by Mary Daheim
“Disguised?” Renie suggested.
Judith gazed at Renie. “Possibly.” She flexed her legs under the covers, then batted at her temple in a frustrated gesture. “I should have gotten Caller ID for me, not just for Mother. She doesn’t need to screen her calls in the toolshed as much as I need to know who’s called here at the B&B.”
“I think,” Renie said, “I mentioned it at the time.”
“I know, I know. Sometimes I tend to put things off.” How long had it been? Two, three years? Judith silently chastised herself for procrastinating.
“Couldn’t live without my Caller ID,” Renie chirped. Then, seeing Judith sink into gloom, she mustered a bit of compassion. “Stop beating yourself up. It might not have showed the number. Sometimes long distance calls come up only as out-of-area. Besides, you really don’t know if this Doria fits into the rest of the puzzle.”
“True,” Judith acknowledged, taking her watch from the nightstand. “It’s not quite nine-thirty. I feel a need to apologize to my guests for this inconvenience.”
“Why? You didn’t shoot Legs.”
Judith’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t be dense. I want to talk to these people.”
“You’re sick.” Renie fixed Judith with a hard gaze.
“I’m convalescing,” Judith replied, stare for stare. “Bring them up. Start with Roland.”
“Jeez!” Renie threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. What if they don’t want to come? What if they’re afraid of germs?”
“They are germs,” Judith retorted. “At least some of them may be. Hint that I might be willing to refund some of their money. Not that I will. Tell them I have spells. Quinsy. That’s always a good one, if only because nobody knows what it is anymore.”
“Did we ever?” Renie responded, but dutifully headed for the door.
Five minutes later, Roland du Turque appeared, looking concerned.
“You gave us quite a fright,” he said, gingerly seating himself on the dressing table bench. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much,” Judith replied, then went into her personal apology for upsetting Roland’s plans.
“Oh, no,” he assured her. “I’m not bound by a fixed schedule. There’s no need to reimburse me. Writers are their own bosses, you know. Except when it comes to deadlines.” He grimaced slightly.
“Yes,” Judith said vaguely, then reached into the drawer and removed the two small slips of note paper. “Which reminds me—I believe you mislaid these?”
Roland got up and came over to the bed. A bit warily—or so Judith thought—he put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Oh, my,” he murmured, “so I did. Do you mind telling me where you found them?”
“I found only the one with the names on it,” Judith said. “It was under the piano. The other was retrieved by my cleaning woman.”
“Indeed.” Roland’s smile was thin. “Do you know where she found it?”
“Somewhere on the second floor,” Judith answered blandly as she held out her hand. “If you don’t need them anymore, I’ll put them in the wastebasket.”
Roland hesitated. “Why no. They’re of no use to me now,” he responded, lowering his gaze and putting the glasses in the pocket of his blue dress shirt. “Thank you. I hate to be so careless.”
Judith feigned consternation. “Oh, dear—then whoever you asked to meet you outside never got the note. Is that a problem?”
Roland’s brown eyes had hardened, though he tried to sustain his smile. “Not at all. It turned out that the person I hoped to speak with had no knowledge whatsoever about Fats Waller.”
“Oh—yes,” Judith said with a big smile. “You write about music, I hear. Have you been published?”
Roland’s manner was self-deprecating. “In a small sort of way. You probably couldn’t find any of my work in stores or libraries.”
“That’s a shame,” Judith responded. “I would have enjoyed reading what you had to say about jazz.”
“A minor contribution,” Roland shrugged.
“A major loss,” Judith said. “For me.”
Roland sketched a bow. “You’re too kind. Thank you for finding my notes.” He started for the door.
“One thing,” Judith called after him. “What does Hoffa have to do with music?”
Roland turned ever so slightly, not quite meeting Judith’s gaze. “Detroit, the Motown recording industry. I’ve been seeking a connection between Hoffa and the music business. There’ve been rumors, you see.”
“Rumors,” Judith echoed. “You mean the Teamsters tried to take over Motown Records?”
“As I said, rumors.” Roland sketched another small bow and made his exit.
