Gone With the Win: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (13 page)

Renie turned to see an older but well-maintained Craftsman bungalow behind a white picket fence. “Why do you care?”

“Because I just saw a gray-haired woman go in the side door. I’ll bet she’s lived there for years.”

Renie leaned back in the seat. “So what are we selling? Avon? Fuller Brush? Raffle tickets?”

“Jehovah Witnesses,” Judith said, pulling over to a parking space a couple of doors down. “Our copies of the
Watchtower
just blew away.”

Renie held her head. “Oh God!”

“Don’t be a spoilsport! You’ve heard their spiel. We can do it.”

The rain was coming down harder and the wind was still brisk. Judith’s jacket didn’t have a hood, so she held her purse over her head until they got on the bungalow’s porch. She rang the doorbell, but at least two full minutes passed before the gray-haired old lady warily opened the door and skewered the cousins with shrewd dark eyes.

“What is it?” she demanded in a strong, sharp voice.

Judith cleared her throat. “Do you know the world is going to end in five years?”

“I certainly don’t,” the old lady retorted. “I haven’t even looked at the weather report for tomorrow.”

“We’re Jehovah Witnesses and we know what’s going to happen,” Judith stated. “It’s pretty gruesome, so you ought to be prepared.”

“Jehovah is Yaweh to me,” the old lady declared. “I’m Jewish and you’re ignorant. I’ll bet you don’t know how Yaweh became Jehovah.”

“Gosh,” Renie said in a humble voice, “we don’t. Can you tell us?”

The old lady looked disgusted. “I could tell you a lot of things, but I don’t want to waste my time.” She paused, peering more closely at her visitors. “On the other hand, I loathe ignorance in all its forms. Oh,” she continued, opening the door wider, “come in out of this rotten weather. I should have moved in with my sister in Miami years ago, but she drives me nuts. I spent a month with her years ago and all she could talk about was what she watched on TV and how many of her friends had face-lifts.”

The living room was small but cozy. A brass menorah reposed on the mantel above a tiled fireplace flanked by glassed-in bookcases. Floral drapes hung at the two windows facing the street. “Sit,” the old lady said, gesturing at a brown sofa decorated with embroidered throw pillows. “I need a straight chair. Bad back. I’m Ziva Feldstein. You two got names?”

“I’m Judith Flynn and this is my cousin Serena Jones,” Judith said, sitting down.

“Judith, eh?” Ziva said, cautiously lowering herself into the ladder-back chair by the hearth. “But you’re not Jewish?”

“Actually, the German side of the family was at one point,” Judith said. “They got run out of Russia by Catherine the Great.”

“Nothing great about her,” Ziva asserted. “How’d you get to be Jehovah Witnesses?”

Judith grimaced. “We didn’t. We’re Catholics.”

Ziva looked skeptical. “You changed religions between here and the porch?”

“The Jehovah Witness thing was a ruse,” Judith confessed. “We need your help for a friend of mine.”

Ziva’s eyes narrowed. “I should’ve guessed you were trying to hit me up for something. How much? I’m not made of money.”

Judith shook her head. “No money involved. We only want some information about your former neighbor across the street. My husband is a retired police detective and the Opal Tooms homicide was his partner’s first investigation. The case was never solved and now Opal’s daughter is trying to find out who killed her mom. Your name wasn’t included in the case notes, but you were here when it happened, right?”

“Wrong,” Ziva replied, no longer looking wary. “That is, I wasn’t here when Opal’s body was found. I’d left June seventh, the day after she was killed, to visit my sister in Miami. I was gone for over a month.”

“That explains why Woody—he’s now Precinct Captain Woodrow Price—didn’t interview you,” Judith said. “I assume nobody else was living here at the time?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Ziva paused, shifting in her chair. “My husband had died in late April. My sister thought it’d be good for me to have a change of scenery, so she invited me to come to Miami to visit. The weather there was fine until it started to get hot by the first of July and Rachel just wouldn’t shut up. I came back home. I never did hear anything about poor Opal, but then I’m not much for gossiping with the neighbors. I leave that to my sister.”

