Legs Benedict (8 page)

Renie, still in a helpful mode, removed a head of lettuce from the crisper drawer. “Maybe Barney got the note and ditched it.”

Judith shook her head. “Burn it, tear it, toss it in the
wastebasket.” Again she stopped and looked at Renie. “I suppose Joe and Rich Goldman went through the wastebaskets in the guest rooms. But they must not have looked under the rug. You've been in Room Four, you know how the rug is almost flush with the door. In fact, we had to take a sixteenth of an inch off the bottom of the door so it would clear the braided rug. Grandma Grover made them thick.”

“Grandma Grover made everything thick,” Renie remarked in a wistful tone. “Her gravy, her puddings, her noodles. She was a wonderful cook and seamstress and gardener and craftswoman. Where did we go wrong, coz?”

“We can cook,” Judith pointed out. “We garden. As for the rest—well, it's a different era. Who has time to braid rugs and make clothes for the whole family?”

“Who'd wear the stuff if we made it?” Renie made a face.

“Grandma taught us to sew,” Judith said, getting two cans of fried noodles out of the cupboard.

“We sucked,” Renie said. “Our mothers weren't much better. Mine once broke three sewing machines in two weeks. She's not mechanical.”

“Maniacal is more like it when it comes to our mothers,” Judith noted. “Or maybe I mean diabolical. My mother isn't going to like this chicken salad. She'd rather have baloney.”

“My mother called three times this morning before nine o'clock,” Renie sighed. “That's why I was quasiconscious when you phoned.”

Judith was well aware of Aunt Deb's obsession with the telephone and her daughter, Renie. If Gertrude Grover was sharp-tongued and hard to please, Deborah Grover was a maternal martyr in the making. It was pointless to dwell on the flaws that drove their daughters crazy. Judith changed the subject.

“Barney and John Smith in Royal Oak, Michigan. Why? John Smith comes from New York—I saw the car, it definitely had New York plates. He and presumably Darlene
drive to Detroit's suburbs. Why? To find Barney? The next thing we know, the Smiths and the Schwartzes head west and end up here. Yet they aren't traveling together and act as if they have no knowledge of each other.”

“That's probably untrue,” Renie noted, tossing the salad greens under the running tap. “It also seems that though the Santoris and the teachers claim not to be acquainted, they obviously are. Where did they come from?”

“Pam and Sandi are from Newark, New Jersey,” Judith replied. “The Santoris come from Miami.”

Renie let the lettuce drain in a colander. “What about Roland du Turque?”

“Kansas City, Missouri, remember?” Judith began to make the dressing for the chicken salad. “The Malones are from Chicago. And, just to add further intrigue, the guy who canceled was from Las Vegas.” Slowly, Judith's mouth curved into a grim smile. “Doesn't that mean something to you, coz?”

“Let me think,” said Renie, leaning against the counter and resting her chin on one hand. “These are American cities with a population over a hundred thousand? They all have tall buildings we can't leap over in a single bound? I know how to spell each one? Come on, coz, spill it.”

“Organized crime,” responded Judith. “Where are mob movies set?”

“I don't watch many mob movies,” Renie replied. “Bill does, but there's too much gore. They need to cut out the shootings and all that violence before I go see them. Besides, I don't think of Kansas City as a hotbed of organized crime.”

“It has been, though, over the years,” Judith said, getting somewhat sulky.

“Give it up,” Renie urged. “You've never gotten over your Al Capone phase. I still remember your term paper in English. ‘Scar-Face: Robin Hood or Robbing Hood?' You got a C-minus. The assignment was to write about legendary American heroes.”

“That was my point,” Judith countered. “Capone did a
lot of good with his millions. He was extremely generous to charity, and…”

“Stick it. Almost forty years later, you know better. Who did you write about in your class on Modern Marriage? Bonnie and Clyde?”

Judith dumped the chicken in with the lettuce. “The course was Modern Family. I wrote about Ma Barker.” She ignored Renie's appalled expression. “So explain why these people are armed to the teeth?”

Renie admitted that was peculiar. “But why here? We definitely don't live in a city that's famous for harboring gangsters. Unless you count a rascally union boss or two.”

“One of whom Uncle Al and Uncle Vince, both being members of said union, thought was a real hero,” Judith said dryly, then snapped her fingers. “Maybe we know why the pages were torn out of the register. Whoever did it, wrote that note to Barney. They didn't want it traced to them through their signatures.”

