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

by Mary Daheim

  “I wonder if Sollie is still alive,” Judith murmured before they entered the store. “He was getting up there by the time I moved home.”

  “Let’s not find his body in the meat locker, okay?” Renie shot back.

  The two butchers behind the busy counter weren’t Sollie, but Judith recognized them. And the nearest one recognized her. “Mrs. McMonigle,” he exclaimed. “Long time no see. I’ll be right with you.”

  “Long time to wait,” Renie muttered. “There are at least six people ahead of us. Is it illegal to shout ‘hungry’ in a crowded butcher shop?”

  “It is for you,” Judith said, also keeping her voice down. “I’d have to make Joe arrest you. The one who spoke to me is Pete. The other one is Paul.” She looked around to the checkout stands. “I don’t see the third brother, Pat.”

  Renie shrugged. Judith edged up to the counter to look at the rib roasts. Prices had certainly gone up since her last visit, but they weren’t outrageous. Nobody seemed to be complaining, apparently satisfied that they were getting their money’s worth. Both Pete and Paul worked efficiently and the customers were dispersed in a fairly short time.

  Pete, who was a husky, dark-haired six-footer, beamed at Judith. “We kept wondering what happened to you after Mr. McMonigle died and you moved away. It’s great to see you. I wish Papa could be here, but he passed on five years ago the day after Thanksgiving. Sort of fitting, in its way. He left everybody full and satisfied.”

  “He was a wonderful person,” Judith said. “I’m so glad you and your brothers are carrying on the tradition. Where’s Pat, by the way?”

  Pete gestured to the rear of the store. “In the office. He’s the oldest, so he runs the place. How can I help you?”

  Judith noticed that only a couple of other customers were now waiting to be served. “I want one of your prime ribs for starters,” she said, grabbing Renie’s arm and hauling her closer. “My cousin Serena would like to buy some items, too. By the way, I’m Mrs. Flynn now. She’s Mrs. Jones.”

  Renie’s smile was a bit thin. “I’ve been that for a long time. And no, it’s not an alias.”

  Pete chuckled obligingly. “We’ve got lamb chops on special.”

  “I’ll take six,” Renie said. “Bill Jones—yes, his real name—loves lamb chops.”

  “The same for me,” Judith put in. “In fact, make that eight. My mother lives with us. Sort of,” she added under her breath.

  Pete looked surprised. “Really? She must be . . . old.”

  “She’s eternal,” Judith replied—but she smiled. “By the way, do you know Lee and Marla Watkins?”

  Pete counted out the chops before responding. “Sure. They come in here a lot. I mean, they came to the old shop, of course, and I think they’ve been here once or twice since we reopened. They’ve been good customers for the past dozen years.”

  Judith did a quick calculation. Maybe Lee and Marla couldn’t afford to shop at Sollie’s until they inherited Hector’s estate. “I ran into Hector Sparks’s son recently. He’s a firefighter in my Heraldsgate Hill neighborhood.”

  Pete wrapped Renie’s chops and put them on the counter. “Hector Sparks? I can’t place him. Did he know Papa?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Judith admitted. “Hector is Marla Watkins’s father.”

  “Oh.” Pete finished weighing and wrapping the chops for Judith. “I never knew her maiden name.”

  “That reminds me,” Judith said as if suddenly thinking of it, “do you remember Lee and Marla’s daughter Wendy? She worked for your father years ago as a courtesy clerk.”

  Pete laughed. “Wild Wendy? You bet. She was hired before I met her parents. Papa came close to firing her about six times before she quit. She was a real piece of work.”

  “How so?” Judith inquired.

  Pete looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I shouldn’t have said anything about her, but she was probably the worst employee we ever had, even for a teenager. Papa was usually right on when it came to reading people, but Wendy was such a cute kid and she could sweet-talk her way out of just about anything. She’d carry out a load of groceries for a customer and not come back right away. Pat found her once by the loading area with a customer—an older married man—and they were . . .” He lifted his thick dark eyebrows. “Let’s say we wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d become a hooker.”

  “How do you know she didn’t?” Judith asked.