“Do you know who lives in that house now?” Judith asked. “I see it’s been remodeled.”

Ziva grimaced. “Ghastly modern style, if you ask me. It’s a young couple with more money than taste. Nice enough, but bland.”

“But you knew Opal when she lived there?” Judith inquired.

“In the way you know people you see now and then, but don’t have much in common with,” Ziva responded. “I never bothered learning to drive, so I took the bus. The end of the line is just two doors down from the Tooms house, so I’d see her sometimes in the yard when I’d go by. She worked odd hours at a nursing home, I think. I’d stop to say hello and we’d talk about gardening—the only thing we did have in common.” The old lady paused, shifting in her chair. “You say her daughter wants to find out who killed her? I’d almost forgotten about her. There was a son, too. I think he went into the service. Typical teenagers—no time for older folks. Reuben and I had never had children. Just as well, maybe.”

“Children,” Renie put in, “are only as bad as you let them be. Are you hinting that Opal’s kids were troublemakers?”

“No, no, not really,” Ziva said. “Children in general, I guess. The Tooms boy and girl weren’t wild—just kind of shiftless. But given that their father was a crook, what would you expect? I was glad when Opal got rid of him. In fact, I heard he ended up in jail. Not surprising. He hung out with some unsavory types. She had a new beau who seemed a notch up, but most women follow a pattern and run to type. It wouldn’t have surprised me if her boyfriend had done it.”

Judith tried to hide her surprise. “Why do you say that?”

Again, Ziva paused. “Sometimes he showed up with people who looked kind of fishy to me. They had loud parties, too.”

“Loud in what way?” Judith asked.

“Music,” Ziva said. “Not live music, but they’d turn the sound way up. I’m not deaf, though I wish I had been. In the summer, you could hear it all the way into my backyard. They’d come outside to party sometimes and the men would act as if they were going to get into a fight. But they never did, or at least I never saw it. Just no class and a lot of cussing. The kind of people who spend their spare time in taverns and bars, like an old dump we had around here called The Meat & Mingle.”

Judith kept a straight face. “I take it you and your husband never went to that . . . place?”

Ziva shook her head. “Somebody told us the food was decent, but it was a low-life hangout as far as the bar was concerned. Reuben and I didn’t drink much. We didn’t eat out very often because we kept kosher.” She again shifted in the chair, apparently trying to get comfortable. “You know, it’s funny how things come back to you. I did see Opal the day she must’ve died. She was planting dahlias by the porch. Out of pots, no less. Too lazy to start the tubers in March. In fact, when I finally got home, I noticed there was a whole box of primroses wilting near the front porch. She obviously didn’t have enough gumption to plant them after she finished the dahlias. I’ve no patience with people who can’t finish a job. I had a doctor’s appointment, so I just said hello and kept going to catch the bus.”

“What time was that?” Judith asked.

“Around noon. My appointment was for one o’clock. I always see doctors at one. They’ve just come back from lunch, so I don’t have to wait.” She leaned forward. “If you ask me,” she said, leaning forward, “if you want to find whoever killed Opal, you should try to run down some of that seedy bunch who drank themselves stupid at The Meat & Mingle.”

Chapter 11

J
udith managed to remain composed. Since she’d introduced herself as Judith Flynn, Ziva wouldn’t make the connection with the infamous watering hole. It was Renie, however, who broke the brief silence.

“Gee, Ziva,” she said in the ingenuous manner she could adapt when the mood suited her, “you’re lucky you never knew any of those low-lifers. That is, I heard this neighborhood used to be rife with that type of person. You seem to have emerged unscathed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Ziva said with a scowl. “Reuben and I had our run-ins with some of those despicable people. Mainly over their ill-behaved children, who had no respect for others or their property. The school bus stops up at the north corner. Those little monsters would take a shortcut through our yard to get home. Reuben and I enjoyed gardening. I still do. Finally we put up that fence to stop them, but some of those bratty teenagers would jump right over it.”

