Legs Benedict
Page 28
Renie was gone less than a minute. “Funny how you forget the gruesome part about babies,” she said, handing Judith the needed supplies. “That kid’s a real gas bomb.”
“He’s merely adjusting to his new menu,” Judith said with a smile. “Not to mention the whole world around him.”
“It’s a much more peaceful world this afternoon,” Renie remarked. “Say, did you ever figure out what happened to your disk and those pages that were torn out of the guest register?”
“No,” Judith admitted, as the baby emitted a belch that seemed too loud to have come from such a small person. “I can only guess that it was Minerva. Maybe she wanted to cover her tracks.”
The doorbell sounded. “I’ll get it,” Renie volunteered. “I could use some fresh air.”
“It can’t be the new guests,” Judith said, trying to keep Little Dan from squirming all over the sofa. “It’s only two o’clock.”
“It’s a Mr. Harwood,” Renie announced from the entry hall. “Dare I bring him in?”
“Mr. Harwood?” The name was vaguely familiar. Judith turned slightly, but kept a firm grip on the baby. “I’ll be there in just a sec. What does he want?”
“I don’t know,” Renie replied. “He says he’s from the FBI.”
Judith carried the freshened infant into the parlor and invited Mr. Harwood to have a seat. Fortunately, Joe had put the room back in order after the guests had finally agreed to come out.
“I must tell you straight off,” Judith began as little Dan sucked happily on his bottle, “the case is closed. You should contact Agents Rosenblatt and Terrill.”
Harwood chuckled. “Please call me Glenn. This isn’t a formal visit. I’ve already spoken with Terrill and Rosenblatt. That’s why I’m here. I felt I should apologize. Do you recall when I phoned the other day and asked for your mother?”
“Oh!” Judith gave a start, briefly unsettling little Dan. “Of course. I thought you were a salesman,” she added with a sheepish grin.
“My, no,” Harwood smiled back. “Though it’s not a bad cover in my line of work. I’m in the bureau’s division that tracks down war criminals. I’d gotten a tip last Friday that a certain Gertrude Hoffman we’ve been looking for since 1945 was going to be in the vicinity. When I did some checking before I left Las Vegas, I discovered that a woman by that name actually lived here. It was very confusing, but as soon as I talked to her on the phone that morning, I realized she wasn’t the person we were looking for.”
Judith recalled that Gertrude had mentioned something about a census. Glenn Harwood’s questions had undoubtedly led Judith’s mother to such a conclusion.
“However,” Harwood went on, “the tip was accurate. We’ve finally found the other Gertrude Hoffman, who was notorious for her dealings with women prisoners at Auschwitz. All these years, she’s been in this country under another name.”
Carefully cuddling little Dan, Judith leaned forward in her chair. “Dare I ask?”
Harwood gave a single nod. “Certainly. Don’t worry, she’s being held prior to possible extradition. Though her married name was Schlagintweit, you would know her as Minerva Schwartz.”
By chance, Glenn Harwood and Baby Face Doria had been on the same Vegas flight Monday morning. They had sat next to each other and had fallen into the usual superficial chit-chat. Trained to be discreet, Harwood hadn’t offered any information about his profession. Needless to say, Harwood added drolly, Doria hadn’t talked about his own livelihood, either.
“My reticence seemed to pique my fellow passenger’s interest all the more,” the FBI agent explained. “After I came back from the restroom, I noticed that some of my belongings had been disturbed. Naturally, I keep my briefcase locked, but I’d been going over some of the data about Gertrude Hoffman that had been faxed to me from our Detroit office. Now that I’ve learned that this Doria impersonated someone from the bureau, I realize that he must have used that information to make his story credible.”
Judith gave the agent a rueful smile. “It also explains why Doria canceled his reservation that day. He decided it would be better not to come here as a guest where some of the others might recognize him. If he stayed away from the house and called on Mother, the others wouldn’t notice him. He was free then to collect whatever information he could.”
Harwood agreed, but only in part. “According to Terrill and Rosenblatt, Legs Benedict was already dead by the time Doria showed up here. I’m also told that Doria wasn’t a member of the Fusilli family. His grandfather, Ernie Doria, had worked for them up until his death a few years ago. But the grandson was freelance, and had been hired so that there would be no connection between him and the Fusillis. But of course there was still a chance that he might have been recognized by Legs Benedict.”
“The mob is a complicated organization,” Renie remarked. “I ought to know. Bill’s watched The Godfather, Parts One and Two, about a hundred and fifty times.”
Harwood acknowledged Renie’s comment with a slight smile. “The mob is a business, a big business. But getting back to Legs’s death, Doria may have assumed at first that Darlene had killed him, which meant he had to get rid of her. But I gather she’d fled by the time he arrived.”
Judith nodded. “But your trip wasn’t in vain. It’s lucky that Minerva was caught before she left the country. Dare I ask how you got onto her after all these years?”
Harwood gave the cousins a small smile of satisfaction. “You must remember that when it comes to some of the more minor figures from World War Two, efforts aren’t concentrated. When we have a break between current investigations, we go back to our long-standing cases, such as the search for Minerva Schlagintweit. Even after more than fifty years, the evil perpetrators must be brought to justice. Not to mention that when one of them is found, it’s a reminder to younger generations of what the Holocaust was all about, and why we must never forget it.”
