Free Legs Benedict by Mary Daheim

Judith handed him one of the jackets. “Both. Mr. Smith, by the way, was shot in the head and chest at close range.”
    â€œOh!” Judith almost dropped her own jacket. “Then he was murdered?”
    â€œCome on, Jude-girl! What else?” Joe’s green eyes flashed in anger. “Here I am, thirty-odd years on the force, wanting to end my career peacefully. Even if I’d transferred out of Homicide—which I considered—I couldn’t have avoided this .” His hand swept over the inert body of John Smith.
    Judith knew what her husband was thinking. “It’s not my fault,” she said hastily as sirens wailed in the distance. “I can’t pick and choose who stays at the B&B.”
    Joe didn’t reply. He had turned away from Judith, gazing through the rain at the driveway. Sure enough, two patrol cars pulled in almost immediately.
    Neither Judith nor Joe knew the officers who were on duty. Mercedes Berger and Darnell Hicks looked very young to Judith, and not long out of the police academy. Indeed, they seemed astonished when Joe informed them there was a homicide victim in the backyard.
    â€œIt’s so quiet here on Heraldsgate Hill,” Darnell murmured.
    â€œWe thought it was just a break-in,” Mercedes said under her breath.
    Darnell, whose cocoa-colored face looked as if it didn’t need to be shaved more than once a week, edged nervously toward the body. “Ooof!” he exclaimed, recoiling. “Careful, Merce, there’s…blood.”
    â€œOh!” Mercedes put a hand over her mouth, big blue eyes staring at John Smith’s inert form.
    Judith heard Joe heave a sigh. She knew that even the most raw of police officers were prepared for violence before they hit the streets. Perhaps this was the first time that Berger and Hicks had faced reality.
    â€œRookies?” Joe asked. “How come you’re on the same beat?”
    â€œMike O’Shea is in the hospital,” Darnell replied.
    â€œThis neighborhood usually doesn’t have real crime,” Mercedes said.
    Joe regarded the pair with irritation that evolved quickly into pity. Maybe, Judith thought, he was remembering his own rookie days as a cop. The sight of his first dead teenager, a drug overdose, had sent him-straight to a bar and into the arms of the woman who became the first Mrs. Flynn.
    Joe flashed his badge. “I know the drill, okay? So relax. I live here, and this is my wife.” He introduced Judith. The ritual seemed to calm the rookie cops. “Now,” Joe went on, “here’s what we do…”
    The medics and the ambulance had arrived. Judith went down the driveway to meet them. To her dismay, one of the medics was Ray Kinsella, who had shown up at Hillside Manor when a fortune teller had met an untimely end in Judith’s dining room. Ray had also been called in four years later when a neighbor had been murdered.
    â€œMrs. Flynn?” Ray said, peering at Judith through the rain. “Don’t tell me…”
    Judith gave an impatient shake of her head. “I’m afraid so. It’s one of our guests. He’s been shot dead.”
    Kinsella signaled to the other emergency personnel, apparently conveying the message that there wasn’t any rush. “Jeez,” he said, joining Judith as they walked back to the toolshed, “do you know what happened?”
    â€œNo. Joe’s here, he’s briefing the patrol officers. They’re a bit…green.” Judith gave Ray a sickly smile.
    Ray nodded. “Berger and Hicks? Nice kids. I’ve worked with them a couple of times on traffic accidents at the bottom of the hill.”
    Joe was still talking to the rookies. Huddled against the backdrop of a wet, gray morning, the trio struck Judith as dismal. John Smith’s corpse didn’t do much to brighten the scene.
    Gertrude had finally shut up. Realizing that she couldn’t tend to her