Drumming her nails on the bedclothes, Judith wondered about those rumors. It was possible, of course. Certainly Hoffa had been head of the Teamsters in Detroit while Motown Records had surged to the top of the charts. She was still trying to figure out whether or not Roland was lying about Hoffa, about the note that had been found in Barney’s room, and maybe just about everything else when Pete and Marie Santori entered the room.
“I feel terrible,” Judith declared as the couple sat down pressed against each other on the dressing table bench. “This episode has ruined your honeymoon.”
Clinging to Pete’s arm, Marie simpered. “We’ll make up for it during the next fifty years.”
“No problem,” Pete said, squeezing Marie’s knee. “Maybe we can head out tomorrow.”
“For where?” Judith inquired, in what she hoped was a casual tone.
“Canada,” Marie replied.
“California,” Pete answered at the same time.
The couple looked at each other and burst into laughter. “I guess,” Pete said between chuckles, “we have irreconcilable differences.”
Marie leaned her head on Pete’s shoulders. “Shall we get a divorce, Pooky-wooky?”
“Why not, Sudsy-wudsy?” Pete said, rubbing noses with Marie. “Then we could get married all over again.”
“I gather,” Judith said, still trying to maintain her casual manner, “that you had no planned itinerary.”
Taking Marie’s hand and getting to his feet, Pete shook his head. “We figured this would be a good jumping-off point. Canada, California—about now, I’d prefer some sun. How about you, Cutsey-wootsey?”
Marie toyed with the gold chain around Pete’s neck. “Sure. Carmel. Santa Barbara. San Diego. Sounds good, Doodily-woodily.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Pete said, steering Marie through the door. “Thanks, Mrs. Flynn. You’ve been great.”
“But…wait,” Judith said, no longer sounding casual. “I have a couple of other questions to…”
Pete waved a hand. “Not to worry. We won’t bother you any longer. You’ve been sick.”
The Santoris exited the bedroom. Judith swore under her breath. “A washout,” she muttered, then wondered if that was true. The Santoris had no idea where they were going after they left Hillside Manor. Perhaps they intended to go back to Miami. Honeymoon or not, Heraldsgate Hill might have been their destination point.
Judith was still mulling over the Santoris when Pam and Sandi all but skipped into the room.
“A is for apple,” Sandi chanted. “A is for animal, A is for April, A is for…”
“Arrest,” Pam filled in. “Isn’t that something? About Mr. Schwartz, I mean.”
“A is for agreement,” Judith said dryly. “As well as for apology, which I offer you now. I hope all of this hasn’t completely spoiled your visit.”
The preschool teachers glanced at each other. “Applesauce?” said Sandi, and Pam broke into the giggles.
“Sorry, Mrs. Flynn,” Sandi said, giving Pam a playful little shove. “We were still on A. Honestly, though, it’s been kind of a thrill. Sometimes our world shrinks to the size of three-and four-year-olds.”
“Really,” Judith breathed. “I think it’s rather charming. Alphabet games are fun. How about H? As in H is for headcrusher?”
&
nbsp; Sandi blanched and Pam cringed as if she’d been struck. “That’s not a word we teach our kids,” Pam declared with a hint of anger.
“I don’t even know what it means,” Sandi said with indignation. “Is it like bonecrusher?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith admitted. “It just suddenly popped into my head. Maybe I thought it was an East Coast colloquialism. It’s interesting how we speak the same language, but different parts of the country have different expressions and terms.”
Sandi’s pretty face had grown hard. “Is that why you asked us up here? To discuss regional idiosyncrasies?”
Pam’s eyes had narrowed. “If you have something to say, say it. Just because we teach preschool, do you think we’re really stupid?”
With an ironic smile, Judith shook her head. “No, I don’t. Far from it. Look, I know both of you recognized Pete and Marie Santori. Why is that such a secret?” Sandi and Pam exchanged quick, sharp glances. “We knew him in high school,” Pam said in a rush.
“It had been at least ten years since we last saw him,” Sandi put in. “It was such a surprise to find him here.”
