by Mary Daheim
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, th
en 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.”
Renie, however, rose from her place next to Judith. “I think Mrs. Flynn could use a stiff Scotch,” she said. “She became a grandmother today for the first time.”
Roland’s round face brightened. “Marvelous! Congratulations!”
Judith murmured her thanks as Renie returned to the kitchen. “I know,” she began, “that there was a tragedy in your family, and that it may have been connected with Legs’s gang, the Fusilli family. I hate asking you this, but did Legs Benedict kill your father?”
Roland’s dark eyes moistened. “No,” he said calmly. “It wasn’t Legs. It was someone else in the organization. I tried very hard to find out who, not to mention why. But I never did. The deeper I dug, the more I became convinced that it was a personal, rather than a professional crime. My father never had any connection to organized crime, not in Kansas City, not in New Orleans.”
“Why did he leave New Orleans then?” Judith asked as she heard Renie going to the front door.
Roland sighed. “My stepmother wanted to move. She was from Chicago, and she never liked the South. For years, she begged my father to go back north with her, but he loved New Orleans. Finally, after I moved, they compromised and joined me in Kansas City. I must admit, I felt responsible for my father’s death. If he hadn’t left New Orleans…” Roland made a helpless gesture with his hands.
“Hey,” Renie yelled from the entry hall. “Where do the widows go?”
Startled, Judith jumped up from the sofa. “Widows? Oh—the four ladies from Vermont.” She rushed to greet them, apologized profusely, and gave them directions to Marvin Gardens. Somewhat dazed, the quartet of older women departed Hillside Manor. At least, she thought as Ingrid Heffleman’s caustic comments came back to haunt her, they wouldn’t become victims.
Back in the living room, Judith tried to console Roland. “It wasn’t your fault. Your stepmother was the one who wanted to leave New Orleans.”
“That’s true,” Roland agreed, though he still looked wistful. “Italian women are very strong-minded.” He stopped and uttered a rueful little laugh. “An ethnic generalization. How wrong of me to say that.”
Judith glossed over the apology. “Your stepmother was Italian?”
“Second generation,” Roland said as Renie appeared with the drinks. “She was born in New York but had lived in Chicago for several years. My own mother died when I was three. I really don’t remember her very wel
l, and Rita was—is—my mother. She married my father when I was five.”
The wheels were turning in Judith’s head. “You said the murder could have been personal, yet you mentioned the Fusilli family in your book. What do you mean?”
Roland paused, thanking Renie for bringing him a glass of apple juice. “Oh, my. I didn’t dare speculate further in print, but…” He ducked his head, then gave Judith and Renie an embarrassed look. “I’ve never told anyone except Rita what I’m about to say. Why am I doing it now?”
“Because,” Renie put in, “everybody unloads on my cousin. She has that kind of face. And heart.”
Roland brightened. “She does. I mean, you do,” he said directly to Judith. “It’s rare. And wonderful.”
“I like people,” Judith said simply. “At least, most of them.”
“That’s obvious,” Roland said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in this business.”
The phone rang, and Judith dashed to the cherrywood table where the living room extension rested. The caller was Ingrid Heffleman, informing Judith that she had found two more B&B vacancies, at the Cedars and Chez Moi. Judith conveyed her profound gratitude and returned to the sofa.
Apparently, Renie had been encouraging Roland to tell his story. As soon as Judith sat down, he leaned forward on the other sofa and resumed his confidences.
“My stepmother’s maiden name was Pasolini,” he said, his soft voice even softer, though there was no one to overhear. “But she had married earlier, when she was still in her teens. His name was Ernesto—Ernie—Doria.”
Judith froze. “Doria?” she echoed.
“Yes.” Roland gave Judith a curious look. “You know the name? Other than the ship and the great Genoese admiral for whom she was named?”
“Let’s say,” Judith said cautiously, “that it rings some sort of vague bell.”
“Hmm.” But Roland took up his tale. “Ernie Doria had a suspicious background, and her parents had forbidden Rita to see him. She defied them, however, and they eloped. The marriage was short-lived, as you might imagine. Rita left him after less than a year and returned—in tears—to her parents. To avoid the shame, they sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in Chicago. That’s where she met my father. He’d gone there to audition some musicians for his club in New Orleans.” Roland paused to offer the cousins a self-deprecating smile. “My interest in music is very real. But I’m sure you’ve gathered that by now.”