by Mary Daheim
Judith nodded. “We have. You’re extremely knowledgeable.”
Roland eschewed the compliment. “In my research, I found out that Ernie Doria worked for the Fusilli family. I came to the conclusion that somehow, over the years, they had taken offense because a woman who had married into the family—in the gangland sense—had left one of its members, and worse yet, had then married a black man.” Roland shut his eyes tight for a moment before continuing. “I believe that my father was killed because he married Ernesto Doria’s former wife. What’s even stranger,” he went on with an apologetic grimace, “is that I think Ernie Doria may have killed Legs Benedict.”
SIXTEEN
QUESTIONS TUMBLED FROM both cousins’ lips. Roland held up his hands, gently begging them to slow down.
“No,” he responded to the one query he had managed to single out, “I don’t know what Ernie Doria looks like. My stepmother destroyed his pictures right after she left him. She’s described him, of course, and said he’d be about seventy by now.”
Judith and Renie exchanged blank looks. “None of these guests are that old,” Judith said, “except Minerva Schwartz, and she’s a woman.”
Roland conceded the point. “That’s what I meant earlier—whoever killed Legs might not be a guest. Legs may have agreed to meet someone outside before he got here, or perhaps he made the arrangements over the phone in the upstairs hall.”
Neither Judith nor Renie spoke for a few moments. Finally, Judith made up her mind to tell Roland about the canceled reservation for someone named Doria.
Roland was stunned. “Do you recall the first name?” he asked.
Judith shook her head. “I’m not even sure whether it was for a man or a woman. All I know is that the address was in Las Vegas, but that it got dumped when Sandi and Pam were fooling around with the computer.”
“Sandi and Pam.” Roland repeated the names under his breath. “Do you…?”
Judith nodded. “They told me their story. At least some of it. Do you know who Pam’s brother is?”
“Rick Perl,” Roland replied promptly. “Why do you ask?”
“Would you recognize him?”
“No. I don’t actually know Pam or Sandi, rather, not until now. But,” Roland continued, polishing his glasses with his handkerchief, “I’ve spoken with Pam on the phone. I tracked her down because of her father’s slaying. My interviews with her were part of my background for my book on mob assassins like Legs Benedict.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another pair of guests, this time a newlywed couple from Omaha. Unlike Pete and Marie, they struck Judith as the real thing: As soon as she regretfully informed them they would have to stay at Apple Blossom House, they immediately began blaming each other for the unexpected change of plans.
Back in the living room, Judith asked Roland if he knew what had happened to Rick Perl after the death of his father. Roland replied that when he had posed the same question to Pam, she had evaded it.
“In fact,” he amplified, “I didn’t get much out of her after that. Since running into her here, we haven’t had much opportunity to speak privately. This is a lovely house, but you never know when someone will come upon you without any warning.”
“You must have been surprised to see her and Sandi at Hillside Manor,” Renie remarked.
“Oh, no,” Roland responded. “She was the one who called me in San Francisco to let me know that Legs Benedict was on his way. Pam Perl had tracked me down through my publisher.”
Judith and Renie stared at Roland. “Pam called you? Why?” Judith asked.
“Because she knew it would be a rare opportunity for me to have personal contact with Legs,” Roland explained. “There was no way I could get to him as long as he was in New York. I know, I’d tried.” He cleared his throat. “You must realize that the kind of writing I do is…delicate. Which brings up that note I dropped under the piano. I feel I owe you an explanation.”
“Yes?” Judith leaned closer.
“For years, I’ve researched the Hoffa disappearance,” Roland said in his quiet voice. “It’s possible that the truth will never be known, but it’s a fascinating subject. Recently, I learned of a young man who was allegedly connected to Provenzano and Giacalone, who supposedly met with Jimmy Hoffa the night he vanished. The young man’s name was then Alfonso Benedetto.” Roland paused, smiling wryly. “Yes, Legs Benedict, before he became a made guy, as they say, or a member of the Mafia. He was operating out of Detroit in those days. So this alleged connection was all the more reason for me to meet Legs.”
“Would he have talked?” Renie asked, lighting another cigarette.
Roland sat back, his arms extended across the top of the sofa. “It’s hard to say. Sometimes these people will, if ego is involved. I sensed that Legs might somehow be that type.”