Judith surreptitiously glanced at her watch, which informed her it was a quarter to four. Time was starting to run out. “That must’ve been very annoying,” she said, getting to her feet.

“It was,” Ziva agreed. “I finally spoke to a parent of one of the girls—Watkins, their name was—and told them if they didn’t stop, I’d report them to the school principal. That made an impression.”

“Watkins?” Renie echoed as she also got up from the sofa.

Judith had also picked up on the name. “Would that be Marla and Lee Watkins?”

Ziva carefully got out of the chair. “I don’t recall. She worked at The Garden of Eden, which is how I knew her. We sometimes bought plants there. They moved a few years after that.”

Judith took a couple of steps toward the door. “Out of the area?”

“I’m not sure,” Ziva admitted, stretching this way and that. “Marla quit her job. I heard she and her husband bought a house overlooking the Sound. That’s expensive property. Maybe they robbed a bank. Or their kids did. Out of sight, out of mind.” She shrugged before opening the door for the cousins. “I’m glad you’re not Jehovah Witnesses, but in my opinion, your ancestors shouldn’t have converted.”

“We can’t rewrite history,” Renie said. “Good thing. My husband likes to eat his lunch off of paper plates. I don’t think they’re kosher.”

On that note, the cousins headed for the Subaru.

“Interesting,” Judith remarked after she got behind the wheel. “Strange how certain people’s names keep popping up on memory lane.”

“Is it?” Renie responded, fastening her seat belt. “It’s like any neighborhood—there are all sorts of connections. Heraldsgate Hill is the same way. And if you break the speed limit, we might make it in time for the feature race at Santa Anita.”

Judith darted a glance at Renie. “You want me to get arrested for speeding in my old hood? That’d be kind of embarrassing.”

“Hey—then you could quiz the arresting officer about some of the other people on your list. Whoever is on patrol probably considers Woody and Joe legends by now.”

“These cops aren’t in Woody’s precinct,” Judith pointed out. “In fact, I don’t know the captain out here.”

“I wonder if Ruby’s memory is coming back yet,” Renie said as they drove under the freeway. “Did you know any cops when you lived here?”

“Only by sight when they had to bust our customers,” Judith said. “The cop who showed up after Dan died was a woman. In fact, she was still there when you and Bill arrived.”

“Yes,” Renie agreed. “She was young and naive. I overheard you insist your religion forbade autopsies. Imagine that—hearing coz tell a whopper as my foot went through your rotting kitchen floorboard.”

“I didn’t want anyone to think I’d tried to kill Dan by buying the gallon of grape juice he begged me to get that morning. How’d I know it’d make him blow up? I mean,” she added hastily, taking the racetrack turnoff, “I knew it was bad for his diabetes, but I felt sorry for him.”

“Of course you did,” Renie said. “You’re too damned softhearted. Hey, pull over by that parking valet. Tell them you’re Uncle Al’s niece.”

Judith shrugged. “Why not? That should get us a free pass inside. Uncle Al helped fund the original track.”

The ploy worked. Five minutes later, the cousins were in the clubhouse section, where two dozen TV screens showed the races at various North American tracks. Renie spotted the feed from Santa Anita not far from the betting booths.

“Drinks,” she said, leading Judith toward the bar next to the dining area. “I’ll get them while you grab us a couple of seats.”

Despite the crowd, Judith managed to find two vacant chairs not far from the Santa Anita TV monitor. She opened the racing program she’d picked up at the track entrance and discovered that all of the races were designated as different types of Breeders Cup events. In fact, she noted, similarly styled races had been held the previous day.

Renie appeared with a Scotch rocks for Judith and a CC and 7 UP for herself. “You look puzzled,” she remarked, sitting down.

“Did Uncle Al explain what goes on at the Santa Anita track this weekend?” she asked.

“They hold the Breeders Cup,” Renie replied, getting her own program out of her purse. “I didn’t ask for a history.”

“The program says it’s a two-day event,” Judith explained after taking a sip from her drink. “I haven’t found Ali’s Purchase yet.”