  “We heard a couple of years later she ran off with some guy and got married.” Pete shrugged. “Heck, maybe she got herself straightened out. I never felt right about asking her parents about her. It might have been embarrassing. Anything else you need?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, moving toward the beef display. “That second prime rib looks like the right size. Did you know the other sister, Dawn? She was the older girl.”

  Pete paused with his hand on the roast. “No. Maybe,” he continued, removing the meat and putting it on the scale, “that’s just as well if she was anything like her sister.”

  “I’d also like two pounds of your hamburger,” Judith said. “My cousin wants some, too.” She turned to Renie. “How much?”

  Renie put her hand around her throat and looked goggle-eyed. “Gosh, I can talk! Somebody please call Lourdes! It’s a miracle!”

  “Just tell Pete about the hamburger,” Judith said, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “Three pounds,” Renie stated in an overloud voice. “And while you’re at it, Pete, I also want a pound of the regular pork sausage, the biggest prime rib you’ve got in the case, and two rib-eye steaks, bone in. Now I’ll be quiet and let coz jabber her head off.”

  Pete grinned at Judith. “Your cousin’s quite a card, huh?”

  “In a way,” she murmured. “Not exactly the joker, though. I also want a pound of the spicy sausage and three T-bones. Oh, three pork chops, too. And some pig hocks for a boiled sauerkraut dinner.”

  Paul, who had been serving someone in the seafood section, paused to greet Judith, who introduced Renie. “We thought you’d forgotten about us,” he said.

  “Not a chance,” Judith assured him. “But I’ve owned a B&B for several years and it keeps me busy. I was afraid you’d forgotten me.”

  “Not a chance,” Paul said. “Papa always told us to put names with faces, put faces with names. But we get so many customers who don’t come in on a regular basis, but are from another part of town. I’d better tend to some of them now. Good to see you.”

  Pete had their orders ready. He smiled a bit guiltily as he showed the cousins their bills. “I know you’re getting quality,” he said. “Prices have risen since you lived out this way, Mrs. Mc . . . Flynn, I mean.”

  Judith smiled back. “We knew what we were in for. It’s worth it. We’ll try to come back more often.”

  Pete saluted as the cousins headed for the door.

  “What really gets me,” Renie said after they got into the car, “is that I’ve been to their store without you and they don’t remember me at all. I feel like a shadow when I hang with you. And before you say anything about me probably making a scene when I’ve been at Sollie & His Sons, forget it. Other places, yes. But never there.”

  “Are you done?” Judith inquired, pulling out of the parking lot.

  “Yeah. I think so. Did you glean anything besides a lot of meat?”

  “Not anything startling, though I wonder what happened to Wild Wendy Watkins.”

  “Not any wilder than you just making a right instead of a left turn out of the parking lot,” Renie said. “Why are we not going home? Our meat might spoil.”

  “In forty-six-degree weather? We’re heading back to the Thurlow District—or paradise, also known as The Garden of Eden.”

  “I should’ve guessed,” Renie murmured, leaning back in her seat. “Oh, well—maybe I can get some mums.”

  “Don’t,” Judith warned. “If you buy anything, get bulbs. They can’t ruin those if they come from a reputable bulb f
arm.”

  “Let me think,” Renie said, a hand to her head. “Many years ago, Marla Watkins worked there. We’re going to learn where Marla and—”

  “—Lee live now,” Judith chimed in, “so we can pay them a call.”

  “Do we have to be Jehovah Witnesses again?” Renie asked in a plaintive tone.

  “No. We’ll think of something else. Give me time.”

  “Just for once, couldn’t we barge in and say we suspect them of murdering Opal Tooms?”

  “But we don’t,” Judith responded. “They both have solid alibis.” She took a deep breath. “Or do they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The problem with alibis is that even law enforcement people tend to take them as ironclad if they sound credible and there’s someone to substantiate where the person was when the crime took place.”

