by Mary Daheim
“We don’t,” Renie replied. “Maybe,” she added, chortling again, “she’s his girlfriend.”
“You know,” Judith admitted, “I don’t know when I’ve been involved with a case where I felt so at sea. The irony is, this murder happened on my own premises, with my own guests. And yet, I’m utterly—I hate to use the word—baffled.”
“It’s not your job,” Renie said.
“But you know me,” Judith protested. “I like to try. It’s not always so difficult, especially if you understand people and apply logic. And sometimes I succeed.”
“Coz,” Renie sighed, “you’re not a professional detective. Oh, sure, you’ve had some terrific successes, but you’re an innkeeper, you’ve been a caterer, a bartender, a librarian, and while going through college, you sold roller-skates. Now you’ve got a new job. You’re a grandmother. Knowing you, you’re going to love it.”
Judith smiled into the receiver. “That’s true. I will. Thanks, coz. You made me feel better. Right after you made me feel worse.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” said Renie.
Judith didn’t sleep well that night. Maybe it was the excitement of having the new baby coming home or her reluctance to give up on the Legs Benedict case or her anxiety over getting the current guests out of the B&B. Perhaps it was even the aftermath of the flu. For whatever reason, she tossed and turned and woke Joe up twice. If Mike hadn’t been sleeping in his old room, she would have slept there and left Joe in peace. Instead, from four o’clock on, she tried to lie as quietly as possible until the alarm went off at six.
Finally, she decided that waiting was pointless. At five-thirty, she got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs. Breakfast would be simple: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, and coffee. Judith didn’t care to expend any extra energy or expense on the lame-duck visitors.
She heard Rob Simon, the regular morning carrier, send the newspaper against the front door screen around six-fifteen. Rob was already pedaling out of the cul-de-sac when she retrieved the latest edition. Skimming the front section and the local news, she saw no mention of the “Hillside Manor Case.” Relieved, she sat down to drink her first cup of coffee.
Forcing herself not to think about Legs Benedict, Judith tried to concentrate on the rest of the paper. Joe would be down shortly. The bacon was already sizzling on the stove and two eggs sat side by side on the counter. She shifted her thoughts to little Dan. Mac. She liked that much better.
What other baby items were in the garage, she wondered? First-time fathers didn’t realize what was involved with newborns. Sometimes the mothers didn’t either, as in the case of the umbrella stroller. Judith realized that they had no cradle. The white wicker bassinet, which had first held Renie, then Judith, and eventually the cousins’ children, was out there, together with the stand that Uncle Cliff had made for his only child.
Judith went outside. It was too early to check on Gertrude, who usually woke around six-thirty. At least officially. Judith’s mother often spent restless nights, her arthritis making it difficult to find a comfortable position for sleep.
It was still raining, a gloomy morning that felt more like January than June. Summer was only two days off on the calendar, but Judith knew the damp weather could continue until the Fourth of July.
She entered the garage, recalling that the bassinet and the stand were in the loft that Uncle Cliff had built sixty years ago to house a small rowboat that he and Grandpa Grover had eventually abandoned on a fishing trip to a lake with a virtually impassable trail. Getting out the step ladder that leaned against the wall, Judith set it up and began climbing the six steps to the loft.
Peering into the gloom, she saw a man with a rifle. Judith laughed. “Mike, what are you doing here with that stroller? Didn’t I tell you…” The words stuck in Judith’s throat.
It wasn’t Mike.
It wasn’t a stroller.
It was Agent Dunleavy, and Judith heard him cock the rifle and aim it straight at her.
Judith almost fell off the ladder. Her hands gripped the edge of the loft as she tried to steady herself.
“It’s me,” she squeaked, her knees shaking and her mouth dry. “Mrs. Flynn. What are you doing?”
Dunleavy lowered the rifle. “Go back down,” he said. “Get the hell out of here.” His usually soft voice had deepened and even in the gloom, Judith could see that his youthful features had hardened.
Clumsily, Judith obeyed. Then she moved under the shelter of the loft. “What on earth are you doing up there?” she asked, still barely able to speak.
