Legs Benedict Page 5

  Joe had settled down on the loveseat next to Judith and found the channel that was carrying baseball. “Didn’t you go through the usual spiel?”

  “No,” Judith replied. Despite Joe’s muffled curse as the left-fielder dropped an easy fly ball, she continued, “Mr. Smith said he and Mrs. Smith could manage without me. Then, when I saw them just before they left for dinner, I didn’t remember. I wonder if they tried to get into the bathroom and found it was locked from the other side. They didn’t say so, but they’d only been here about an hour before they left again. Still, you’d think that after a long car trip, they’d need to…”

  Joe didn’t hear a word of his wife’s ramblings. He was accustomed to Judith’s verbal fussing about the B&B guests, which he’d learned to tune out early on in their marriage. But his attention was caught when Judith suddenly grabbed his arm and let out a little yip.

  “Joe!” she cried, her dark eyes wide. “Did you say you found that gun in Room Three?”

  Reluctantly, Joe turned away from a bases loaded, two men out situation. “Yeah, right. Why?”

  “Are you sure?” Judith gave her husband’s arm a little shake.

  “Of course I’m sure. Room Three, the big room that looks out over the bay.” Covertly, he tried to watch the three-and-two pitch.

  “But Joe,” Judith said in a rush, “Barney and Min Schwartz aren’t in Room Three. They’re in Room Four.” She swallowed hard. “John Smith and his wife are in Room Three. He’s the one with the gun.”

  The grand slam that sank the home team didn’t seem half as bad to Judith as the sinking feeling she was beginning to have about John Smith.

  FOUR

  AS THE WINNING run crossed home plate, Joe switched off the TV in disgust. “You say the Smiths are in Room Three?” he asked, turning to face Judith. “I thought they were in Room Four. I checked the registration.”

  “You must have read it wrong,” Judith said, still sounding shaken.

  Joe grimaced. “Maybe I reversed the room numbers. Damn! It’s pointless to run a John Smith through the computer.”

  “Can you ask for his ID?”

  “Smith’s?” Joe looked at Judith over the can of beer. His green eyes with the gold flecks weren’t dancing. He was wearing his official face, all business under a seemingly mild exterior. “He may have phony ID,” Joe said. “Then again, while it’s a long shot, John Smith could be his real name. As you may recall, it happens.”

  Judith definitely recalled the man who really was John Smith. He had been a disc jockey who had tempted fate once too often and come to a tragic end. “Are you still going to check up on Barney?” Judith inquired, putting her memories of the encounter aside.

  “Probably. His reaction today set off bad vibes.” Joe finished his beer and glanced at his watch. “But first, we’ll have a word with the current John Smith. It’s almost nine-thirty. The guests should start straggling in soon.”

  Judith stood up. “Let’s go. Drat, I’m really dreading this.”

  The Flynns waited in the cozy front parlor with its stone fireplace and matching wingback chairs. Through one of the two doors, they had a partial view of the entry hall, the other door looked out into the living room. Joe appeared absorbed in a western novel. Judith used the wait to sort through her collection of jigsaw puzzles. Usually, she had a puzzle set out on a card table near the baby grand, but the most recent one had been completed over the weekend. In a desultory manner, she rejected Mad Ludwig’s Bavarian castle, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and a herd of cows grazing in Wisconsin.

  Shortly before ten, the Malones arrived. Joe turned, but Judith shook her head. “Not Smiths,” she mouthed.

  Bea and Mal had discovered the cake. “Sheesh! Who the hell is Omar?” grumbled Mal from around the corner. “Are we supposed to eat this thing?”

  “Why else would it be here?” Bea asked, sounding irritated. “There’s coffee, see? And paper plates. Dig in.”

  “I dunno,” Mal said. “I feel kind of guilty. Here we are, stuffing ourselves, and poor Corelli is…”

  “Stop!” Bea broke in. “Don’t even talk about Corelli. I never want to hear his name again. We got to keep going, forget the past. Eat some cake, before I start blubbering again.”

  The couple went silent, except for the sound of loud chewing and a punctuating belch by Mal. Then, through the partially open door, Judith saw the pair head up the stairs. From the glimpse she managed to get, it looked to Judith as if the Malones had taken almost half the big sheet cake.