  Renie was thoughtful for a few moments. “Yes. I see your point. But what about Ozzie’s alibi? He wasn’t in town.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Judith replied, taking the turn to the south end of the Thurlow District. “Ruby never told me where he was stationed—just that he was in the navy. He could have been somewhere close by. Admittedly, Woody probably checked on that, but it’s not in his notes. Even assuming Ozzie was out of the area, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have arranged to have someone else kill Opal.”

  “His own mother?” Renie shook her head. “My kids may want to kill me now and then, but I don’t think they’d actually do it.”

  “I don’t mean that I think Ozzie was the killer,” Judith asserted. “That’s just an example of alibis that may be misleading.”

  “It usually goes to motive,” Renie remarked. “I suppose you’ve considered it could have been a random act of violence.”

  “Yes. But it was during the day or at least probably not after dark. It happened in the living room, which means Opal must’ve let her killer in. That indicates she probably knew him—or her. There was no sign of a struggle. I assume she was taken by surprise. Woody thought so, too.”

  “Poor woman,” Renie murmured. “Hey—where are we? I don’t recognize anything around here.”

  “Neither do I,” Judith admitted. “In fact, The Garden of Eden should be almost straight ahead on our left. Maybe it’s not there any . . . oh, good grief! It’s gone upscale, too!”

  Both cousins stared at the vine-covered arbor entrance to what looked like an acre of hothouses and open-air nursery stock. “Darn,” Judith said under her breath as she pulled into the big parking lot, “if this place is under new ownership, they may not know the Watkins duo.”

  “Why not? Where else would they go to landscape their mini-mansion?”

  Judith pulled her aging Subaru in between a Lexus SUV and a Range Rover. “Everything around here has grown so much in the past few years,” she grumbled. “I feel as if I’m in another part of the country.”

  “That thought has crossed a lot of people’s minds,” Renie said, unfastening her seat belt. “And that’s what they’ve done—moved here.”

  The cousins walked under the arbor along cobblestones flanked with winter pansies and bright chrysanthemums. “I’ll bet their prices have gone way up, too,” Judith murmured. “Look.” She pointed to a trio of yellow, purple, and pink primroses in a terra-cotta planter. “Twenty-five bucks. I can buy three primroses at Falstaff’s for five dollars and use an old loaf pan to get the same effect.”

  “Are we sleuthing or comparative shopping?” Renie asked in a strained voice. “Maybe you should have retired and fixated on your garden. It’d be a lot safer in the long run.”

  Judith sighed. “You’re right. Sort of.” She nodded toward the customer-service area. “I don’t see anybody I recognize.”

  “Good. Then if I make a scene here, you won’t care.”

  Ignoring Renie, Judith went up to the counter and caught the attention of a silver-haired, middle-aged woman who asked if she could provide assistance.

  “Yes,” Judith replied, fumbling in her purse before taking out a rumpled slip of paper. “I was supposed to meet some friends here almost an hour ago and I got lost. Now I discovered I took down the wrong phone number for them. Do you know Marla and Lee Watkins?”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman replied with a big smile. “They’re regular customers. Would you like me to call them for you?”

  “No,” Judith said, aware that Renie was trying to look at the paper she held in her hand. “I know they don’t live far from here. The address will be fine. Did you see them earlier by any chance? I was supposed to meet them in the tree section.”

  “No,” the woman replied, checking her computer. “I only got back from lunch about fifteen minutes ago.” She paused to write down the address. “Here. It’s easy to find once you get onto Deauville Avenue Southwest. Good luck.”

  Judith offered her thanks and turned around to head for the exit. “First I have to find Deauville Avenue,” she said in annoyance as soon as they were outside. “Can your amazing phone do that?”

  “Probably,” Renie replied. “Wish I knew how to use it. I was sort of hoping the clerk would ask to see your Bartleby’s shopping list with the bunion pads and flea powder for your mother.”

  “The flea powder is for Sweetums,” Judith retorted, “which you know damned well.”

  Renie smirked before getting into the car. “Sorry. My mistake.”

  “Maybe,” Judith said when they were both inside, “if I can figure out how to find an address on your phone.”

  “How about this? You head for the Sound and find a north–south street that spells out D-E-A-U-V-I-L-L-E?”