“Go back in the house.” Dunleavy didn’t sound as if he were in the mood to argue.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Judith declared, summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed. “Are you going to shoot my mother?”
“Maybe,” Dunleavy said evenly, “I already did. Shouldn’t you check on the old bat?”
“Oh my God!” On trembling legs, Judith hurtled out of the garage and staggered toward the toolshed. The door was locked; she hadn’t brought her key. Racing back to the house, she grabbed her purse, then fumbled in it for the ring that contained the key that opened her mother’s so-called apartment.
It seemed to take forever before the lock turned. Judith fell across the threshold and rushed into Gertrude’s bedroom. The old woman was lying in bed, her head turned away from Judith.
“Mother!” Judith cried. “Are you okay?”
A muffled grunt came from under the covers. Judith gently pulled back the sheet, the electric blanket, and the comforter that Gertrude required even during the warmer months. There was no sign of blood. Judith expelled a sigh of relief.
“What now?” the old woman demanded, though the words were slightly indistinct. “Whath with thith crack-of-dawn vithitor thuff the latht few dayth? Whereth my teeth?”
“Here, Mother,” Judith said, handing over the glass in which Gertrude kept her dentures. “I’m sorry. I got up early, and I thought I’d check on you. I’m sorry.” she repeated, aware that her voice was shaking.
“You can all thop it right now,” Gertrude declared before putting in her teeth. “I’m thick of it.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Judith said, patting her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon with breakfast. You stay put.”
The dentures were in place. “Where else would I go, you moron?” Gertrude rasped. “You think I got a motor scooter in here and I can take off whenever I feel like it?”
“Yes. No. Of course not.” Judith was inching out of the tiny bedroom. She didn’t dare call the police from Gertrude’s phone lest her mother become upset. Or worse, interrupt with another flurry of questions. “I have to go now.”
She had reached the living room when she heard several popping noises. Had some of the neighborhood kids gotten hold of illegal fireworks? It wouldn’t be the first time, as Judith recalled the unfortunate episode that had reduced the original toolshed to rubble.
Slowly, she edged her way outside. Judith couldn’t remember if the squad car had been parked in the cul-de-sac when she was on the front porch taking in the newspaper. If the watch had finally been canceled, Judith would call Homicide and hope that J. J. Martinez or Rich Goldman were in. Agent Dunleavy’s situation had to be explained. Certainly it had nothing to do with Gertrude.
The rain had let up and the skies were brightening. Judith paused halfway down the walk between the toolshed and the house. If she moved just three steps to her right, she could see into the garage. In order to inform the police, she needed to know if Dunleavy was still there.
He was. It was easy for Judith to see him. His head, upper body, and arms dangled over the loft’s edge.
Without getting closer, Judith was certain that Dunleavy was dead.
NINETEEN
JOE WAS PUTTING bacon, one rasher at a time, in the frying pan when Judith came tearing into the kitchen. “What the hell…?” He yanked the pan off the burner and rushed to meet his wife.<
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The words that tumbled from Judith’s lips were so incoherent that Joe had to give her a little shake. “Calm down. What is it? Your mother?”
If there was a trace of hope in Joe’s tone, Judith didn’t notice. She shook her head emphatically, then took a deep breath. This time Joe was able to make some sense of what she said.
“Jesus!” he breathed, racing for the back door. “Get the uniforms,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Judith steadied herself against the counter, then walked shakily to the front door. There was no sign of the squad car. She picked up the pace and went halfway down the cul-de-sac to see if the officers had moved their vehicle around the corner.
They hadn’t. Judith hurried back into the house and called 911. After giving the pertinent information, she asked the dispatcher to transfer her to J. J. Martinez.
J. J. wasn’t in yet, which didn’t surprise Judith, who then requested that he be paged. The voice on the other end was reluctant until Judith revealed that she was the owner of Hillside Manor and the wife of Detective Joe Flynn.
By the time Judith hung up, Joe still wasn’t back. She went outside, carrying the cordless phone with her in case J. J. should return her call immediately.