“My cousin and I were small children during the war,” Renie put in, “but I remember seeing those first photographs of the concentration camp prisoners. To this day, I see those stark, ghastly faces in my mind’s eye and feel a sense of horror all over again.”
Harwood paused, his pleasant features suddenly harsh. “I was born right after the war, but I’ve talked to so many victims and relatives of victims over the years. Their stories give people like me an incentive that goes far beyond just doing the job. Of course,” he went on, making an obvious effort to put aside the appalling accounts that clearly haunted him, “many of those war criminals are dead by now. But when our criminal bureau was digging into Fewer Fingers’s operations, they discovered Barney Schwartz’s real name and eventually IDed his mother. You see, she’d married a man right after the war who was able to get her out of Germany. Minerva was pregnant at the time, and Barney was born in this country. Mr. Schlagintweit apparently stayed in Germany where no trace has ever been found of him. One has to wonder, of course.”
Judith gave Harwood a questioning look. “You mean, once he got her papers and passage, she may have…?”
“She may,” Harwood said in confirmation. “Minerva—Gertrude Hoffman—was a ruthless woman.”
“She came back here yesterday while I was gone,” Judith said. “Do you suppose she was checking on Dunleavy? I mean, Doria?”
“It’s possible,” Harwood allowed. “She must have known that someone was after her, and assumed Doria was the real McCoy. It’s even credible that having been thwarted in her attempt to leave the country, she intended to do away with him and destroy his records. Of course he didn’t have any, only what he cribbed from my notes. I’m sorry he put your mother through such a bogus ordeal.”
“Mother loved it,” Judith said, standing up. “You really must meet her. She loves company.”
Glenn Harwood expressed pleasure over an introduction to the other Gertrude Hoffman. As Judith and Renie led the FBI agent out to the toolshed, Renie murmured, “We should have guessed about Minerva.”
“W
hat do you mean?” Judith asked.
“When Barney was just a little kid, Minerva dragged him to Wagnerian operas. Anybody who does that has to be a Nazi.”
Judith grinned at her cousin. “By the way,” she said to Harwood, her hand on the toolshed’s doorknob, “do you know how Barney lost his fingers?”
“Agent Terrill mentioned it,” Harwood said. “As a teenager, Fewer Fingers got bit by a dog.”
The rain stopped around dinnertime, and the sun came out just after seven o’clock. All of the new guests, a seemingly mild-mannered crowd, had arrived between four and six. Renie and Bill had showed up by seven-thirty, and Mike had returned from the ranger station at the summit. He insisted that everyone gather on the patio in the backyard to pose for family pictures.
Gertrude, who was seated in one of the lawn chairs, was given the honor of holding little Dan. Judith, Joe, Renie, Bill, and Kristin gathered around the chair and smiled for the camera.
“Great,” Mike said, clicking off the first picture. “This time, how about you three ladies kneeling down in front of Joe and Bill, okay?”
The group shifted. Mike took two more shots before Joe suggested setting the camera timer so that the proud papa could also get into the frame. Then Kristin and Mike posed alone with the baby. Renie and Bill, looking vaguely wistful, took their turn.
Judith insisted that she should take a picture of Joe, Mike, and little Dan. “Three generations,” she said, then winced at the gaffe. “I mean…”
“You mean four generations,” Renie interrupted, with a sharp glance at Judith. “We span the century, don’t we Aunt Gertrude?”
“You bet, Toots,” Gertrude replied. “But let these men have their snapshot taken together. Who wants to see any more of my ugly old mug?”
Judith gave Renie a grateful look. Apparently, no one else had noticed the significance of Judith’s remark. Bill was arranging the pose: Joe stood behind Mike, who got down on one knee and held little Dan.
After snapping two pictures, Joe and Mike stood shoulder to shoulder, the baby between them. The light had changed, and Judith had to adjust the camera settings. She looked up to see Mike staring at Joe’s red head, then at little Dan’s, and, finally touching his own. The realization that all three of them shared the same color hair showed in his eyes. It had never been more obvious than now, in the golden glow of the setting sun.
“Smile,” she said in a voice suddenly gone breathless.
Joe smiled and the baby yawned. Mike’s expression was part wonder, part awe. “Let’s do that again,” Judith said, still breathless. “Come on, Mike. Smile for your mother.”
Mike’s smile was uncertain, and he looked not at Judith, but at Joe.
Joe looked back at Mike, and grinned from ear to ear.
About the Author
Seattle native Mary Daheim began telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Mary Daheim from Avon Books
THIS OLD SOUSE
HOCUS CROAKUS
SILVER SCREAM
SUTURE SELF
A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE
CREEPS SUZETTE
HOLY TERRORS
JUST DESSERTS
LEGS BENEDICT
SNOW PLACE TO DIE
WED AND BURIED
SEPTEMBER MOURN
NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE
AUNTIE MAYHEM
MURDER, MY SUITE
MAJOR VICES
A FIT OF TEMPERA
BANTAM OF THE OPERA
DUNE TO DEATH
FOWL PREY
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LEGS BENEDICT. Copyright © 1999 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061737244
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