“What if it wasn't Barney?” Renie said.

“Huh?”

“What if the note was intended for Minerva?”

Judith considered. “Do you think that's likely?”

“Likely, no,” Renie replied. “Possible, yes.”

Unhappily, Judith knew that all things were possible. Especially when it came to murder.

 

All of the guests, except for the Malones, were milling around the living room. At 12:10, Judith announced that luncheon was served. Phyliss immediately descended upon the living room, armed with the vacuum cleaner.

“Hey!” yelled Barney. “We can't hear ourselves think with that damned thing running.”

“I didn't know you were the thinking type,” Pete remarked with a snide expression.

Sandi leaned forward, her blonde hair highlighted by the unexpected appearance of the sun through the dining room window. “Put magic in your ears, Mr. Schwartz. That's what we tell our students, don't we, Pam?”

Pam nodded. “It means they should listen real hard.”

“My, my,” said Roland, gazing at Judith. “The rain's stopped. I believe it's all right to stroll the garden?”

“Yes,” Judith replied, placing a basket of hot rolls on the table. The noise of the vacuum cleaner had receded as Phyliss moved to the far end of the living room. “Some of the other guests have already been outside this morning.” Her glance flitted from Pete to Sandi.

“It's not cold,” Marie put in.

“But it's damp,” Pam added.

“There's hardly any humidity, is there?” said Sandi.

“It's usually not a problem,” Judith said, seeing an opening. “Most of you come from parts of the country where that's not the case. Or am I mistaken?”

“It can get really bad in Miami,” Marie said. Then, as an apparent afterthought, hugged Pete. “Isn't that true, Clingy-wingy?”

“It sure is, Jiggles-wiggles. But we worship the old sun god,” said Pete.

“I'd become depressed with all this rain,” Minerva Schwartz declared. “So much gray. I'm told you have no real change of seasons here.”

“We don't,” Renie asserted, entering the dining room with the coffee carafe. “Around here, we call the seasons sort of gray, pretty gray, really gray, and damned gray. Coffee black?”

Minerva regarded Renie with distaste. “I shouldn't think you would encourage visitors to this city with that kind of negative attitude.”

“I try not to,” said Renie. “But then I'm not in the tourism business.”

“Attitude,” echoed Barney. “That's what it takes to sell. See, I'm in the car business, got a dealership in Royal Oak. Take a look at my Seville parked outside. Right away, you're impressed. That's a positive, not a negative. Everybody wants a Cadillac—it's the American dream. So when a guy wanders onto the lot, all I have to do is…”

Judith wasn't interested in Barney's sales pitch. She and
Renie returned to the kitchen. “I'm calling Joe,” Judith said. “He must know something by now.”

“But it's not his case,” Renie pointed out.

“Then he can transfer me to J. J. or Rich.” Judith picked up the cordless phone, but her free hand wavered in midair. “Malone,” she mouthed at Renie.

Mal was on the line, his voice mournful. “Sheesh,” he was saying, “we've had more than our share.” He paused, taking in an audible breath. “You hear that? Is somebody else on this line?”

Judith stood like a statue; mercifully, the man at the other end said his phone had been acting up. Mal continued, “First, it was Tagliavini, then Albanese and McCormack, now Corelli. You tell me who's out to get us. Talk to ya later.” Mal clicked off the upstairs extension.

Renie, who had been listening at Judith's shoulder, asked what the other party had said.

“Not much,” Judith replied, finally daring to breathe again. “It was a man, and he just made commiserating remarks. But you heard Mal—didn't that sound like mob members?”

“I didn't quite catch the names,” Renie admitted.

“They were all Italian, except for one Irish or Scottish name. He mentioned Corelli, who the Malones were lamenting earlier as if he were dead,” Judith explained, then saw the skepticism on Renie's face. “Okay, okay—I know not all Italians are in the Mafia. But given the guns and the fact that Mal and Bea are from Chicago, and we all know that in the past, both Italian and Irish gangsters have been…”

Renie, who was peeking over the swinging door, raised a hand. “Here they come. The Malones, that is. Do you suppose that was a long-distance call?”

“If it was, they better not have charged it to my line,” Judith said, then started to dial Joe's work number. “I've got to pass this along. At least we've got some names—if I can remember them.” But before she could enter the last
two digits, a husky female voice called from the back porch.

“Yoo-hoo—it's me. Can I borrow a cup of Scotch?”