Joe was in the driveway when he saw Judith. “Get inside,” he called, then jogged toward the house. “I have to get my weapon. We don’t know if the killer is still out here.”
Judith stood uneasily in the entry hall as Joe strapped on the holster that he’d hung on its usual peg prior to leaving for work. “Dunleavy is dead, I take it?” Judith asked.
Joe nodded. “No pulse. He’s been shot. I’m going to check out the vicinity.”
“No!” Judith cried. “The uniforms are gone—they must be changing shifts. Wait until the other officers get here. It’s too dangerous for you to go it alone. J. J. is supposed to call us back. Please wait.” Still trembling, she clung to his arm.
“I can’t wait,” he said. “I’m a cop, remember?”
“I don’t care,” Judith said stubbornly. “You’re my husband. You might get shot, too. Oh, Joe, when will this nightmare end?”
Joe shook Judith off. “Where I work, we call it a job. Stop fussing, I’ll be careful. You stay right here and wait for J. J. to call.” He gave Judith a long, hard look and went outside again.
Frantically, Judith glanced at the old schoolhouse clock. It was twenty to seven. Unless the commotion had awakened them, the guests might not be down for another hour. Noticing that the burner for the bacon was still on, Judith clicked the dial to off. Then she collapsed into a chair and held her head.
In less than two minutes, she heard sirens. Jumping up, she went to the front porch as a patrol car pulled into the drive. She was about to join the officers when the phone rang in her hand.
It was J. J. Judith quickly explained what had happened. “Will you come over?” she asked when she’d reached her breathless conclusion.
“On my way,” J. J. said, and rang off.
A second siren sounded as Judith started for the back door. An ambulance, perhaps, though there was no need to rush. Judith was going out onto the porch when a voice called from behind her.
“Who’s dead now?” It was Mal Malone, unshaven, and wearing a gaudy bathrobe over striped pajamas.
“It’s not a guest,” Judith said, trying to force a reassuring smile. “No need for alarm.”
“Sheesh.” Mal passed a hand over his high forehead. “I never been in such a lousy place. Is there a fire?”
“No, no.” The smile felt peculiar on Judith’s lips, probably because they were twitching with nerves. “It’s nobody you know. Go back to bed, breakfast won’t be ready for an hour.”
But Bea had joined Mal. “I heard a shot,” she said. “Who got whacked this time?”
Was there any point in keeping the tragedy a secret? Judith decided there wasn’t. The police—and the FBI—would be interrogating the guests. Again. Judith groaned. The sun was barely up and the day had already disintegrated around her.
“An FBI agent was murdered,” Judith said, swallowing hard. “No one connected to this case,” she added feebly. “As far as I know.”
Mal looked taken aback. “One of them guys who hauled off Barney Whatshisname?”
Judith shook her head. “No. Someone who was working a different investigation.” How in the world could she have two, maybe three, separate investigations going on at the same time in what was supposed to be a quiet, restful B&B? Contrary to what Joe had said, the last few days were definitely a nightmare. Judith felt it was about time to wake up and laugh it all away. Indeed, she felt a wave of hysteria coming on, but managed to fight it off. “Excuse me, I have to see what’s happening…”
Behind the Malones, Judith saw Marie Santori. Or Mary Lou Desmond. Judith felt it was almost impossible to keep everybody straight as their real names emerged. Maybe she should still think of her as Marie, since the federal marshal didn’t want her cover blown with the other guests.
“What’s going on?” Marie asked in a sharp tone.
Judith noticed that Marie was dressed, and had on a cotton jacket that could easily have concealed a weapon. “See for yourself,” Judith said, taking a chance that the Malones wouldn’t follow Marie.
They did, however, but only as far as the back porch. They remained there, huddled in their ugly bathrobes, looking like a pair of toadstools.
“I know who you are,” Judith said under her breath as she and Marie approached the garage where Joe, the patrol officers and the ambulance attendants had gathered. “It’s okay. Joe told me.”