  “Hogs,” she muttered to Joe. “Who’s Corelli?”

  “Who knows?” said Joe. “A relative? A friend? Mal’s barber?”

  Pete and Marie Santori arrived next, a few minutes after Judith had locked up at ten. “How do we lock up?” Marie asked her husband.

  Judith could hear Pete fiddling with the locks. “I think I got it. Let’s go to bed. I’m beat.”

  “Sure,” Marie replied, her voice flat. “This hasn’t come up all roses.” They proceeded up the stairs.

  Judith gave Joe a curious look. “What happened to all that newlywed exuberance?” she asked, keeping her voice down.

  Joe snorted. “As I recall, I broke my leg in a dune buggy on our honeymoon. That wasn’t all roses, either.”

  “But Pete and Marie are all in one piece,” Judith pointed out.

  “Physically,” Joe responded. “Emotionally, they may be fractured. First fight. Do you remember ours?”

  Judith grinned. “I sure do. You wanted to donate Mother to medical science. While she was still alive.”

  “The hell I did,” Joe grinned back. “I only wanted to send her away for some tests.”

  “In the Gulag Archipelago?” Judith’s laughter was interrupted by the arrival of Barney and Min Schwartz. The Flynns sat very still as mother and son went into the living room.

  “Hey, Ma, want some cake?” Barney asked from the living room.

  “No, thank you,” Min replied in her inflexible manner. “I’ve had my fill for the evening. That torte was a bit stale, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t mind,” Barney replied. “It was kind of a small slice, though. Maybe I’ll take some of this cake upstairs.”

  “You should watch your diet more closely,” Min said with reproach in her voice. “As I’ve told you many times, your father was quite stout.”

  “Aw, come on, Ma, just a little piece,” Barney wheedled. “It won’t kill me.”

  There was a pause. “Oh…very well. Sweets didn’t kill your father, after all.” There was a note of bitterness in Min’s voice. “I don’t suppose they’ll kill you, either, will they?”

  “Ma…” Barney sounded aggrieved. “Cut it out. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” Chilling sarcasm dripped from Min’s words, but Barney kept mum. A moment later, the Schwartzes went up to the second floor.

  “What did that mean?” Judith whispered.

  “Barney’s health?” Joe whispered back.

  Selecting a puzzle featuring a tropical island paradise, Judith put the rest back in the cupboard. “If Barney’s taking medicine,” she noted, “it’s not for diabetes.”

  Half an hour passed before Pam and Sandi returned. “Wow,” Judith heard Sandi say, “that Hexagon gets pretty wild! Are you sure you got all your underwear back, Pam?”

  “I got somebody’s underwear back,” Pam replied with a giggle. “I’m just not sure it’s mine. Boy, I’m glad our students’ parents couldn’t see us tonight! I loved it when you kept yelling, ’On your bottoms, hands to yourself, all eyes on me!’”

  Sandi also giggled. “Those guys who came on to us—don’t you think they were a little young?”

  “They had to be twenty-one,” Pam replied as the two young women started up the stairs. “That’s the legal drinking age in this state.”

  “Still,” said Sandi, “I wonder if they didn’t sneak in. I thought they looked like college freshmen.”

  “So?” re
torted Pam. “We deserve a little fun. Between us, we’ve had more misery than…” Her voice faded as they turned the corner on the second landing.

  Judith sat back in her chair. “Goodness, they sound sort of bitter.”

  “Cut them some slack,” Joe said. “How would you like to be in charge of spoiled brats who have to be spoon-fed and wet their pants?”

  Judith scowled at Joe. “I am. Have you forgotten Mother?”

  Joe sighed. “I try, but it doesn’t happen. Every time I go out the back door, I see the toolshed, squatting there like some poisonous toadstool.”

  “Joe…” The reproach in Judith’s voice was tempered by amusement, but she broke off as the front door opened again.

  John and Darlene Smith entered. Neither spoke as one of them, presumably John, locked the front door. Then Judith saw the couple start up the stairs. Joe, who was already on his feet, moved quickly into the entry hall.

  “Excuse me,” he said in the deceptively congenial voice he used when interrogating suspects. “Could I have a word with you in the parlor?”

