All the Pretty Hearses (7 page)

Judith interrupted the recital. “That makes no sense. What exactly did he say?”

“Judith . . .” Alicia seemed weary of what she apparently perceived as nuisance queries. “He mentioned a deli at first, and then . . . well, he went off on all those vulgar things that definitely were not connected to sandwiches. Or if they were, I certainly don’t want to know how.” She picked up the mixer cord and jammed it back into the socket.

Judith snatched up the phone and headed for the pantry. It wasn’t Joe who’d called. Woody had promised she’d hear from her husband, but something must have gone wrong. Alicia was as addled as the eggs she was beating. “Deli” translated as something quite different from sandwiches. Detective “Del” Delemetrios sounded more like it.

Judith called the cops.

Chapter Six

A
fter dialing police headquarters, Judith asked for the homicide division. The information on her caller ID had come up as a general City Hall number. She knew from experience that this was routine for law enforcement calls in order not to alarm or scare off the person they were trying to reach. When an operator came on the line, Judith asked for Detective Delemetrios. After a slight pause, the call was transferred. Del answered on the second ring. After identifying herself, and apologizing for the confusion at her end, Judith asked why he’d called earlier.

“No problem,” Del replied. “It’s all this paperwork. We’re also trying to keep the media at bay. The newspaper’s beat reporter is a City Hall veteran, one of the few older staffers who isn’t being forced into retirement.”

“Is that Addison Kirby, by any chance?”

“You know him?”

“Yes. So does Joe. Have you told my husband about Addison?”

“Ah . . .” Del paused. “I don’t think I mentioned him by name. Should I?”

“Let me talk to Addison first,” Judith said. “That is, I know him from the multiple murder case several years ago at Good Cheer Hospital. His wife was one of the victims. I also had some contact with him later regarding another homicide investigation.”

“I don’t remember much about the hospital murders,” Del said. “I was away at college back then. Joe Flynn worked that case?”

“It’s complicated,” Judith said. “In fact, Joe and Addison both ended up in the hospital, too.”

“Wow. Sometimes I feel as if I have a lot of catching up to do. You must’ve gotten the real inside scoop on that one.”

“As a matter of fact,” Judith confessed with some reluctance, “I was in the hospital already, and so was my cousin Serena.”

There was a longer pause. “The one who tried to cut off my tie?”

“Serena sometimes lets her temper get the best of her.”

“I’d hate to see the worst.”

“Yes, you really would,” Judith said. “But about Joe . . .”

“Excuse me,” Del said deferentially. “I’m confused. You mentioned another homicide investigation besides the hospital murders. Are you retired from the force, too?”

“Ah . . .” Judith grabbed a can of mushrooms from the pantry shelf. “No, no. I’ve just always taken an interest in my husband’s work. Not that I ever pressed him for information he couldn’t reveal, but eventually the facts came out. I think it’s important for spouses to appreciate what goes on with each other’s jobs. My job as an innkeeper keeps me so busy that I don’t have much time for outside interests.”

“I can understand why,” Del said, “but you must meet some very fascinating people. Ever had movie or rock stars stay at your inn?”

Since Judith was staring at her current guest who wasn’t really a guest, she asked Del to hold on for a moment. “Here,” she said, handing over the mushrooms.

Alicia studied them with a critical eye. “How long have you had them on the shelf?”

“A week,” Judith lied. It could have been a year, for all she remembered. “Excuse me, I’m talking to someone.”

“Not that sex fiend, I hope!”

“This is business,” Judith snapped. “It’s also private.”

Looking annoyed, Alicia returned to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Judith said into the phone. “A guest had a question. Can you
please
tell me about Joe?”

“Uh . . . not much to tell. I think he’s having something to eat.”

“In a cell?”

“Not exactly.”

Judith waited for Del to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Where is he?”

“He’s with Captain Price.”

Joe and Woody, sitting in a tree, E-A-T-I-N-G; first comes the menu, then come the drinks, then wife wonders why this all stinks.
Judith was fed up. “Are they even on the premises?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Del said. “Hey—I realize this is an unusual situation. Since you’re married to a retired police detective, you know that sometimes we have to keep investigations under wraps.”

“Of course I do, but I deserve—no, I
demand
an explanation. You’d tell any anxious spouse where her other half is. For all I know, he and Woody are at a seedy cop bar getting soused and leering at some tart in a low-cut dress.” Judith grimaced, recalling that this was the scenario that led to Joe’s elopement with Herself.

