Legs Benedict Read online

  “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.

  EIGHT

  JOE’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 Smi
th. 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 records, 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.”

  “Could be,” Judith remarked, her attention diverted by the calls that had piled up while she was out of earshot of the phone.

  “I’ve had that coat for almost ten years,” Phyliss went on. “I paid good money for it, too. Thirty-five dollars at a Belle Epoch sale. Now how I am supposed to get home without a coat? Maybe that young fella who came asking for your mother grabbed it. He looked fishy to me. Mrs. Wartz thought so, too.”

  “That’s Mrs. Schwartz,” Judith said, taking down the telephone numbers. Two requests for reservations, one in July, the other in August; a reminder from the dentist for a cleaning the following week; and, most intriguingly, a call from J. J. Martinez.

  “What?” Judith finally gave Phyliss her full attention. “No one would take your coat, Phyliss.” Ten years worth of wear on a cheap black raincoat had rendered the garment shabby, baggy, and frayed around the edges.

  But Phyliss was right: The raincoat wasn’t on its usual peg. “Did you check the upstairs and the basement? You might not have taken it off when you came in. You were a bit late, remember?”

  “’Course I checked the upstairs and basement,” Phyliss answered crossly. “Besides, I remember hanging it right here.” She grabbed the empty peg and gave it a shake. “My plastic rain bonnet was in the pocket. Now how can I wait for the bus in this bad weather? I’ll take a chill and end up with pneumonia.”

  “You can borrow one of my coats,” Judith said. “I may have a rain b
onnet tucked away somewhere.”

  “That’s not the point,” Phyliss said doggedly. “I want my own coat.”

  Judith sighed. “Your coat may have gotten moved. We’ve had so much activity around here this morning, including a thorough search of the house. I’m sure it’ll turn up. Meanwhile, I’ll go up to the family quarters and get you another raincoat.”

  Phyliss began to reiterate her stand that only her own coat would do, but Judith was already halfway up the back stairs. Three minutes later, she returned to the kitchen with the navy blue raincoat she seldom wore. Judith preferred jackets and car coats.

  “I found a rain bonnet in a drawer,” Judith said, helping a reluctant Phyllis into the coat. “Key Largo Bank gave them away awhile back as a special promotion.” Judith had tucked the gift away, preferring to wear a tin bucket on her head rather than a plastic rain bonnet.

  With much grumbling, Phyliss exited through the back door. Judith picked up the phone and dialed the number J. J. had left for her on the answering machine.

  J. J. wasn’t available, however. Neither was Rich Goldman. Frustrated, Judith checked her bookings for the dates that the callers had requested. She was full up for the two nights in July that a Mrs. Carter from Bloomington, Illinois, had wanted, but had one room left for the August reservations that had been required by Ms. Holcombe in Denver. Judith was about to call Mrs. Carter back when Barney Schwartz stomped into the kitchen.

  “Where’s Ma?” he demanded, his head swiveling in every direction. “You seen her?”

  “No,” Judith responded, setting the phone down. “She hasn’t been in the kitchen that I know of.”

  Barney was very red in the face as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and chewed on his lower lip. “This is crazy. I checked all the cans upstairs, the downstairs can, too. I even tried to open that door down the hall that’s marked private, but it was locked. Could she have gone in there?”

  “That’s the staircase that goes up to the third floor,” Judith answered, feeling worry build at the pit of her stomach. “I was up there just a few minutes ago. Nobody was around. Besides, we always keep that door locked.”