  “Sure,” John responded without betraying any curiosity. “What’s up?”

  Darlene followed her husband, while Judith smiled politely. Joe offered Mrs. Smith the chair he’d vacated; John lounged gracefully against the mantelpiece.

  “There’s a rule against weapons at Hillside Manor,” Joe said without preamble. “I’ve had to confiscate your gun, Mr. Smith.”

  John’s hazel eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What gun?”

  “The Glock nine-millimeter,” Joe replied. “The gun I found in the nightstand next to the bed in Room Three.”

  Retaining his careless air, John looked straight at Joe. “Who are you? The night watchman?”

  Joe didn’t blink. “In a way. I watch out for my wife, Mrs. Flynn.” He gave a nod in Judith’s direction. “Are you saying you don’t own a gun, Mr. Smith?”

  “That’s what it sounds like,” John replied, then looked at Darlene. “When did you start packing, babe?” he asked in an amused tone.

  Darlene’s crimson lips curved into a smile. “Like never? What’s he talking about?” She patted her copper-colored curls and gazed soulfully at Joe.

  John gave a careless shrug. “Then I don’t know what to say. Somebody else must have left it there. Or,” he added, his tone vaguely sinister, “do you always go through the rooms when your guests are out?”

  Getting to her feet, Judith stepped between Joe and John Smith. “We never do that. Guests know the rules and regulations, or should, since they’re in the guidebooks and posted on the Internet. Thus, we have no occasion to snoop. But this was an unusual situation, what with Mr. Schwartz’s strange behavior this evening.”

  For a split second, John Smith’s eyes seemed to glitter. “Schwartz? What happened?”

  Judith had forgotten that the Smiths weren’t present when Barney had panicked at the sight of Joe’s holster. “It’s a long story,” Judith said, with a quick glance at her husband.

  Joe nodded once. “The incident forced me to search Schwartz’s room. I made a mistake, and went into yours. Let’s leave it at that. You can have the gun back when you leave. It’s perfectly legal to own a gun in this state.”

  “But it’s not my gun.” A thin smile played at John Smith’s mouth. “Keep it. Or sell it. It’s nothing to me.” He gestured to Darlene, who wore a bored expression. “By the way, why was the bathroom door locked in our room?”

  “Oh!” Judith was embarrassed. “I forgot to tell you. Mr. Schwartz’s mother is elderly and requires privacy. There’s another bathroom just outside your door in the hall. I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. I promised Mrs. Schwartz she could have the connecting bathroom to herself.”

  “Not anymore,” John Smith smirked. “Before we went out, I picked the lock. Come on, Darl, let’s head for bed. We can have a nightcap up there.”

  Judith winced. Guests weren’t officially permitted to bring liquor into the B&B, but the rule was virtually unenforceable. Given the gun issue and her own oversight about the bathroom, she let the infraction slide.

  “Sure, why not?” Darlene rose from the chair, shaking out her copper curls. “G’night, all.” Judith caught a whiff of jasmine as the young woman wriggled her way out of the parlor.

  “Well?” sighed Judith. “What do you think?”

  Joe turned out the Tiffany dragonfly lamp that sat on the small table between the wingback chairs. “I think John Smith is one slippery character who’s not above picking locks and lying about guns. Unless…Who stayed in that room Sunday night?”

  “The Coopers, from South Dakota,” Judith replied. “They’re in their eighties. Anyway, Phyliss goes through the drawers and everything else after guests check out, just in case they’ve forgotten something.”

  Always the gentleman, Joe stepped aside to let Judith precede him from the parlor. “Then Smith’s definitely lying. I thought so all along. But I don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “No,” Judith said, then suddenly remembered the note in her pocket. “Drat. I found a slip of paper under the piano. I should have asked the guests about it. Maybe I’ll just pin it on the message board by the registration book.” She went to the little desk and used a pushpin to attach the note to the small piece of corkboard framed with Victorian hearts and flowers. The names—“Legs-Hoffa-Provenzano”—boldly stared out at her, and set her spine a-tingle. Hastily, she removed the note and put it in the pocket of her slacks.

  “What did the note say?” Joe asked, waiting by the gateleg table in the living room.