“They’re not doing anything like that,” Del said, his own patience obviously strained. “They’re both here, and they’re both trying to figure out how to conduct the investigation. Does that put your mind at ease?”

“I suppose it’ll have to,” Judith said grudgingly.

“Good,” Del responded. “If Mr. Flynn—” He stopped, and Judith could hear faint voices in the background. “Hold on,” the detective said. “Here’s Joe now.”

A moment later, Joe was on the line. “Hey—stop bugging poor Del. I’ll make this quick. Can you get into my safe where I keep my guns?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever given me the combination.”

“Maybe not,” Joe said, “but you have certain skills learned in Dan’s School of Hard Knocks. This is an open line. I prefer not giving the combination over the phone. I doubt if anyone’s listening in, but—”

“Joe,” Judith interrupted, “stop trying to upset me even more. Are you insinuating—”

“Listen to me,” he said sharply. “See if you can open the damned safe and take out the .38 Smith & Wesson. After you do that, call Del immediately and he’ll have someone dispatched to collect it. Okay?”

“This all seems so cloak-and-dagger. Are you saying that your gun is in the safe? I thought you told me the police were holding it until the tests came back.” Judith waited for a response, but heard nothing. “Joe? Joe!”

The phone had gone dead.

J
udith exited the pantry, gazing at the back stairs across the hall. She wondered if she should try to open the safe immediately. It had been a while since she’d had to figure out the combination for a safe. Life with Dan McMonigle had been fraught with unpleasant surprises, including a foreclosure notice on the house they owned in the Wilmont district across the canal. On another occasion, Judith had seen an envelope from the IRS that she suspected was a notice about back taxes. Dan had foiled her when he grabbed the envelope, removed the letter . . . and ate it.

When her late and not always lamented husband installed a safe in their squalid rental house on Thurlow Street, he’d refused to give her the combination. After the repo man had towed away their car, Judith decided she had to find out what was going on with their finances—or lack thereof. Her early attempts to open the safe proved futile, but she finally figured it out. What she found—along with a pile of losing racetrack tickets—was all bad news, but at least she was prepared for the worst. And of course the worst always happened.

She was still mulling when a chipper Reggie Beard-Smythe bounded down the back stairs. “How’s that soufflé coming?” he inquired with a toothsome smile.

“Ask your wife. It sounds as if she’s still in the mixing process.” Judith was about to go up the stairs, but stopped. “Where’s Mayo?”

Reggie turned just before he reached the kitchen. “Asleep. He’s very well behaved.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I almost forgot. It would
appear
that the bathroom in Room Three is shared by the adjacent room. Is that possible?”

“Yes,” Judith said.

“But . . .” Reggie moved back toward Judith. “Room Three is the most expensive? Without a private bath? Isn’t that . . . peculiar?”

“No,” Judith said. “Rooms Five and Six also share a bathroom, and there’s another one in the middle of the hall on the other side of Room Four. We seldom have a problem. Most guests tend to be courteous about sharing. This is an inn, not a hotel.”

Alicia’s head appeared from around the open kitchen entrance. “No private bath? Oh, Judith, that simply won’t do! We’re going to give Mayo a bath tomorrow.”

Judith was taken aback. “You mean in the bathtub?”

“Of course.” Alicia came into the hallway, a cheese grater in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “We always do at home, but can’t without any gas. Our furnace and hot-water tank both run on gas. Mayo does so enjoy a good soak.”

“But doesn’t dog hair clog the drain?” Judith asked. “Mayo’s a rather shaggy sort of breed.”

Reggie shook his head. “We cover the drain. It’s never a problem.”

“Make sure you do that here,” Judith said, not wanting to get into an argument. “And please be mindful of the other guests. Granted, we’re not at full capacity, but I wouldn’t want the one bathroom that has a full tub off-limits for very long. The other bathrooms have only showers. And by the way,” she went on, looking Reggie in the eye, “do you know how your luggage fell down the front stairs?”

Reggie looked surprised. “It did? I wondered what had happened to it. I could’ve sworn I brought it up to our room. Where is it now?”

“In the entry hall—along with the broken stand that it hit on the way down.”

Reggie looked relieved. “Oh, thank you so much. I’ll fetch it right now. It’s not damaged, I hope?”

“No, but the antique stand has lost a leg,” Judith said.

