybody who could’ve opened the safe could’ve picked the lock.” He gave Judith a shrewd smile. “Hear you’re not so bad at that sort of thing yourself.”
“Right, I’m a real whiz.” Judith felt downcast. Was it possible that someone actually had removed the gun from the safe? “They’d have to come and go outside via the front door,” she said out loud. “Otherwise, Joe and I would have seen them from the kitchen.”
“Who else knew Joe had the gun?” asked J. J.
“No one,” Judith responded. “That is, Darlene knew. She was with Legs when Joe questioned him about it.”
“Darlene.” J. J. scowled. “Where the heck is she? We’ve got the car. What’d she do? Ditch it and take a bus?”
J. J.’s ruminations encouraged Judith to probe further. “Have you run her through the computer? She must have left prints somewhere. Like the glass on the nightstand.”
J. J. drew back as if Judith had waved a gun at him. “The glass? Right, the glass. We took it in.” His eyes roamed everywhere around the room, except in the direction of Judith.
“The glass.” Judith narrowed her gaze. “What was in that glass, J. J.? It didn’t look quite right to me.”
Once again, J. J. seemed at war with himself. “You’re right. Rich thought it seemed kind of cloudy. Had it analyzed. Some kind of sleeping drug.”
“I wondered,” Judith said. “Darlene was very hard to rouse. So what about prints?”
“Haven’t heard yet,” J. J. said, then glanced at his watch. “Hey—got to go. Let you know what to do about these other guys tomorrow.”
“But J. J.,” Judith pleaded, leaning forward in the bed, “you haven’t told me why Barney would kill Legs. With a nickname like Fewer Fingers, I have to assume he’s a gangster, too.”
“Assume correctly,” J. J. said, but kept on going.
Exasperated, Judith threw off the covers and got out of bed. The recurring dizziness was still with her, but she attributed it to frustration. Judith needed a bath, a nice, long soak in the tub. She needed to change into her nightgown. She needed to eat something other than toast.
But most of all, she needed to know.
Renie returned while Judith was still in the bathtub. “Are you decent?” she called through the door.
“Since when did I take a bath with my clothes on?” Judith shot back. “Can you make me some chicken noodle soup?”
“Sure. Crackers?”
“Please.” A bit shakily, Judith got out of the tub and called out to Renie. “Hey—did you check the Malones’ car?”
“Yep,” Renie replied. “Full of junk. Well, not exactly junk, but all the stuff you’d haul along for a cross-country car trip.”
“Okay. Thanks.” On wobbly legs, Judith toweled herself off. “I could drink more tea, if you didn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll bring a tray, just like the maid. You want a rose stuck somewhere?”
“I can guess where you’d stick it,” Judith called back, then heard Renie snicker as she left the bedroom.
Judith still felt weak by the time Renie brought the soup, crackers, tea, and the guest register to her bed. “Here are the signatures you requested, Madam. Deduce, if you will.”
Excitedly, Judith opened the register. “Were they cooperative? Did anyone balk?”
“Only Mal and Bea Malone,” Renie answered. “But they balk at everything.”
“What I’m banking on is that none of these signatures will match those notes,” Judith said, gazing at the entries, then opening the drawer on the bedside table and taking out the two small slips of paper. “I made copies of these on my computer,” she noted. “Just in case. You see, I figure they were written by John Smith.”
“Legs, you mean?” said Renie, getting a grip on the soup bowl lest Judith’s movements upset the contents.
“Right. I keep forgetting to call him that, which isn’t—wasn’t—his real name anyway…Hunh.” She stared at the notes and the signatures. “I was wrong,” Judith said with a troubled expression. “There is a match.” She shoved the register and the pieces of paper at Renie. “Both those notes were written by Roland du Turque.”
Renie agreed. There was no mistaking the similarities. “Why,” she asked, “would Roland want to meet Barney? He’s not a musician.”
Judith had fallen back against the pillows. “Damn! I feel so…out of it. My poor logical mind seems to have skipped out on me. In fact, logic doesn’t apply to this case. J. J. started to tell me some things, but then he clammed up. I don’t know when I’ve felt so frustrated.”
Renie was still studying the notes. “‘Legs-Hoffa-Provenzano,’” she read. “What did Legs Benedict have to do with Jimmy Hoffa? And who’s Provenzano?”
“How should I know?” Judith sounded grumpy. “Maybe Legs—who was a professional killer—whacked Jimmy Hoffa. But what does that have to do with Roland and jazz?”
“Good point.” Renie chewed her lower lip. “Giacalone,” she said suddenly.
“Same to you.” Judith started to taste her soup.
“No.” Renie bounced on the bed, causing Judith to grip the soup bowl. “Giacalone and Provenzano were the guys Hoffa went to meet when he disappeared. Bill and I watched an A&E biography on Hoffa awhile ago. I don’t know why I remember the names, except that Provenzano reminded me of ‘Di Provenza il mar.’”
“No kidding. Coz, are you feeling dizzy, too?”
Renie shook her head. “Not at all. It’s an aria from La Traviata. Anyway, that’s what I thought of, and Giacalone reminded me of La Gioconda. You know, the Ponchielli opera.”