Judith absorbed the information, then steered the conversation back to the preschool teachers. “How did Pam know where Legs was headed? His original destination was Detroit.”
Roland gave Judith another of his self-deprecating smiles. “That I couldn’t tell you. There’s a grapevine out there when it comes to such things. As odd as it sounds, gangsters lead very busy lives. If one of them—such as Legs—goes out of town, he has to make sure that his areas of responsibility are covered.”
Judith winced, imaging just what those “areas of responsibility” might entail. Her brain, however, was busily filing all the information Roland had dispensed, along with the nuances and implications. “What about Darlene?” she asked. “Why did she come with Legs?”
Roland grimaced. “Again, I don’t know. Darlene is a bit of a wild card in this situation. She may simply have been his girlfriend.”
Given the evidence of the so-called Smiths having slept separately, Judith didn’t think so. But she kept the doubts to herself. “So you have no idea where Darlene might have gone? The car has been found, but she’s still missing.”
“Yes,” Roland said, sipping at his apple juice. “That indicates she used some other mode of transportation to make her getaway. A second rental car, perhaps, though I believe the police haven’t had any success checking out the local agencies. In fact,” he went on, lowering his head, “I called on Detective Martinez at headquarters this afternoon. That’s why I was late getting back.”
“You spoke to J. J. about the case in general?” asked Judith, surprised. “Does he know who you really are?”
“Oh, certainly,” Roland answered. “I told him early on that I wrote about organized crime.”
The doorbell rang, and Renie jumped up. “I’ll take care of this bunch. Where do I ship them?”
“That depends,” Judith replied. “This is one of the last two reservations. If it’s the couple from Santa Cruz, send them to Chez Moi. The directions are on the little desk in the hall. If it’s the nuns from Milwaukee, they’d probably prefer the Cedars.”
Renie hurried off to the front door. Roland resumed speaking.
“I’ve worked closely with the authorities in several cities, though mainly in the East and the Midwest,” he said. “I gave Mr. Martinez my bona fides. He was helpful in some very small ways, but he’s certainly a nervous fellow, isn’t he?”
Judith started to agree, but Renie interrupted. “The nuns,” she yelled. “Should they take the freeway or Highway 99?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was almost four. “The freeway should be okay until rush hour starts. Are they driving a rental car?”
“They’ve got a Humvee,” Renie called back. The nuns could be heard giggling. “It’s bright red,” Renie added.
Judith didn’t know if her cousin was kidding or not. She turned back to Roland. “That’s an important point,” she said, gesturing toward the entry hall. “Travel routes. There are really only two main north-south arteries in this town. Minerva could have taken several routes to the airport and ditched the car in that huge parking garage. It would take some time to find her, but I suspect they tracked
her down through the car.”
Roland grew thoughtful. “I mentioned Darlene’s disappearance to Mr. Martinez. He seemed quite baffled.”
Renie returned to the sofa. “Police baffled? How unusual,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Hey,” Judith said, on the defensive, “Joe is rarely baffled.”
Renie smirked, but made no further comment. Roland said that J. J. Martinez had informed him the Chrysler Concord driven by Legs and Darlene had been rented from a New York agency in Queens.
“That’s why the police felt Ms. Smith—for lack of a real name—might have rented a second car,” Roland explained to the cousins. “Since they haven’t been able to track her through the agencies, Detective Martinez thought she might have used her real name and worn some sort of disguise.”
Mal and Bea came into the living room and stopped, standing like a pair of homely watchdogs on the other side of the sofa where the cousins were seated.
“We’re going to sue,” Bea announced.
“Sue who?” Renie asked, and grinned at the unintentionally rhyming query.
“Everybody,” Mal responded, obviously not sharing Renie’s mirth. “This place. The cops. The feds. We’ve had it.”
“I take it you didn’t enjoy your outing today?” Judith inquired, trying to remain pleasant.
“Sheesh,” Mal blurted, “what’s to enjoy in this burg? You got water, we got water. You got tall buildings, we got tall buildings. You got bums, we got…”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, leaning over the back of the sofa, “but I think you’re wasting money to file a lawsuit.”