Wearily, Judith turned around, though she knew who was standing on the threshold. It was the last person she wanted to see. It was the neighbor to whom she could never apply the adjective “good.” It was Vivian Flynn, Joe's ex-wife, and otherwise known as Herself.

J
OE'S EX SLITHERED
down the narrow hall on a wave of heavy perfume that Judith had secretly dubbed Eau de Muskrat. This week, Herself's hair was a mass of Botticelli gold ringlets that might have been fetching on a twenty-year-old, but looked ridiculous on a woman approaching seventy. Or such was Judith's not entirely unprejudiced opinion.

“Vivian,” Judith said in surprise, “I thought you'd quit drinking.”

“I did,” Vivian said, crimson lips breaking into a big smile. “Joe's been such a help, going to AA with me.” The words were purred, not spoken. “But I have a houseguest, and naturally, I don't want to seem inhospitable.”

After spending several years living in a condo on Florida's gulf coast, Vivian had returned to the Pacific Northwest and moved into a vacant house on the cul-de-sac. Initially, Judith didn't think she could tolerate her former rival's proximity. But Vivian traveled extensively, and except for the occasional repair job and the AA support from Joe, Judith's worst fears hadn't been realized. So far.

“I'll pour it into an empty jelly jar,” Judith said as Herself came all the way into the kitchen and greeted
Renie effusively. “Is your guest staying long?”

“I don't know.” Herself emitted a girlish titter. “DeeDee is a will-o'-the-wisp. She and I sang together at a club in Panama City. We called ourselves the V. D. Girls. For Vivian and DeeDee. Get it?”

“I got it,” Judith said dryly.

“Well, shame on you!” Herself burst into raucous laughter. “You see,” she gasped, “that's how we'd introduce our act. ‘We're the V. D. Girls,' we'd say, and then…”

“Yes,” Judith broke in, unable to look at Renie, who had her head in the refrigerator, “that's very clever. Here, take the whole fifth. Just in case.”

“Oh, Judith,” Herself beamed, “you're too kind. If DeeDee stays more than a day or two, I'll have to invite you over to meet her. I just know you two would get along famously.”

“Really.” Judith wondered if Renie was getting cold. She hadn't budged since saying hello to Herself.

“I must dash,” Herself announced. “By the way, was someone taken ill this morning? I didn't get up until ever so late—you know me—but I thought I saw some policemen outside. In fact, is that crime scene tape at your mother's apartment?”

“It is,” Judith responded, beginning to get nervous. She dreaded having Herself get involved with the homicide case—and with Joe. “We had a bit of trouble with a guest.”

“Oh, my.” Herself's false eyelashes fluttered. “Did the guest bother Mrs. G.-G.?”

“No, Mother's fine,” Judith replied, edging toward the back door in the hope that Herself would follow. “When your friend leaves, you must pay Mother a visit.” The invitation was sincere: Whether out of affection or perversity, Gertrude and Herself had hit it off. Though it pained Judith, she appreciated the company that Joe's ex offered to the old lady.

“I'll do that,” Herself promised. “I haven't stopped in
for a week or two. And your mother is such fun. We have a high old time, I can tell you that.”

“Wonderful,” Judith said, ushering Herself out the door. It never ceased to amaze Judith that not only Vivian Flynn but Carl and Arlene Rankers seemed to genuinely enjoy being with Gertrude. But of course they weren't related to her.

“Is she gone?” asked Renie, finally withdrawing from the fridge. “Can I come out? Am I frozen yet?”

“You do look a little raw,” Judith replied. “By the way, it's raining again.”

“Of course.” Renie gathered up her purse and jacket. “Time to get to work. I've got a tricky design project to finish this week for the Boring Airplane Company. It's something to do with their community involvement regarding sex offenders. I call it, ‘Planes, Trains, and Pedophiles.' See you.”

The call to Joe was futile. He and Woody were on a case, and J. J. and Rich were unavailable. Judith readied Gertrude's lunch and took it out to the toolshed.

“I'm not a rabbit,” Gertrude declared after turning her nose up at the chicken salad. “And what are those little brown twigs poking out of that lettuce? They look like matchsticks to me.”

“Chinese noodles,” Judith said, reminding herself to be patient. “Mother, I make a really good chicken salad. And there are hot rolls and some lovely cake Renie brought over.”

Gertrude snorted. “The cake might be okay, unless Serena made it. The last time she sent over brownies, there weren't any nuts.”