“We weren’t even sure it was him,” Pam added. “We’d never met Marie. She’s not from Jersey.”
Judith was certain they were lying, but there was no point in pressing the matter. Instead, she recalled the notes that Renie had taken, and resorted to surprise tactics. “What happened to Isaac?”
Pam covered her mouth with both hands; Sandi’s soft features sharpened, green eyes glinting like a feral cat.
“Who are you?” Sandi demanded, the growl in her voice a full octave lower than usual.
“What do you mean?” Judith asked innocently.
Pam’s hands fell away from her face, and she jabbed a finger at Judith. “Are you the reason Legs came here?” She took a menacing step towards the bed. “Are you Doria?”
Judith was flabbergasted. The dizziness returned. The cozy bedroom, with its yellow and green tulip motif seemed topsy-turvy, as if a mad gardener had planted the bulbs upside-down.
“Doria?” Judith echoed, her voice sounding far away. “Doria, from Vegas?”
“You know Doria.” Pam’s face wore a shrewd, calculating expression. “But are you Doria?”
“No. No,” Judith added hastily, trying to gather her wits and her equilibrium. “Doria canceled.”
The young women again exchanged glances. “I’m not surprised,” said Sandi. “Doria’s reputation is erratic.”
“Why,” Judith began, “don’t you tell me who Doria is? And about Isaac?”
Resignedly, Pam sat down at the far end of the bed, while Sandi perched on the dressing table bench. “Doria’s just a name, someone who seems to surface in some very sticky situations,” Sandi said, her usually cheerful face troubled. “All we know is that he—or she—isn’t somebody you mess with.”
“I see,” Judith said, though of course she didn’t. “Isaac’s quite another matter, I believe.”
“He certainly is,” Pam sighed. “Or was.” She paused, turning her head away from Judith. “I’m not sure why we should tell you about him, except that you know more than you ought to. How come?”
Judith raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “This is my house. My husband’s a cop. I’ve already had an accused killer try to take me hostage under my very own roof. Not to mention finding a corpse in my backyard. Why wouldn’t I try to find things out?”
“That’s a good point,” Sandi allowed, looking more like her usual harmless self. “We hadn’t thought about it from your perspective.”
Pam nodded. “Mrs. Flynn—you really are Mrs. Flynn?” She waited for Judith’s nod. “Anyway, Mrs. Flynn’s caught in the middle. It’s not fair to keep her in the dark.”
“So enlighten me,” Judith urged.
Sandi squirmed on the bench. “I don’t know…It’s not a pretty story.”
“That’s not our fault,” Pam retorted.
“But,” Sandi persisted, “it might give Mrs. Flynn the wrong impression.”
Judith shook her head. “I’m fairly good at zeroing in on the truth.”
Sandi remained dubious, but Pam leaned back on her elbows, eyes on the low dormer ceiling. “First of all, Isaac is dead. He wasn’t a criminal, but he got in a bind over some business debts several years ago. He was in import-export, mainly leather goods. He made the mistake of going to the mob for money. When things improved for him, he was able to start paying them back. But they didn’t want the cash as much as they wanted his services. Isaac was in a position to launder money for the mob. And that’s what he did, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and wanted out. What he didn’t realize was that you don’t get out—ever. Foolishly, he quit. Just quit. And what was even worse, he threatened to go to the police.” Sadly, Pam shook her head. “The mob had him killed last year.” There was a catch in Pam’s voice. “Isaac—Isaac Perl—was my father.”
Judith’s condolences were heartfelt. “Was the term ‘headcrusher’ a reference to whoever killed your father?” she asked after her sympathy had been expended.
“Not exactly,” Pam said. “A headcrusher is an enforcer. The headcrusher came around a couple of times before my father was killed. Of course Papa tried to keep all of this to himself, but my brother and I could see the bruises. We began to piece together what was going on.”
“And your mother?” Judith asked.
Pam shook her head. “Mama died six years ago. Cancer. That was when Papa got into financial difficulties. He was spending so much time taking care of her that he let the business slide.”