“Keep it to yourself,” Marie said in a much deeper voice than Judith was used to hearing. “I’m still Marie Santori as far as you’re concerned.”
“Sure. Fine.” The smile of acknowledgment that Judith tried to give Marie didn’t quite materialize.
Agent Dunleavy’s body still hung from the loft. Now that the initial shock was over, the sight seemed even more sickening to Judith. She took a couple of backward steps, then caught Joe’s eye.
“J. J.’s on his way,” she said.
“That’s what we’re waiting for,” Joe replied, his manner brusque.
“Who is this guy?” Marie whispered to Judith.
Judith explained how Bruce Dunleavy had been sent on a fool’s errand to question Gertrude. “Of course my mother was never a Nazi,” Judith said, still finding the situation incredible. “I can’t imagine that the FBI would waste its time and resources on such a silly quest.” She glanced up at the loft. “And look what it led to. A needless tragedy. I can hardly believe it.”
“Then don’t,” said Marie, and walked away.
Before J. J. arrived, Pete, Pam, and Sandi had also come outside. The officers, who had turned out to be Mercedes Berger and Darnell Hicks, herded the guests inside, including Marie. There was no sign of Roland, but as his room faced the front of the house, Judith thought he might not have been disturbed.
J. J. showed up at exactly seven o’clock, just as Gertrude came out of the toolshed on her walker. The last thing Judith wanted her mother to see was Bruce Dunleavy’s body.
“Mother,” Judith said in her most compassionate voice, “you shouldn’t be out here in the damp. It’s bad for your arthritis.”
Gertrude clumped forward, using the walker to nudge Judith out of the way. “What’s all this hullabaloo?” she asked. “Shoo, I want to see what’s going on.”
“No, you don’t,” Judith said, putting a firm hand on the walker. “Go back inside. I’ll come with you.”
“Where’s my breakfast?” Gertrude demanded, though she didn’t try to move any further.
“It’s going to be a little late,” Judith said, taking her mother by the arm. “Come on, I’ll try to explain what’s happened.”
Back in the toolshed, Judith settled her mother in her favorite chair. “There was an accident this morning.” It would be futile to keep Gertrude completely in the dark. Her mother’s questions would
drive Judith crazy. “Agent Dunleavy got hurt. He won’t be coming by again.”
Gertrude’s face fell. “He won’t? But he was such good company.”
“I know, Mother. But he’s…off the assignment. Because of his injury.”
“What injury?” Gertrude’s gnarled hands clawed at the card table’s edge.
“He got hurt in the garage.” Judith hesitated, then continued. “And he decided you weren’t a Nazi.”
“I wasn’t?” Gertrude’s wrinkled face was puzzled.
“Of course not.”
“Hunh. Well, maybe not. I’ve always been a lifelong Democrat,” Gertrude said. “I don’t suppose you can be both.”
“No, you can’t. You wouldn’t want to renounce your Democratic party membership, would you?” Judith asked slyly.
“Never,” Gertrude responded. “I’m voting for FDR.”
“There you go.” Judith rose from the arm of the sofa where she’d been perching. “I’ll be back in just a little while with your breakfast.”
“You better be,” Gertrude said darkly. “I’ll miss that boy. He had such nice manners. Did I tell you that?”
“Yes, you did.” Judith smiled at her mother.
“What day is it?” Gertrude asked suddenly.
“Thursday,” Judith replied.
The answer seemed to satisfy Gertrude. “What a week. Lots of company. It’s been nice. Except for the early wake-ups. You scared me half to death this morning. Just like the other day.”
Judith paused at the door. “I didn’t wake you up early the other day.”
“Yes, you did,” Gertrude insisted. “Monday, it was. Or Tuesday. I forget.”
Tuesday had been the day that Judith had found Legs Benedict’s body outside the toolshed. But she hadn’t wakened Gertrude, who had probably been up by then, anyway. Judith had gone straight back into the house to tell Joe.
As always, it was pointless to argue with her mother. Judith merely smiled again. “I promise not to do it anymore,” she said.