Gone With the Win: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “Do you suppose she was hypnotized?”

  Judith paused at the arterial. “Drugged sounds more like it. She does recall being at The Persian Cat. I’d like to talk to her brother, Ozzie, but I haven’t asked her about contacting him. He wasn’t around when Mrs. Tooms was killed, but being a bit older, he might fill in some gaps. Ozzie’s stationed in San Diego.”

  “He’s married to her old pal Freddy Mae, right?”

  Judith nodded as she finally managed to join the parade of southbound traffic. “Freddy Mae might help, too. I tend to think that whoever killed Opal Tooms was known to her and was probably from the neighborhood. The family doesn’t sound like they left their home turf very often. Ruby seldom got as far as downtown.”

  “Typical of people who live on the fringes,” Renie remarked.

  “I rarely left the neighborhood,” Judith said as they approached the viaduct along the bay. “Dan let me visit Mother twice a month, but I never saw you or the rest of my family. I had to wait until Dan was asleep—or passed out—to phone you. I felt like a prisoner, working days at the library and nights at the café.”

  “I never understood how you put up with that lifestyle,” Renie said. “After the first few years, Dan wouldn’t let any of us visit you.”

  “It was just as well,” Judith admitted. “I didn’t want you to see the squalor we lived in.” She shook her head as they passed the football and baseball stadiums. “Dan had such a violent temper. I never knew what he might do if I rebelled.”

  “I didn’t blame Aunt Gertrude for despising Dan,” Renie said, “but I never understood why she was opposed to you finally marrying Joe. That didn’t make sense, given that Joe is Mike’s father.”

  “You expect Mother to be reasonable? She blamed Joe for deserting me in the first place.” Judith stopped at a traffic light to take the turnoff to the Thurlow District. “Let’s hope the bridge isn’t up over the waterway. Since they built the new one, it takes forever for it to go up and down.”

  “All our bridges take forever,” Renie said. “Living on the other side of the hill, I always get stuck waiting for boat traffic in the ship canal.”

  To Judith’s relief the bridge was in place. “It’s such a short drive to our old so-called home, but a world away from Heraldsgate Hill.”

  “It is,” Renie said quietly. “And it wasn’t a home. It was a prison.”

  But on the outskirts of the much-maligned neighborhood, the cousins saw changes. New businesses had sprung up and strip malls had been replaced with shopping centers. Supermarkets, restaurants, and home furnishing stores stood in place of the seedy hangouts and shuck-and-jive used-car lots that had lined the main thoroughfare.

  “Okay,” Renie said, “it does look different around here. But we’re still a couple of miles from your old neighborhood.”

  Judith didn’t respond. She was too busy keeping her eye on traffic while also taking in the young families strolling on the sidewalks. They were well dressed and looked as if they might even know where they were going. She felt as if she was entering foreign territory.

  But Judith got her bearings when she saw a sign pointing to the Thurlow Public Library. Although she could only see part of the grounds off the main street, it was obvious that the library had undergone a face-lift. Instead of the half-dozen broken stone steps that led up to the entrance, colorful oversize books served as the staircase.

  “Good grief,” she exclaimed, “even my old workplace has changed. I wonder who runs the library these days.”

  “Are you disoriented?” Renie asked in an amused tone.

  “Yes! What happened to the shabby Laundromat and the drug-dealing mom-and-pop grocery store and the bail bondsman where Home Depot is now on our left?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Renie said. “Where was The Meat & Mingle?”

  “In the middle of the next block on your left,” Judith replied.

  Renie was silent until they approached the site. “You mean your old dump morphed into Oriana’s Spa de Beauté?”

  “Good Lord!” Judith cried. “So it did!”

  “Unless you want a mani and a pedi, we might as well skip that one,” Renie said.

  “Right. Now, where do I find a parking place?”

  “Can’t you do what you always did and just pull up onto the sidewalk?”

  Judith shot Renie a dirty look. “I never did that. I might’ve run over some of our customers who were lying there.”

  “There’s a parking sign in the next block on the right,” Renie said.

  After waiting for a half-dozen pedestrians to cross at the corner, Judith pulled into the lot and found an empty space. “Where do I pay?”