Alicia burst into laughter. “That is
too
funny!” She glanced at Reggie as he hurried through the kitchen, apparently to recover his suitcase. “Lost a leg! Oh my!” She turned away from Judith and began spooning grated cheese into a glass mixing bowl.

Judith shook her head in dismay. In the distance, she heard some of her paying guests wishing one another a pleasant evening. Apparently the social hour was over. She wished the entire evening were over as well. The Beard-Smythes were getting on her already frayed nerves.

Taking her time, she went up the back stairs, pausing to make sure Mayo wasn’t marauding around the hallway, doing God only knew what to some of her other belongings. But everything seemed in order. She opened the door to the narrow stairway that led to the family quarters. By the time she entered Joe’s office, she was worn-out.

Flipping on the light, she sat down in the desk chair and wheeled herself over to the small black safe by the bookcase. Would Joe use his birthday, address, or any other personal data as part of the combination? Probably not. That was too obvious. His favorite number was six, though she’d never known why. Several minutes passed without inspiration. The safe was set on zero. She reached for the dial to see if she could utilize her rusty skills. The door swung open. It had never been locked in the first place. Judith heaved a huge sigh of relief.

She saw a familiar black leather belt holster first, but it contained Joe’s Glock 9mm. The tan shoulder holster held his Beretta. The Smith & Wesson was gone, along with the brown high-ride holster. The only other gun-related items in the safe were boxes of ammo. All of the other items were related to personal and business records.

Judith was stumped. Nothing made sense. She was certain that Joe’s Smith & Wesson had been confiscated by the police. Why would he ask her to get it out of the safe? But why was the safe open? Joe would never have left it that way. Was it possible that the gun had been returned to him before he was hauled off to headquarters? That struck her as unlikely. But there was no logical explanation, and Judith clung to logic like a mountain climber clutches a dry rope.

Swiveling in the chair, she scoured the room for any sign of disturbance. Joe was reasonably tidy and remarkably organized, a lifelong habit from his police job. Everything looked perfectly normal.

Judith had no choice but to let Joe know that his Smith & Wesson was missing. She flipped through his Rolodex, hoping to find a direct line to Homicide. To her relief, it looked as if he had already written down Woody’s new number. But Woody didn’t answer. Instead, Judith got a standard recorded message. She hung up and tried the homicide listing on another Rolodex card.

A man with an unfamiliar voice answered. Judith was momentarily put off. “I’m trying to reach Captain Woodrow Price or Detective Delemetrios. His first name is . . . Keith, I think.”

“Neither of them is available,” the man at the other end said almost too quickly. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes,” Judith said, “and it’s urgent. I’d prefer that Captain—”

“They’re gone for the day,” the voice interrupted. “If it’s urgent, hang up and call 911.”

“No! This isn’t an emergency, but it
is
urgent. My husband—”

“Ma’am,” the man said, obviously making an effort to be patient, “any domestic problems can be handled either by calling 911 or our nonemergency number at—”

Judith slammed the phone down. Fuming with frustration, she tired to think rationally. Was she purposely being stonewalled or merely dealing with somebody who thought she was a head case? Either way, she felt helpless. She finally picked up the phone again, made sure she hadn’t broken it, and dialed Renie’s number. To her dismay, the call went to the Joneses’ voice mail. If her cousin was talking to her mother, it might take at least half an hour to get Aunt Deb off the line. Judith left a message anyway.

Feeling worn-out as well as discouraged, she got out of the chair to close the safe. A yellow Post-it note fluttered to the floor. Judith didn’t want to risk bending down to pick it up, so she got back into the chair and moved closer to the safe. Being tall had definite advantages; long legs equaled long arms. She retrieved the scrap of paper and read what had been printed on it:
SF OR LA
. The initials meant nothing more to her than a reference to San Francisco and Los Angeles. The printing didn’t tell her much either. Joe could’ve written it, though he usually printed in caps and lowercase. Unless the
OR
stood for Oregon, but that didn’t make sense between allusions to two California cities. Apparently the note had been stuck to something in the safe. Maybe it was connected to his work or his private documents. She put the Post-it back in the safe, closed the door—and wondered if she should lock it. Maybe not. If Joe wanted her to search for anything else, she might not be able to open the safe. But she didn’t like the idea of leaving the two remaining guns in an accessible place. She was trying to figure out another hiding spot when the phone rang.