“Keep looking,” Renie said, gazing up at the monitor. “We’re up to the eighth race. Uncle Al definitely told me the horse was running today.”

“The fourth race,” Judith said, seeing Ali’s Purchase as the third entry on the program. “Juvenile Turf. See for yourself. A field of seven for two-year-olds, five hundred grand purse. And note the trainer.”

Renie’s eyes widened. “Duke Swisher? He’s not exactly in the elite company of Bob Baffert and D. Wayne Lukas. I’ll go find the results.” She got up and scurried away.

Judith noted that the horse had been bred in California by Ali Baba Stables. The jockey’s name was Pedro Feliz, which rang no bells. But, she realized, it had been a while since she’d been to the track.

“This seat taken?” a dark-haired middle-aged man inquired, pointing to Renie’s chair.

“Yes. My cousin went to check the results of an earlier race. We got here late.” Judith smiled. “Sorry. She’ll be right back.”

The man put his foot on the chair. “Which race?”

“The fourth,” Judith replied.

“The one with the inquiry? That ended up with a disqualification for the horse that crossed the finish line. Some illegal stuff going on in the far turn. The favorite’s jockey got unseated.”

“Who won?”

“A long shot, Ali’s Purchase. I got lucky. You sure your cousin’s coming back?”

“Yes,” Judith replied. “The winners should be posted on the wall just off the bar?”

“Right,” the man said, removing his foot and pulling out the chair, “I might as well sit until she gets here. You come out for the feature?”

Judith fought an urge to turn around and try to spot Renie. “Ah . . . yes, it
is
the big race.”

“You pick the winner yet?” the man asked after sitting down and taking a swig from Renie’s glass.

“No, not yet. That’s my cousin’s drink, by the way.”

He shrugged again. “So? I’ll buy her another one. Don’t worry about germs. It’s alcohol. That kills ’em. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Judith forced herself from rolling her eyes at the tired come-on line. “I don’t think so,” she replied stiltedly. But before asking him to go away, she studied him more closely. His weathered face indicated he was closer to sixty than fifty, so Judith guessed the dark hair was probably dyed. Maybe older, given the sagging skin on his neck. Indeed, there
was
something familiar about him. Curiosity overcame indignation. “Do you live around here?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. I own a condo downtown. How about you? I know I’ve seen you someplace.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “A café . . . Thurlow District . . . The Meat & Mingle?”

Judith gulped. “Yes. We owned it. You were one of our customers?”

The man grimaced. “Hell, no. I was the food inspector. Just retired last year from the city. You owned that place? Really?”

“Yes, and we went broke, but it wasn’t because of the food.”

“No,” he agreed. “The kitchen always got good marks. It was the clientele that was low grade.” He put out a hand. “Marv Farrell. Sorry, can’t remember your last name.”

Judith accepted his handshake. “It was McMonigle, but after Dan died, I remarried. It’s Judith Flynn now.”

Marv grinned and took another sip of the drink. “I never forget a face. I forgot the place had closed. I’d probably already transferred to another department. Sorry about your losses—the husband and the café, that is.”

“Thank you,” Judith said. “Speaking of the Thurlow District, did you know that the winning horse in the fourth race is partly owned by someone who has a business there?”

“No, wish I had. My bet was just a hunch. You picked any winners?” He polished off Renie’s CC.

“We haven’t had time,” Judith replied. “As I mentioned, we got here . . .” She stopped, seeing her cousin carrying a giant box of popcorn.

“What the hell?” Renie screeched. “I turn my back, you pick up some guy who takes my seat and drinks my booze? Are you insane?”

“I can explain,” Judith said. “You were gone so long that—”

Renie made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “I smelled popcorn. I’m hungry. There was a line. Maybe I should steal your car and go home. You two seem to be having
fun
. At least I’ve got popcorn.”

Marv shook his head and looked at Judith. “Somebody’s crabby.”