“I don’t know,” Judith said, but decided that maybe Renie, whose knowledge of opera far surpassed her own, wasn’t crazy after all. “Were those two guys mobsters?” She didn’t attempt to pronounce their names.
“I think so. One of them—I forget which—had alleged mob ties. The other was definitely a crook. They were from Detroit. I think.”
Nibbling on a cracker, Judith grew thoughtful. “Admit it, coz. Americans are fascinated by gangsters, going back to the highwaymen. Killers like Jesse James and John Dil-linger were heroes, in a way. Heaven knows, I’ve always been intrigued. But when they’re under your roof, there’s nothing glamorous about them. It’s just plain scary.”
The phone rang on the nightstand. “My mother?” Renie said as Judith reached for the receiver. “Tell her I went to Antarctica to catch some rays.”
But it wasn’t Aunt Deb who was on the other end; it was Mike.
“Hi, Mom,” said the familiar, cherished voice. “Hey, we’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Sure,” Judith replied, then mouthed “Mike” to Renie. “What is it?”
“Can you put us up for a few days? The doctor told Kristin today that the baby
may come early and he’d like to have her stay closer to a hospital. It’s an hour from here at the park ranger lodgings, and that’s in light traffic. Okay?”
Judith’s jaw dropped. “Ah…When would you arrive?”
“Tomorrow,” Mike replied. “We thought of coming in tonight, but Kristin was tired from going in to see Dr. Fen-dall and we’ve still got to pack up some things.”
“Sure,” Judith gulped. “Come ahead. You can stay in your old room.”
“Great. We’ll see you around noon.” Mike paused. “How’s everything?”
“Umm…Great. Everything’s just…great. Love you.” Hanging up the phone, Judith burst into tears.
“Coz!” Renie was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” Judith wailed.
“Huh?” Renie grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and handed it to Judith. “Everything’s not great then,” Renie said under her breath, waiting for Judith to calm down.
“Mike and Kristin are coming tomorrow to stay until the baby gets here.” Judith wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Joe won’t come near me because I’m sick. Mother is driving me insane because I don’t know whether she is—or not. The FBI thinks she’s a Nazi. And some Mafia hit man got whacked right in front of my birdbath and who knows how many other mobsters are wandering around my dear old family home?” Judith burst into fresh tears.
“Hmmm.” Renie’s expression was unusually sympathetic. “It’s a mess, all right,” she finally said. “But you know things will work out. Come on, coz—you’re the one who always sees the bright side of things. As Grandma Grover would’ve said, ‘Keep your pecker up.’”
Judith glared at Renie from swollen eyes. “A lot of good that did her. Grandma’s dead, isn’t she?”
Renie gave a start. “Well…yes, but she lived to be almost ninety.”
“How can I let Mike and Kristin stay here with all these mobsters? How can I get rid of these awful people? How can I convince the FBI that Mother was never at Auschwitz? How can I do anything when I’m sick?”
“I guess you can’t,” Renie said, unable to remain sympathetic for more than a couple of minutes at a time. “You might as well just roll over and croak.”
Judith blew her nose again and gave Renie a sharp look. “You’re mean.”
“Yep.” Renie lay down at the foot of the bed and yawned. “How soon do I put the guests to bed?”
“You don’t” Judith’s face softened as she dabbed at her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. “Are you tired?”
“I’m tired of them,” Renie replied. “You know I always stay up late.”
“Maybe I’m just tired, period,” Judith said in a hollow voice. “It’s only the start of the tourist season, but I really haven’t had a break since January. The B&B was full up for most of the spring.”
“You’re run down,” Renie said, sitting up again. “When Arlene gets back, why don’t you ask her to take over for a few days? Now that the two of you have cut out the catering business, she’d probably be glad to fill in.”
“Maybe.” Judith knew that Renie might be right. The catering arm that Judith and Arlene had run for several years had become too demanding and not as necessary to Judith’s income after she married Joe. Then Carl Rankers had retired, and Arlene needed more free time. But Judith’s friend and neighbor enjoyed being busy. It was very likely that she wouldn’t mind running Hillside Manor for a few days while Judith and Joe slipped off to the ocean or to Canada.
Carl’s retirement reminded Judith of Renie and Bill’s key club. Though the thought horrified and puzzled Judith, she had to ask. “Tell me more about this hobby of yours,” Judith said, giving her nose one last blow. “What kind of key club is this that you and Bill joined?”
Renie shrugged. “The usual. Trading spouses. There are problems, of course. Sometimes you get somebody who can’t deliver. They talk the talk, but they can’t walk the walk. So to speak.” Renie yawned again.
“I see,” Judith said, and wished she didn’t. Maybe it was better to talk of murder. “Are you sure you don’t mind staying here tonight with these goons?”
“They may not all be goons,” Renie pointed out. “Still, it’s a good thing those cops are on duty. Even if J. J. had let me stay on the second floor, I think I’d have passed. Who wants to sleep next door to Bad Manners Malone or Pop ’Em Off Perl?”