  “I don’t think you do,” Renie replied. “I glimpsed a sign that said something to the effect that this is free parking for local merchants.”

  “What a concept,” Judith murmured. “We don’t have that on Heraldsgate Hill except at the grocery stores and the bank.”

  “That’s because everybody except us is rich,” Renie said. “Gosh, none of these vehicles look as if they’ve been in a bumper-car marathon. On the other hand, I don’t feel so inferior because we won’t have to park between a Rolls and a Lamborghini like I do at Falstaff’s. If you want to drop in at The Persian Cat, I spotted it a couple of doors down.”

  Judith turned off the ignition and set the hand brake. “I wonder if that would do us much good. The owner wasn’t very helpful on the phone. We might have better luck with one of his servers, though.”

  The early morning clouds had lifted, though there was a slight chill in the autumn air as the cousins walked to the café. At almost two-thirty in the afternoon, only about a dozen patrons were seated at tables covered by colorful cloths depicting mullahs, horses, angels, and warriors. Persian carpets hung from the walls, and the floor was made up of colorful tiles.

  A pretty redhead welcomed the cousins and led them to a corner table. Judith glanced into the kitchen, but didn’t see anyone who looked like the turbaned owner Ruby had described. Before the waitress could present menus, Renie asked if they had any small lamb shish kebabs.

  “We do, as appetizers,” the waitress replied. “They’re very good. My name is Crissy. Can I get you each a serving and a beverage?”

  “Yes,” Renie replied. “Tea sounds good with that.”

  Judith agreed. Crissy headed for the kitchen. As soon as she was out of earshot, Renie posed a question. “While they’re grilling the lamb, when you do you start grilling Crissy?”

  “As soon she brings our order. Did you expect me to leap up and nail her to the service counter?”

  Renie shrugged. “Why not? It’d save time.”

  “You already saved time by ordering without a menu,” Judith said. “I assume your late breakfast didn’t fill you up.”

  “It sure didn’t. I had to run those errands and I only had a bowl of Cheerios. In a way, this is breakfast, if a bit later than usual.”

  Two older women had just vacated a table, but suddenly stopped to stare at the cousins. “Judith?” the stouter of the pair said.

  “Yes. Oh! Jane Bradford, one of my library patrons! How nice to see you.” Judith held out her hand before introducing Renie.

  Jane, in turn, introduced her companion, who turned out to be her sister-in-law, Ida, visiting from Oregon. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Judith,” Jane said. “You were always so helpful. What brings you back to this part of the world?”

  “Well . . .” Catching a warning glance from Renie, Judith paused. “A trip down memory lane. A friend who’d been in the neighborhood this week told me how much it had changed. I decided to see for myself.”

  Jane laughed and poked her sister-in-law in the shoulder. “That’s what Ida told me. She hasn’t been up here in over ten years.”

  “Fifteen,” Ida said, her lean face grim. “The last time Harold and I visited Jane and Jonathan, the power went out, their plumbing backed up, and the woman who lived behind them was killed. I told Jane
if she and Harold wanted to see us, they could come to Tigard, where life is much quieter and there aren’t so many disruptions.”

  Jane patted Ida’s arm. “I’ll admit it was unfortunate, though you’ve noticed vast improvements since then.”

  Judith didn’t recall where Jane lived. “Was that when Opal—oof!—Tooms was killed?” she asked, despite Renie’s kick in the shins.

  Jane looked puzzled. “Opalooftooms? Is that a person or—”

  “Sorry,” Judith said. “Leg cramp. The victim was Opal Tooms.”

  “Oh! Of course! Yes, Mrs. Tooms lived in back of us. We didn’t know her well. She worked—divorced mother with two teenagers. Very sad. I didn’t realize you were still living here when that happened.”

  “I wasn’t,” Judith said, “but I married a police detective after Dan died and my second husband’s partner worked the Tooms case. The killer was never found.”

  “That’s so,” Jane said, frowning. “We always felt it was some person on drugs who broke in. A random thing. I do recall a very nice young policeman coming to our house a few days after Mrs. Tooms was killed, but there was nothing we could tell him.”