“She’s ornery,” Judith retorted. “Move and buy her another drink.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, but stood up, pulling out the chair for Renie. “There you go, little cousin. One CC coming up.”

“With 7UP,” Renie snarled, plopping down in the chair. “Make it snappy. We haven’t got all day.” She swiveled to look at Judith as Marv ambled off toward the bar. “What was
that
all about?”

“He’s a retired food inspector,” Judith replied, not without some embarrassment. “He used to come to The Meat & Mingle.”

“No wonder he retired,” Renie muttered before shoving a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “Swunnereesuhbibed.”

Accustomed to deciphering her cousin’s words when she talked with her mouth full, Judith made a face. “He survived just fine. You know Dan’s food was always very good.”

Renie swallowed before she spoke again. “Too bad Dan wasn’t. Okay—so how many suspects from your list does this guy know?”

“I didn’t have a chance to ask him,” Judith replied indignantly. “I was preoccupied with what was taking you so long to look up the race results. Never mind—he told me what happened. There was a disqualification, in case you didn’t notice while you were overcome with popcorn fumes. I don’t suppose you saw anybody wearing a turban?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Renie said, ignoring a couple of popcorn kernels she’d dropped on her bosom.

Judith leaned forward in her chair. “You did? Where?”

“Coming out of the ladies’ room. She was a tall blond goddess.”

“Ohhh . . . someday you’ll drive
me
to murder!”

“Don’t even think about it,” Renie said calmly. “I’ll rat you out to the cops about that gallon of grape juice. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

Judith leaned back in her chair. “Behave yourself. Here comes your drink.”

“CC as ordered,” Marv said, setting the drink in front of Renie. “May I sit in your lap?”

“You may not,” Renie retorted. “The only one who can sit in my lap is Oscar. And sometimes Clarence, except he sheds.”

“I’m guessing Oscar and Clarence are pets,” Marv said, bemused.

Judith held up her hands. “Don’t pursue this line of inquiry.”

“Hmm.” Marv stroked his chin. “Kinky, eh? Why do I suddenly feel unwanted? I think I’ll go to the private lounge and congratulate the owner of the Juvenile Turf race. I not only had the winning ticket, but I had the trifecta, too. Thank you, ladies. It’s been . . . a mixed feed bag of pleasure.” He sauntered off to the far end of the dining room.

“Follow him,” Judith said. “It just dawned on me that’s why we haven’t seen Mr. Alipur. He’s in the private area.”

Renie sighed heavily. “I just got my drink. I’ve only eaten a fourth of my popcorn. You follow him. Lie your way in or make your pickup guy do the honors for you.”

Judith hesitated. “Oh, why not? I can always use Uncle Al’s name.” She swallowed the last of her Scotch, stood up, and headed in the direction that Marv had gone. By the time she reached the VIP lounge’s entrance, he was already inside. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and opened the polished oak door. A young tuxedoed waiter greeted her with an inquiring expression.

“You’re . . . ?” he said tentatively.

“I’m with Marv,” Judith said, seeing him talking to a squat, olive-skinned man holding a champagne glass. “He walks too fast.”

The waiter nodded. Judith doggedly moved toward Marv, barely taking in the elegant Art Deco surroundings with their sleek yet elegant geometric lines and bold use of color.

“Ah!” he said, turning away from the man with the champagne. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“I couldn’t resist trying to find Mr. Alipur, the part owner of Ali’s Purchase,” Judith declared with a nod for the other man. “Is he here?”

Marv shook his head. “I suppose he left after his horse won the race.” He gestured toward the window that overlooked the track. “There’s the trainer, Duke Swisher. Maybe he can give whatever message you’ve got for Mr. Alipur. Swisher’s the one in the brown corduroy jacket.”

Judith made a beeline for her prey. She was surprised by the rugged good looks that didn’t seem to have deteriorated with what she assumed must be sixty or more years. There was little gray in his fair hair and the lines in his face added more distinction than age. He didn’t look much like the riffraff Ziva Feldstein had described. Judith waited for a lull in the conversation he was having with two other men. To her surprise, he spoke first.