“Good point,” Judith agreed, finally finishing her soup. “How are we going to confront Roland du Turque about those notes?” She used her spoon to indicate the two slips of paper resting on the down comforter.
Renie scratched her head. “Well—the smart thing to do would be to turn them over to J. J.”
“Aside from that,” Judith said.
Renie sighed. “Do you want me to give it a try? Roland was playing Uncle Corky’s old ukulele the last time I saw him.”
Judith considered. “No. I’d like to see his reaction in person.” Reaching into the nightstand drawer, Judith took out her notebook and a pen. “For now, let’s try to determine how everybody ended up here. As I’ve said all along—and I was right—it wasn’t a coincidence that these people booked themselves at the same time.”
“You’re dreaming,” Renie said, though she grinned at her cousin. “You must be feeling better.”
“A little.” Judith passed the notebook and pen to Renie. “Use your God-given artistic talent. Draw a map of the United States.”
Renie looked askance. “How detailed?”
“Rough—just so we can fill in the cities where these people came from.”
With quick, sure strokes, Renie drew a recognizable map. “Now what?”
Judith leaned forward, smiling appreciatively. “Good work. Start with Legs in New York. Then go west to Detroit.”
Renie drew a line from the east coast to Lake Erie. “Legs and Darlene arrive to find that Barney and Min have already skipped town, right?”
“You got it. Barney makes a reservation for Hillside Manor. Why here? Why make a reservation at all?”
Renie was studying her own handiwork. “Because of the overnight deliveries, we know that Barney, as well as Legs, left Royal Oak Friday. It’s a long haul from there to here. When we’ve driven back to visit Bill’s family in Wisconsin, we’ve always spent three nights on the road. But we take our time.”
“It’s doable,” Judith said. “There were two drivers in each car. They probably traded off. The question is, how did Legs know Barney was headed here?”
“Somebody squealed?” Renie suggested.
“Maybe. Somebody squealed on Legs and his mission to kill Barney.” Judith paused, her brain clicking away. “The FedEx envelope! You use FedEx quite a bit. When you’ve scheduled a pickup and have to leave the house, you put it in your milk box. I’ve seen you do it when we’ve gone somewhere together.”
“Sure,” Renie responded. “I just tell them on the phone where I’m leaving it.”
“So if Barney did the same thing—and he certainly would have been in a hurry to get out of town—Legs might have come along and found the envelope addressed to me at Hillside Manor. That means he knew where Barney was headed.” Judith gave Renie a triumphant smile.
“Brilliant, coz,” Renie said with a grin. “What about the others?”
Judith’s smile faded. “That might tie in to whoever tipped off Barney. In terms of geography, Pam and Sandi were closest to Legs. Isn’t Newark right across the Hudson River from New York?”
“More or less,” Renie said. “Close enough, anyway.” She looked again at her makeshift map. “Geography may have nothing to do with it. The telephone, E-mail, all the marvels of modern communication are at the disposal of contemporary crooks as well as honest working stiffs like us. You’ve got the Santoris in Miami, Roland in Kansas City, the Malones in Chicago. Any one of them, along with Pam and Sandi, could have tipped off Barney, and Barney could have reciprocated by telling them where he was going.”
“Don’t forget, the Malones di
dn’t make a reservation.” Judith rested her chin on her fist. “Again—why did Barney come here?”
“The most unlikely place to look for him?” Renie offered. “A cozy little B&B tucked into a neighborhood hillside? A big city not associated with gangsters?”
“You’re forgetting one connection, coz,” Judith noted. “The Teamsters. Hoffa. And before him, our own Dave Beck.”
“Maybe. But Beck goes back forty years or more,” Renie pointed out. “Hoffa took over from him—when? The early sixties? And Hoffa was never associated with this area.”
Judith sank back against the pillows. “True. But it was a thought.”
Except for the constant patter of rain against the dormer windows, the room was silent for a few moments. The twilight had almost faded into darkness, and Judith had turned on the bedside lamp, which cast a golden glow under the eaves. At last, she sat up again and regarded Renie with a curious expression. “We’re forgetting somebody.”
“Who?”
“In the original batch of reservations made last Friday, there was one that was canceled later in the day,” Judith explained. “Meanwhile, Roland called—or someone did, requesting Monday and Tuesday nights.”
“That’s right,” Renie said. “I remember that when I scrolled down and found your reservation list there was one for somebody who isn’t here. It wasn’t a very common name. What was it?”
“Doria,” Judith replied. “From Las Vegas. Who do you suppose he really is? And,” she added ominously, “did he cancel—or was he canceled?”
ELEVEN
“DAMN!” JUDITH EXCLAIMED. “I can’t remember Doria’s first name. And of course it got deleted when somebody dumped the reservations from the computer.”
“A first name might not help,” Renie noted. “Las Vegas is a huge city these days. If it was a common Christian name, there might be more than one of them in the Vegas phone book. Then again, it could be an alias.”
“I don’t recall much of anything about the man’s voice,” Judith said, “but it was perfectly normal, no accent of any kind. I do remember that the woman who called in the cancellation sounded kind of husky.”