“Renie is allergic to nuts,” Judith pointed out. “Do you want her to poison herself?”

“Why not? Everybody else around here seems to be croaking.” Gertrude used a fork to stab at the salad, then jerked her hand away as if she'd touched nettles. “I don't see a lot of chicken in here.”

“There's plenty,” Judith responded, then turned sharply
as someone pounded on the toolshed door. “One of the uniforms,” she murmured, and went to meet the visitor.

Neither Mercedes Berger nor Darnell Hicks stood within the circle of the crime scene tape. Instead, a boyish-looking man in a dark suit and muted tie surveyed Judith with cool blue eyes.

“Is this the residence of Gertrude Hoffman Grover?” he asked in a soft, polite voice.

Judith laughed. “Residence? Well, yes, it is. How can I help you?”

The man reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a badge. “FBI. I'm Agent Bruce Dunleavy. May I come in?”

Judith's eyes widened. “Yes…certainly. But I think you want to talk to me, not my…”

“Mrs. Grover,” Dunleavy began, then reintroduced himself. “How are you today?”

Gertrude, who had managed to pick out half a dozen chicken chunks and had placed them on her roll plate, frowned at the agent. “Want to go from A to Z? Let's start with my ankles, which are swollen like Goodyear blimps. B is for bladder, which is faulty, like a leaky sink. As for C, that's my carcass, a poor thing to behold…”

“Mother,” Judith broke in, “I don't think Mr. Dunleavy is interested in your health problems.”

Dunleavy, however, was chuckling softly. “My own mother has her share of complaints. Tell me, Mrs. Grover, is your maiden name Gertrude Hoffman?”

Gertrude was chewing chicken. “Gertrude Hoffman? A long time ago, maybe. You want some crappy salad?”

“No, thank you.” Dunleavy cleared his throat and remained standing, a kindly expression on his pleasant face. “Were you born in Boppard, Germany?”

Gertrude stared at Judith. “Was I?”

Judith gave a slight nod. “Of course. You came to this country with your parents when you were a year and a half.”

“Okay,” Gertrude said. “I was. Boppard. What a goofy
name. I'm glad I moved.” She turned to Judith. “Hey, dumbbell—where's my salt?”

“Your salt and pepper are on that TV table right beside you,” Judith replied. “Mr. Dunleavy, would you like to sit down? Take this armchair.”

But Dunleavy politely declined. “Did you move to Berlin in 1926 and join the National Socialist Party?”

Gertrude's face grew puzzled. “I'm a lifelong Democrat, voted all four times for FDR. Give 'Em Hell, Harry. All the way with Adlai. John F. Kennedy should be made a saint. First Catholic president. But I voted for Al Smith, too, back in twenty-eight. Fine man, Governor Smith. He should have won.”

Judith held up a hand. “Wait a minute—what's this all about? My mother has lived in the Pacific Northwest virtually all her life.”

Looking apologetic, Agent Dunleavy shook his head. “Please. Humor me. Let's stay with the questions. Did you or did you not join the National Socialist Party in nineteen twenty-six after being dismissed from your civil service post in Munich?”

Gertrude blinked at Dunleavy. “Civil service? I never took the test. I went to work as a bookkeeper, with the old Hyman and Sanford Company downtown. Now the manager, Mr. Skelly—we called him Mr. Smelly—was a staunch Republican and a teetotaler. So one night, when he made us work late with no overtime pay, we brought in some bathtub gin and…”

“Mrs. Grover.” Dunleavy's tone was kindly. “That's fascinating, but these are serious queries.”

“They're ridiculous,” Judith interrupted in an irritable tone. “My mother and I don't have any inkling of what you're talking about.”

Dunleavy drew himself up even straighter. “I'm here to investigate Gertrude Hoffman Grover on charges of war crimes while supervising the women's concentration camp at Auschwitz.”

“What?” Judith shrieked. “Are you crazy? I'm going to
have to ask you to leave. This is outrageous.”

Gertrude leaned forward in the worn armchair. “Hey, Toots, what's the rush? I like him. “She smirked at Dunleavy. “My dopey daughter doesn't want me to have any fun. It's a wonder she doesn't nail a sign over the door saying, ‘Pest House' to keep out visitors.”

Dunleavy's gaze shifted to Judith. “I have a job to do, ma'am. Please don't interfere. I'm from the Department of Justice's Office of Special Investigations. FBI agents are assigned by that office to track down and apprehend war criminals.”