  Damping down the inexplicable spurt of alarm, Judith lifted one shoulder as they went into the living room. “It’s gibberish to me.” She reached behind the table. “I’m going to unplug the coffee urn and put the cake away. There’s no reason to stay up for Mr. du Turque. He may have gone to some of the local jazz clubs.”

  “I’ll carry the urn,” Joe volunteered. “Jeez, there’s not much cake left.”

  “Good,” said Judith, scooping crumbs into her hand. “I’ll give the rest to Mother. By the way, you didn’t mention to the Smiths that you’re a cop.”

  “Of course not,” Joe replied, getting a grip on the urn. “They weren’t here when the rest of the guests found out. It might be a good thing if Mr. and Mrs. Smith don’t know. You said they aren’t mingling with the rest of this bunch.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, leading the way into the kitchen. Then, as she covered the cake with cellophane wrap, she turned to Joe. “Why wouldn’t John Smith admit having a gun? It’s not as if we’d fine him or report him. We’d just hang onto it until they checked out.”

  “Good question,” Joe said, pouring out what was left of the coffee. “That’s why I didn’t tell him I was a cop.”

  It rained again during the night. When Judith got up at six o’clock she felt sluggish. Maybe it was the weather: As a native Pacific Northwesterner, rain during the fall, winter, and early spring didn’t bother her. But in June, gray skies and relentless drizzle could get depressing.

  Or perhaps she was tired. Because they waited up for the Smiths, she and Joe hadn’t gotten to bed until almost midnight. Judith didn’t feel rested. Indeed, she had a sense of having her sleep interrupted, though she didn’t recall waking up during the night.

  Listlessly, she prepared breakfast for the guests as well as for Joe, Gertrude, and herself. The fare would be simpler than usual. Instead of pancakes or waffles, Judith would serve toast, rolls, an egg dish, ham, fresh fruit, three kinds of juice, and coffee and tea. The informal sit-down breakfast for guests in the dining room started at eight, though often stragglers didn’t show up until going on ten.

  Joe, also looking sleepy, came down at seven, his usual time. He seemed uncharacteristically quiet as they ate, concentrating on the morning paper.

  “The front door was unlocked this morning when I went out to get the paper,” Judith remarked, pouring more coffee. “Mr. du Turque must have forgo
tten.”

  “Remind him,” Joe murmured over the local news section.

  “I will.” Judith removed her plate and put it in the dishwasher, then began to put Gertrude’s meal together. “Mother won’t like this egg dish with the cheese and bacon in it. She’ll say it’s too fancy for breakfast. Scrambled eggs are about as exotic as she likes.”

  “Then give her the ham and scramble some eggs,” Joe suggested.

  “No. It’s a matter of principle. Though,” Judith allowed, filling a carafe with coffee, “it’s hard enough these days to get her to eat anything wholesome. She’d probably prefer the rest of the cake.”

  At the back door, the screen rattled, signaling Sweetums’s arrival. “He’s early,” Judith remarked. “That probably means Mother is up and has already thrown him out.”

  Sweetums entered the hallway looking wet and bedraggled. He mewed angrily, and tried to claw Judith’s leg. “You look like you’ve been out all night,” she said in reproach, then reached down to pet the cat. “Joe, we’ve got to fix that little flap out here so Sweetums can get in when Mother ignores him. The pet door has been broken since Memorial Day when Auntie Vance tried to kick Sweetums and got her foot stuck.”

  “Okay, come the weekend,” Joe said without looking up from the paper. “Tell me about it then.”

  Judith hurriedly got out a can of cat food and poured milk into a bowl. Sweetums was shaking himself, sending wet drops all over Judith’s shoes. She reached down to wipe them off and let out a little shriek.

  “Yikes! I must have cut myself opening that cat food.” Peering at her hand, Judith started for the sink, then stopped. “It’s not me. It must be Sweetums.” She grabbed the cat and pulled him onto her knee. “Did you get into another fight, you bellicose little beast?”

  Sure enough, there was blood on Sweetums’s fur. But upon closer inspection, Judith saw no sign of a wound. “Weird,” she breathed. “Where did this come from?” Setting the cat back on his feet, she quickly washed her hands. “Could it be Mother?” Her voice had risen. “Good God, what now?” Without bothering to grab Gertrude’s tray, Judith raced out of the house.