“I’m so sorry,” Judith murmured, then remembered some of the other phrases from the notes Renie had taken while Pam was being interviewed by J. J. “Would I be wrong if I guessed that the killer—the stone killer, I believe is the term—was Legs Benedict?”
Pam’s eyes widened. “No. How…Are you sure you’re not Doria?”
Judith winced. “Of course I’m sure. Maybe you’d better tell me about this Doria.”
Once more, Pam and Sandi looked at each other. “We can’t,” Sandi finally said. “It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s that we’re not exactly sure who Doria is. All we know is that Doria was supposed to be here and didn’t show.”
Pam gave Judith a strained smile. “We do have a confession to make, though. Yesterday, we couldn’t figure out why Doria wasn’t among the assembled guests. We went into the kitchen when you weren’t around and looked at your computer. By accident, we deleted some of your database.”
“I see.” Judith wondered if the deletion had in fact been an accident. “Did you also swipe the disk and rip the pages out of the guest register?”
“No,” Pam replied, looking startled. “Why would we do that?”
“Somebody did,” Judith said in a dry tone. “Tell me this—how many of these people did you know before you got to Hillside Manor?”
“Pete,” Pam replied. “That’s all. Except we knew Legs was coming here. We had never met him, though.”
Judith was dubious. “Not Barney?”
Sandi shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
A terrible suspicion had crept over Judith. If Barney hadn’t killed Legs, somebody else had committed the crime. Pam Perl had a motive. And she and Sandi had had a gun. They had flown from Newark in a private plane. There was money somewhere. Perhaps it had come out of the family import-export business. But maybe it had come from a more sinister stash.
“How did you know Legs was coming to this B&B?” Judith asked.
“Somebody called us,” Pam answered. “It was a woman.”
“We think it was a woman,” Sandi put in. “She had a really husky voice. Pam took the call, but we don’t know who it was. But she—the woman with the deep voice—told Pam that Legs was arriving here Monday.”
“When did you get this call?” Judith inquired.
“Friday,” Pam said. “We flew out of Newark Sunday afternoon and stopped off in Chicago. We go
t here Monday afternoon. You know that.”
“Chicago?” Judith cocked her head at Pam. “Why Chicago?”
“I’m a licensed pilot,” Sandi said. “The plane belongs to Mr. Perl’s company. I’d never flown cross-country before, so since we didn’t have to be here until Monday, we decided to break up the flight and not do it in one day.”
The explanation made sense, though niggling doubts remained. Chicago was Malone territory in Judith’s mind. Yet Mal and Bea would have been on the road by then. Maybe the teachers were telling the truth.
“I still don’t understand the purpose of your trip,” Judith said, moving around in the bed in an attempt to get more comfortable. “Why did you want to meet Legs here? You were just a few miles from him back in Newark.”
Sandi pushed a stray lock of blond hair from her forehead. “That’s true. But you don’t know New York. You can lose yourself a lot easier there than in a city like this. Especially if you want to get lost.”
Judith uttered a short, impatient sigh. “That still doesn’t explain what you intended to…” She stopped as Vivian Flynn came through the bedroom door.
“Judith!” Herself cried, flying across the room. Renie, looking annoyed, was right behind her. “Joe told me you were at death’s door. How can I help?”
It was ten o’clock, but time meant nothing to Herself. She was a night person who blossomed after dark. Renie looked as if she’d liked to have nipped Vivian in the bud.
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” Judith said in a beleaguered voice, “but we’re doing fine. And I’m better. Really.”
Herself sat on the bed, next to Pam. “Oh, dear—I hope so. You look absolutely awful.” The gloating tone annoyed Judith, but Vivian didn’t skip a beat. “Pale and wan, peaked and drawn—poor thing, I hear this whole tragedy has been a dreadful ordeal. Joe told me all about it. Imagine! Gangsters!” She darted quick glances at Pam and Sandi. “Are they…?”
“We’re preschool teachers,” Sandi put in, looking perky. “Pam teaches the threes. I have the fours.” She stood up and went over to Pam, their customary girlish guises back in place, apparently for the benefit of Herself.