Draining her cocktail glass, Renie stood up. “Stop picking on my cousin,” she ordered. “None of this is her fault. Mrs. Flynn feels terrible about your loss. It seems to me that you should be angry with whoever killed your loved one. Why don’t you take out your sorrow and wrath on them?”
To Judith’s surprise, the Malones looked at each other long and hard. “Too little, too late,” Mal murmured. The bereaved couple left the room. Quietly.
“Where’d they go?” Renie asked when the cousins had concluded their chat with Roland and had gone into the kitchen.
Judith pointed to the window above the sink. “Right out here, between the flower bed and Rankerses’ hedge. They’re just sort of standing around, looking pathetic. Bea may be crying, I can’t really tell. You’re right—I feel very, very sorry for them. All that rough, tough talk is a coverup for their real feelings. Mal and Bea are probably very nice people.”
“I don’t think so,” Renie countered. “Bad things sometimes do happen to bad people.”
“Their grief is real, though,” Judith said, watching the couple with a sympathetic eye. She finally turned around. “Can you stay for just a few more minutes while I check on Mother? I’ve been ignoring her since this morning. I wonder if she’d like to go see the new baby.”
“Sure,” Renie responded. “I don’t have to get home. Bill’s doing a Key Club exchange this afternoon. I canceled my part of it—I just wasn’t in the mood.”
Judith pressed her fingers against her temples. “Coz, you’re going to have to explain all this to me pretty soon. With everything else going on, I don’t think I can take it right now, but promise that you will eventually.”
“Sure,” Renie said again. “Go see your mother. When do you expect those other guests?”
“There’s no way of telling,” Judith replied, heading for the back door. “They paid by credit card, so they can arrive any time right up until ten o’clock. Chez Moi, remember?”
“Got it.” Renie sat down at the kitchen table and began leafing through the evening paper which had just arrived.
Gertrude had dozed off in front of the TV. She gave a start when Judith entered the toolshed.
“Help!” she cried. “I’m being attacked!” Fumbling for the TV remote, she pointed it at Judith and clicked several times. “Bang, bang! You’re dead!”
Judith hurried to her mother’s chair. “It’s me, Mother. You’ve been watching an old western on TV.”
Rubbing her eyes, Gertrude blinked at Judith. “What? Where’ve you been? California?”
“Why would I be in California?” Judith asked, taking her mother’s empty water glass to the sink for a refill.
“You’ve been gone long enough to be in Europe,” Gertrude declared. “Where’s that nice young man from Washington, D. C.? He said he’d be back.”
Judith didn’t comment. “I thought,” she said, putting the glass on Gertrude’s side table, “you might want to go up to the hospital to see your new great-grandson.”
Wincing, Gertrude rubbed her knees. “I don’t know, kiddo. I’m kind of stiff today. Maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
“They don’t keep mothers and babies in the hospital very long,” Judith pointed out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they sent Kristin home by then. They’ll be staying here, you know.”
“Two weeks,” Gertrude said. “You stayed for two weeks. Fact is, I stayed longer than that. I had some problems. But you wouldn’t remember. You were asleep most of the time.”
“Everything’s different now,” Judith said, turning off the TV and sitting down on her mother’s small couch. “When I had Mike, they let me stay for five days.”
“Two weeks,” Gertrude repeated. “You had time to get yourself together. What’s with doctors these days?”
“It’s the insurance companies,” Judith said vaguely. “Mother, aren’t you anxious to see…” She gulped. “…little Dan?”
Gertrude made a disgusted noise. “Dan! What a dopey idea to call the baby after that lunkhead. Why not Donald, for your father?”
Judith made a helpless gesture. “It’s their business. I don’t like it, either.”
For several moments, Gertrude shuffled the jumble puzzles and the candy wrappers and the magazines around on her card table. “It’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” she said, seemingly from out of nowhere.
“What is, Mother?”
“Babies. Birth. Death.” Her voice dropped on the last word. “I’ve lived almost this whole century. This new little guy’ll probably live through the rest of the next. Two hundred years between us.” She paused and gave Judith a bleak look. “And what will we have to show for it?”
Judith took a deep breath. “Living. Coping. Being part of a family. In the long run, there’s not much else.”
Gertrude uttered a little snort of laughter. “You, too, huh, kiddo? I guess we’ll never be rich and famous.”
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.