Loco Motive: A Bed-and-Breakfast Mystery - By Mary Daheim Page 0,3

foul play. You might solve some centuries-old murders. Would that satisfy your morbid curiosity?”

“Knock it off,” Judith snapped. “You made your point and I’m in a bind.”

“The Rankerses can handle the B&B. They’re old hands at it, and they like keeping busy since Carl retired. They also get along with Aunt Gert.”

“I don’t feel right asking them to take over for such a long period of time,” Judith said.

“I’d prefer getting a professional B&B sitter.”

“You know best.”

“You’re smug.” Judith stood up. “I like it better when you’re ornery.”

“I’m versatile,” Renie said, walking Judith to the door. “There’s enough time for Bill to transfer my plane ticket to Joe. The train leaves Sunday at four forty-five. I’ve requested a lower level bedroom so you won’t have to climb so many steps. Bill can drive us to the station. We’ll pick you up at a quarter to four. Dress warmly,” she called to Judith, who had kept going to her car. “Bye.”

Judith drove up Heraldsgate Avenue in a daze. Too much had happened too fast. She’d have to talk to Joe, to the Rankerses—and to her mother. Gertrude Grover took offense at her daughter going anywhere more than ten minutes away. Fixated on such daunting tasks, Judith almost drove past Falstaff’s Grocery. It was after three when she finally got home.

“You look frazzled,” Joe said, gesturing at the four shopping bags his wife was placing on the counter. “Got any more?”

“Three,” Judith said tersely.

Joe headed outside. Judith was hanging up her car coat in the hallway when she heard someone coming down the back stairs. Since guests used the entry hall stairs, she assumed it was her cleaning woman, Phyliss Rackley.

Judith was wrong. She didn’t recognize the fair-haired young man with his uncertain smile. “Mrs. Flynn?” he said, stopping by the pantry.

“Yes? Did you check in early?”

The young man shook his head. “I’m not a guest. I’m visiting Mr. Weevil.” He held out a slim hand. “Wayne Fielding. You’re the owner?”

Judith nodded and allowed her hand to be shaken. “How can I help you?”

“You can’t.” Wayne smiled disarmingly. Up close he didn’t look as young as Judith had first thought. There were small wrinkles around his hazel eyes and his mouth, and on his forehead. She guessed he was closer to forty than thirty. “I’m going outside,” Wayne explained. “Is the back door off-limits like the phones?”

“You spoke to Pepper,” Judith said without her usual tact.

“Oh, sure,” Wayne said breezily. “She’s quite a character.”

At that moment Joe entered with the rest of the groceries. He nodded to Wayne and kept going into the kitchen.

Judith, who was still rattled, tried to focus on Wayne’s question. “You mean…” She nodded at the door. “Go ahead. Family and friends generally use our back door. Is there something you need outside?”

Wayne pointed to a camera case hanging from his left shoulder. “I’m taking some pictures. I’m Mr. Weevil’s publicist.”

Judith forced a smile. “You’re photographing my B&B? Or Mr. Weevil?”

Wayne chuckled. “I never know exactly what with Mr. Weevil.”

“What don’t you know?” Joe asked, coming up behind Judith. She gave a little start. Joe’s casual, mellow tone had served him well during his career as a police detective. She took his arm and smiled. “This is Wayne Fielding, Mr. Weevil’s publicist. He’s taking photos.”

Joe didn’t offer his hand. “I’ll go with you,” he said to Wayne. “You better be quick. It’s going to rain.”

Wayne’s grin widened. “Doesn’t it always around here?”

“Constantly,” Joe said. “Show me where you’re shooting your photos.”

The men went out the back door. Judith’s curiosity was piqued. She was about to step onto the porch when Phyliss emerged from the basement with a hamper of laundry.

“Ungodly,” Phyliss muttered. “Is Weevil really a movie star?”

“He used to be,” Judith said. “He’s famous for several things.”

“Piety isn’t one of them,” Phyliss retorted. “Taking the name of the Lord in vain, cavorting with that red-haired harlot, and pretending he’s the Angel Gabriel by jumping out the window. What kind of heathen does those things?”

“Mr. Weevil is famous for his daredevil escapades,” Judith said wearily.

Phyliss set the hamper on the floor and wagged a finger. “You see? Daring as the devil. If that’s not irreligious, what is?”

“Don’t ask me,” Judith continued as she moved onto the porch.

“Oh, drat! Here comes Mother.”

Gertrude Grover had driven her motorized wheelchair down the ramp of the converted toolshed where she’d chosen to live rather than share a roof with Joe Flynn. The old lady never called her small apartment home, but described