Free Legs Benedict by Mary Daheim Page B

couldn’t hide her surprise. “Let me know if you need anything.” Starting from the room, she glanced at the divan with its cut-velvet rose motif. In years gone by, it had been kept in the front parlor, where Grandma Grover referred to it as “the lounge.” Grandma had often laid down in the late afternoon “to rest my eyes,” as she had phrased it. Now it served mainly as an added fillip to the more expensive Room Three. But for once, the divan had been put to use: sheets, a blanket, and a pillow covered most of the cut-velvet upholstery. Judith wondered why.
    But this was not the time to ask. She left without another word, and as she closed the door, Judith heard Darlene erupt into another bout of laughter.
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    The Schwartzes were coming out of Room Four as Judith started down the stairs. Turning, she saw mother and son staring at her with curious expressions.
    â€œWhat’s all the ruckus next door?” Barney asked.
    â€œWe heard sirens a few minutes ago,” Minerva put in. “They woke us up. What kind of a neighborhood is this? I thought you said it was quiet.”
    Judith swallowed hard. “I did. It is. Usually. But this morning…” She made a futile gesture with one hand. “Please. Come downstairs, and I’ll explain to everyone in just a few minutes.”
    By the time Judith had breakfast ready to serve, Roland du Turque, the Schwartzes, and the preschool teachers had arrived. Apparently, the Malones had passed on the news about John Smith’s death. Naturally, the guests were agog. Mal and Bea, however, were not fazed, since they were already stuffing themselves with toast, ham, and eggs. Since Pete and Marie Santori had already appeared earlier, Judith assumed they were getting dressed.
    â€œPlease, not now—I’ll be right back,” she promised amid a barrage of questions in the dining room.
    Berger and Hicks had given way to the homicide detectives who had arrived in the unmarked city car. Judith recognized the two men from departmental functions, but she didn’t recall their names.
    Joe, looking wet and irritable, introduced her. “My wife,” he said in a tone that suggested Judith might as well be the Grim Reaper. “Do you remember J. J. Martinez and Rich Goldman?”
    â€œOf course,” Judith said, as the names clicked in. Jesus Jorge Martinez, a wiry, intense man of about fifty, had been one of Joe’s first partners in Homicide; Richard Goldman was a relative newcomer, not yet thirty, with an eager air still undampened by age and experience.
    â€œA real shame,” J. J. remarked, with a swift, anxious glance at John Smith’s body. “You mind?” he asked Joe.
    â€œMind?” Joe grimaced. “Do I mind having a stiff in the backyard? Or do I mind you and Rich taking over? Hell, J. J., it’s all yours. Besides, I’m a suspect, right?” For the first time, a spark of humor surfaced in Joe’s green eyes.
    J. J. winced. “Well—technically. Right.” He cleared his throat. “The M.E.’ll be along pretty soon. You and Mrs. Flynn want to go back inside?”
    â€œI’ll wait,” Joe said, then turned to Judith. “Go ahead, feed the guests. I’ll…”
    A fierce pounding resounded from inside the toolshed. Everyone turned, including J. J., who had jumped right off the wet ground. “What’s that?” he asked in alarm. “Somebody in there?”
    â€œNo,” Joe replied with a straight face. “Ignore it.”
    â€œIt’s my mother,” Judith snapped, pushing past Joe and trying to step around the corpse. “Mother! Can you wait?”
    â€œI already did,” Gertrude yelled back. “That horse’s behind you call a husband locked me in!”
    J. J. had grabbed Joe’s arm. “Is that a witness? Or a suspect?”
    Joe brightened. “Both?”
    Judith glanced over her shoulder.