“But it's stupid,” Judith insisted. “Mother hasn't been in Germany since she was an infant.” A grotesque image of Gertrude's tough, wrinkled face looking out from under a lace-trimmed baby bonnet flashed before Judith's eyes and evoked a semi-hysterical laugh.
Am I cracking up? Is this day just one long nightmare? If I poke Agent Dunleavy, will he disappear into a cloud of fairy dust
? “We have all sorts of proof that Mother's lived here almost all of her life,” Judith said, regaining control despite a vague sense of dizziness. “Shall I get some of it?”

Dunleavy made a somewhat diffident gesture of dismissal. “I'm afraid those types of proofs are easily forged. You'd be amazed at some of the things I've come across, including photos supposedly taken with General Eisenhower.”

“Ike!” sneered Gertrude. “I wouldn't have my picture taken with that old fart. I have a friend in bridge club whose sister was married to a man whose cousin's best friend used to fly Mamie around, and he said
she drank
. Now what do you think of
that
?”

“I think,” Dunleavy responded with an encouraging smile, “we should get back to my questions. When did you first become acquainted with Hermann Wilhelm Goring?”

Gertrude looked blank. “Who?”

“Goring, Hitler's second in command.” Dunleavy waited, but Gertrude said nothing. “According to our rec
ords, you first met Goring in nineteen twenty-eight, shortly after his election to the Reichstag.”

“I met a lot of people in the twenty-eight election,” Gertrude replied. “That's when I was out stumping for Al Smith.”

Judith stepped between Gertrude and Dunleavy. “That's it. I'm not obstructing justice, Mr. Dunleavy, but I can't let you badger my mother any longer. In case you didn't notice, we've had a tragedy here this morning. We're all in a state of semi-shock. My mother is elderly, she's forgetful, she's easily confused. To put it mildly, this isn't a good time.”

Dunleavy's boyish face flushed. “I know there was a homicide on the premises. I spoke with the police who are watching the house. But I'm afraid that's coincidental to my investigation.”

Gertrude thrust her head around Judith. “Are you talking about Hermann Hoover in twenty-eight? A lot you know. His name was Herbert, and he put us into a big fat depression.”

If not depressed, Dunleavy was definitely disconcerted. “It's possible that I could come back later. Mrs. Grover isn't going anywhere, is she?”

“I never go anywhere,” Gertrude snapped. “You think this lazy moron of a daughter of mine would bother herself to take me for so much as a trip to the zoo? If it weren't for my neighbors and a few others, I'd sit here and get covered with moss.”

“Mother, you hate the zoo,” Judith countered. “You haven't been there in thirty years.”

“You see?” Gertrude's chin jutted. “If it was up to her, I wouldn't have gone
anywhere
in thirty years. Hold on there, young man. Don't let Her Daffiness scare you away.”

Dunleavy, however, started for the door. “I'll be back this afternoon or tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Ha!” Gertrude cried. “I've heard that one before.” She shook a fork at Dunleavy. “You better be back. Maybe,”
she added with a coquettish look, “I'll give you some pudding.”

Judith led Dunleavy outside. “You're way off base,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Your records must be mistaken. If you come back again, Mother will still be addled. Even without the shock of a homicide on her doorstep, she's exactly what you just saw—a very old woman whose mind is in decay.”

The cool blue eyes, which seemed in such contrast to Dunleavy's boyish looks, bore into Judith's face. “Is that so?” He turned on his heel, and headed along the walk to the driveway.

Judith stood outside the toolshed in the rain. J. J. Martinez had made virtually the same remark concerning Gertrude.

There were times when Judith wondered whose mind would go first.

 

Phyliss was annoyed. “The Good Lord isn't giving me any guidance,” she complained. “I need a push, a shove, a nudge in the right direction.”

An hour had passed since Agent Dunleavy's departure. The guests had dispersed after lunch, mainly to their rooms, though Pam and Sandi were sitting in the porch swing outside the front parlor window, and the Malones were in the living room, griping about the world in general and Hillside Manor in particular.

“A nudge for what?” Judith asked the cleaning woman.

“To find my coat.” Phyllis was on her hands and knees, searching under Judith's makeshift desk. “I put it on that peg in the hall, like I always do. Now it's gone. I suppose them godless criminals stole it, thinking to ward off Satan with a cloak of virtue.”