  Ida tugged at Jane’s sleeve. “Are you going to stand here and talk about homicides and drug-crazed perverts or are we going to that fabric shop you brag about? You’ve been telling me forever that it’s better than the one we have at Jantzen Beach in Portland.”

  Jane’s laugh was forced. “Oh, Ida, you can’t blame me for wanting to catch up with my favorite librarian. Judith could find any book I ever wanted, no matter how obscure. She was like a library detective.”

  Ida cast a disparaging glance at Judith. “Well, if she’s so smart, maybe she can find out who killed Opalooftooms or whoever. Nice to meet you,” she added brusquely, dragging Jane by the arm.

  “Gee,” Renie said as the women left, “I kind of hope Ida did it.”

  Judith didn’t say anything. To her dismay, she realized that she had no viable suspects. Anybody could have killed Opal, including someone they’d already seen in the Thurlow District.

  Chapter 10

  Judith removed Woody’s case notes from her handbag. “I recall seeing the Bradfords’ names on his list from canvassing the neighbors, but I didn’t have time to see what Woody wrote about them.”

  Crissy appeared with their order. “I added some brown rice and our homemade Barbari bread,” she said. “It’s really good. The owner, Mr. Alipur, makes it himself.”

  “My,” Judith enthused, “I’ve heard about it. A friend of mine was here on Wednesday and she told me it was out of this world.”

  “So’s my cousin,” Renie said under her breath.

  Seeing Crissy stare at Renie with a puzzled expression, Judith quickly intervened. “She means my homemade bread is out of this world, too. But it’s a French bread I make, nothing at all like this. As Ruby mentioned, this bread has such a golden glow to it. What’s the secret?”

  “The dough is made of cornmeal,” Crissy replied, “and the sauce—kind of a glaze—is made of more cornmeal, baking soda, and water. Really simple.”

  “So’s my cousin,” Renie murmured again.

  “Yes,” Judith responded with a kick at Renie’s legs. “I do something like that, except it’s a bit . . . different. Were you here Wednesday?”

  “Only for lunch,” the waitress replied. “We don’t do breakfasts.”

  “Maybe you waited on Ruby,” Judith said, relaxing a bit as Renie began attacking the kebabs. “She came in alone, but a man joined her.”

  Crissy’s cheerful expression faltered. “Um . . . is she a blonde?”

  “Yes, in her thirties.”

  “I didn’t wait on her,” Crissy said. “Julie did. She’s not here today. Is your friend . . . okay?”

  Judith looked surprised. “Yes, she’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Well . . .” Crissy looked around, as if making sure no one could hear her. “Julie thought your friend was sick,” she continued, lowering her voice. “In fact, she acted like she’d been drinking. Slurred speech, wobbly, spilling stuff, disoriented.”

  Judith evinced confusion. “How odd! Maybe she was upset. It was someone she hadn’t seen in a while. I think his name was Jim.”

  “Jim?” Crissy thought for a moment. “I don’t really know, but I’ve seen him here before. He usually eats by himself and writes in his notebook. We don’t have Wi-Fi.”

  “Oh, of course!” Judith said with a big smile. “Ruby has talked about him. His last name is . . .” She frowned. “I forget.”

  Crissy hesitated. “Well . . . it’s kind of different. Fiddler, maybe, or something to do with music. Your friend would know.”

  Judith nodded. “Of course. Has he been in since then?”

  “I don’t know,” Crissy said, obviously getting anxious to move on. “I didn’t work yesterday or Thursday. Excuse me, I’ve got an order up.”

  Judith leaned closer to Renie. “Can’t you at least shut up when I’m interviewing someone?”

  Renie brushed rice from her olive-green sweater. “Sorry, but I had this peculiar idea you’d retired from sleuthing. Yes, I know what you had in mind when we came here, but when you started in on that poor waitress, my brain misfired. Call me crazy, but in the past when we’ve done this sort of thing, we often end up being almost dead.”

  “We aren’t, though,” Judith said indignantly. “Dead, I mean.”

  “What are the odds that our luck could run out?” Renie asked, looking quite serious.

  Judith shrugged. “We aren’t getting out of this life alive.”

  “I mean before our time.”