  Judith started to say something snappish, but refrained. “That’s not really a bad idea. It’s a view property, as I recall.”

  The cousins headed due west, where the pale November sun was now fully visible above the snowcapped mountains across the Sound. After they stopped for a red light in the Thurlow District, they drove less than a mile before Renie spotted Deauville Avenue Southwest. “The house numbers get higher, so take a left,” she said.

  Within two blocks, they spotted the house. Or at least a jutting boxlike building that seemed to be all glass to the north and probably to the west. The five-digit address on a steel post looked as if it was made of glow-in-the-dark glass.

  “I’d say the Watkins had no taste,” Renie said as they pulled up on the verge of the uncurbed street, “but they do. And it’s all bad. Maybe someday the city or the county will finish the roadwork around here. They can’t keep pace with all the newcomers.”

  A stiff breeze had come up while the cousins made the short drive to the Watkins residence. Carefully going up a half-dozen curving steps to the austere front porch, Judith shivered slightly.

  “I’m cold and this house is cold,” she declared. “I don’t like this boxy style with all the huge windows and often no drapes—just blinds.”

  “You’re right,” Renie agreed. “It’s artless, with no character. I’ve seen some of them on the hill the last couple of years. Ugly, too. I don’t see much indication that their landscaping is all that great either.”

  The chime played “The Trolley Song.” Judith smiled. “Lee was a bus driver. Or they like old musicals. I haven’t heard that one in ages.”

  After a lengthy pause, the door was opened by a frumpy, gray-haired woman wearing a flowered apron. “What do you want?” she demanded gruffly.

  “We’re from Modern Manse magazine,” Judith replied. “Your home was suggested as a feature for our May issue, Mrs. Watkins.”

  The woman sneered. “It’s not my home and I’m not Mrs. Watkins. I’m Mrs. Grissom. Come in. I’ll see if Mrs. Watkins is busy.”

  The entry hall felt like a tunnel. Except for a large potted fern, it was bare and long with a sheet of glass at the far end, apparently looking out to the western view. Mrs. Grissom had exited through a sliding door that was painted gray to match the walls.

  “Could we have some imaginat
ion here?” Renie finally said in an anguished voice. “Could they have used the money they saved on the architect to hire an interior decorator?”

  “I wonder,” Judith mused, “how much money there was in Hector’s estate. I have no idea how he earned it either.”

  Renie shot Judith a sharp glance. “You might’ve warned me we were magazine writers. Are you sure we aren’t selling subscriptions?”

  “Does it matter? We got in the door.” Judith grabbed Renie’s arm and spoke in a whisper. “Mrs. Grissom! I just remembered why the name was familiar. She’s the one who ran the nursing home where Opal worked. She must be the Watkins’s maid or . . . what?”

  “In-house blackmailer?” Renie suggested. “I thought she looked familiar, but she’s even homelier than I remember.”

  Before Judith could say anything, the sliding door reopened. A woman who was probably close to sixty, but trying to look forty, offered the cousins a smile that didn’t quite make it to her glacial blue eyes.

  “I’m Marla Watkins,” she said, but didn’t offer her hand. “You’re . . . ?” The cold eyes with their taupe-covered lids veered from Judith to Renie and back again.

  “Judy Grover,” Judith replied. “This is my assistant, Renée D’Oscar.”

  Renie waved halfheartedly.

  If the response struck Marla as strange, she didn’t show it. “Won’t you come into the solarium?” she said, leading the way with a swish of her gaudy, floral silk lounging pajamas. Near the end of the hall, she opened another sliding door on their left. “You’ll enjoy the view. My husband and I spend hours in here.”

  If ever a room didn’t look lived in, it was the solarium. Four cube-shaped gray chairs were set around a glass table on steel legs. A black metal sculpture resembling Phyliss’s umbrella turned inside out stood in one corner between two huge windows, one looking south and the other to the Sound and the mountains. The rear wall displayed a fabric hanging that depicted what resembled a manhole cover. The only item that suggested anybody ever used the room was a telescope on a tripod. It was, Judith thought, more attractive than the sculpture.