  “Okay, so we don’t take chances anymore. And speaking of chance, that makes me think of odds, as in betting. I wonder if Uncle Al knows a Fiddler from the racetrack.”

  Renie rolled her eyes. “I’ll pass on making a lame joke about that. Go ahead, ask Uncle Al.”

  “I will,” Judith said. “But first we have to check out the bars.”

  Renie held her head. “Oh, no! We’re going to drink our way through the rest of the afternoon?”

  “Of course not. By the way, one of your elbows is in your rice pilaf.”

  “Oh!” Renie stopped holding her head and examined her elbows. “Damn! I just got this back from the cleaners. It’s cashmere.”

  “Why bother? Your elbow matches your chest. You’ve still got rice there, too.”

  Renie made a snarling noise in her throat. “I should bring my tiny hand vacuum with me.”

  “You should bring a trough.” Judith kept quiet for at least a full minute, savoring the kebabs and the bread. “The food here is really very good. I still don’t see Mr. Alipur back in the kitchen area.”

  “You already told me he wasn’t helpful,” Renie reminded her cousin. “It’s three o’clock. How are you going to interview alleged witnesses or suspects or complete strangers who might have once said hello to Opal Tooms and still get home in time to welcome new guests?”

  “I have a couple checking in this afternoon and their flight from Chicago doesn’t arrive until around six. I’ve got some frozen appetizers I keep on hand for emergencies like this.”

  “This is an emergency?”

  “You know what I mean.” Judith proceeded to polish off her kebab. I wouldn’t mind having the recipe for that bread. It’s delicious.”

  “In other words, you have an excuse to call Mr. Alipur at a more convenient time. Like when he’s here.”

  “Well . . . yes, of course.”

  “I’m done,” Renie said, standing up. “I’m going outside to make a phone call.” Before Judith could finish chewing a bite of bread, Renie was halfway to the door. Scanning Woody’s notes, Judith found the Bradford comments. Called OT pleasant woman . . . didn’t know her well . . . kids played loud music sometimes . . . quiet otherwise . . . noticed male visitor occasionally, not Mr. Tooms . . . didn’t recall seeing Mr. T for some time . . . day of murder Mrs. B home waiting for plumber, didn’t h
ear or see anything unusual at OT’s house . . . Mr. B volunteering that afternoon at their church. Judith tucked the notes back in her handbag just before Crissy appeared with the bill.

  Judith took out her credit card. “I run a B&B and I’d love to talk to Mr. Alipur about the Barbari bread. Is he here now?”

  “He doesn’t come in Saturdays,” Crissy replied. “The best time to call is when he first arrives during the week, say around ten-thirty.”

  “Thanks.” Judith added a tip and signed off on the card. “You might mention that I’ll be giving him a ring Monday.”

  “Sure,” Crissy said. “Have a nice day.”

  Renie was still outside, leaning against the café window. “When,” she asked, “was the last time you made bread?”

  “Never,” Judith said. “I had to fib. You stiffed me for the bill. Who were you calling?”

  “I’ll pay next time,” Renie said as they headed for the far corner. “I called Uncle Al. I figured I’d save you the trouble. Besides, he got free tickets for Bill and Joe to join him at the University’s first conference basketball game. I forgot to tell you that.”

  “That’s great,” Judith said. “Has Uncle Al ever heard of someone named Fiddler?”

  Renie shook her head. “He knows a guy named Mandolini, though. Uncle Al played basketball with him. The grandson is part owner of a horse that’s running at Santa Anita this weekend in the Breeders Cup.”

  “That’s . . . probably not much help.”

  “Uncle Al couldn’t remember the other two owners,” Renie said as they stopped to wait for traffic before crossing the street, “but he did say one of them was a foreign guy who owns a restaurant around here. Oh—the horse’s name is Ali’s Purchase. Work that out for yourself.”

  Judith didn’t respond until they’d crossed the street and were heading in the direction of O’Reilly’s Pub. “I should jump to some weird conclusion, but coincidences do exist,” she finally said, pushing open the pub’s door. “Maybe this stop is a waste of time. This used to be the site of an old dump named Spooner’s Schooners. Oh, well—we’re here.”