Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  “Great,” Joe groaned. “It sounds like they’re all being tortured.”

  “I don’t think so,” Judith said, now forced to shout as the din grew louder. “Joe, would you take the summer wreath down from the front door and pull the planters over to the far side of the porch? Nottingham’s is going to bring a theme wreath and some wedding trees tomorrow.”

  “Nottingham’s is going to get rich,” Joe retorted, but he headed for the front entrance. Phyliss descended into the kitchen hallway, still singing her head off.

  “Now there’s some fine Christian folks,” she declared, her gray sausage curls bobbing. “Not a queer one in the bunch. They don’t mind me cleaning their rooms with them in it. It’s not like regular guests, after all. They aren’t paying.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Judith said as the stamping and the singing died away. “Go ahead, I’ve already put in a load from the third-floor family quarters. It should be ready for the dryer by now.”

  As Phyliss would have put it, she was happy as a pig in slop as she marched off on her rounds. Sweetums still lay on the kitchen floor, chin on paws. His yellow eyes blinked with effort. Maybe a call to the vet was in order. Judith leaned against the counter, trying to tell herself it was too early to have a headache. She was losing the argument even as she heard shouts from the front of the house. Hurrying outside, she saw the neighborhood patrol car with the familiar faces of Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. Between them, they held onto a frantic, struggling, doubled-over figure. Joe had gone to the curb of the cul-de-sac and was waving his arms.

  “Goon squad! Pigs! Stooges!” cried the flailing figure. “Shoot me! Why not? You’ll whitewash it, like everything else!”

  “Hold it!” Joe shouted. “That’s Uncle Gurd!”

  Corazon Perez’s limpid brown eyes widened as she loosened her hold on the suspect. “You know this guy? Somebody called about a bum sleeping in the Rankers’s hedge.”

  Ted Doyle also slackened his grip. “Are you sure? He seems kind of loco to me.”

  “That doesn’t mean he isn’t Uncle Gurd,” Joe said dryly, making enigmatic hand gestures at the officers. “I know you police personnel have to do your duty, but I assure you, he’s just an average citizen like me.”

  Perez and Doyle both blinked at Joe, then exchanged swift glances. “Oh,” said Perez, finally letting go of Uncle Gurd who fell onto the pavement and rolled up in a ball, “I understand. We’re sorry to have bothered you. But further trouble could be avoided if you told the other neighbors that you’ve got a guest sleeping in the hedge.”

  “We’ll do that,” Joe said, motioning vigorously for Perez and Doyle to take off. “Trust us. We don’t want any trouble around here.”

  Silently, Judith agreed. On the day before her son’s wedding, she certainly wasn’t looking for trouble.

  But trouble had already found her. Phyliss erupted from the house, screaming. “Pestilence! Boils! A plague of locusts! It’s Armageddon!”

  Joe and the patrol officers turned, but Uncle Gurd remained on the ground in a fetal position. Judith staggered as Phyliss fell into her arms.

  “Death everywhere!” shrieked the cleaning woman. “Entrails! Decay! Stench! Save me from the fiery furnace!”

  Now Perez and Doyle looked alarmed. It wouldn’t be the first time that a corpse had turned up in the cul-de-sac. Murder might be Joe Flynn’s profession, but sometimes it seemed like it was also Judith’s middle name. Over the years, she had often found herself involved in homicide investigations, most of which had nothing to do with her husband’s job.

  “Calm down!” Judith ordered, giving Phyliss a shake. “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened.”

  Nose to chin with Judith, Phyliss’s eyes crossed. Then her stocky body shuddered and she seemed to relax a bit. “Your basement,” she gasped. “It’s filled with…flesh…stinking white flesh. It’s as if the hounds of hell had gotten loose and torn apart the…”

  Judith let go of Phyliss so abruptly that the cleaning woman almost fell down on top of Uncle Gurd. “Hounds of hell, my foot!” Judith shouted, racing for the house. “It’s Sweetums! He must have gotten into the lutefisk! Damn!”

  An hour later, Judith had the dreadful mess cleaned up. She did the task alone, unable to convince Phyliss that lutefisk might be smelly, but it wasn’t ungodly. Or maybe it was, but by eleven o’clock, it was all in the dumpster. Meanwhile, Sweetums had begun to stir, his upset stomach on the mend. Judith felt like giving the cat a swift kick, but refrained. She had more pressing matters at hand, including another quick trip to Falstaff’s to pick up a couple of overlooked items for Gertrude’s supper.

  Mike and Kristin and the Rundbergs had borrowed the Subaru for their errands, so Judith climbed into Joe’s aging but much-loved MG. To calm her ruffled spirits, she turned on the radio.

  “Party down, party on!” screamed a voice from the dashboard. “Party twenty-four-seven! Party with Harley on KRAS—we’re the bomb! Freedom’s my middle name! Don’t eat! Don’t sleep! This is Harley Davidson, saying party til you…”

  Judith hurriedly turned the dial to another station, any station not intent on deafening her. Mike and Kristin had borrowed the MG after dinner last night. Obviously, they’d tuned to the same wretched wavelength that had blared forth from the Subaru. It seemed to Judith that her son and his future wife were a bit old for such raucous radio listening. Surely the approaching-thirty set should have more sedate musical tastes.

  But maybe Judith was out of touch. Mike had lived away from home for several years. She had to admit that she was no longer familiar with his every whim and want, as in the days before he left for college. That, of course, was what wives were for; they leaped into the breach that mothers relinquished by default. Judith still thought of Mike as a boy, not a man. The boy might not have understood what she wanted to tell him. Surely the man would be more kindly disposed. If she told him. Time was running out.

  Half-panicked and half-relieved, Judith turned into Falstaff’s parking lot. It was better to do than to think. For the rest of the day, Judith kept very busy.

  In its previous incarnation, the Naples Hotel had been a favorite late-night rendezvous for Judith and Joe. The paneled downstairs bar had provided a cozy trysting nook for the young lovers in the days of button-down collars, bouffant hairdos, and cars that were bigger than some Third World countries.

  Thirty years later, the bar and the brick and sandstone exterior were all that was still recognizable about the Naples. For a decade or two, the hotel had slid into genteel decay. But ten years earlier, it had been rescued and revamped. Reining proudly over the downtown area, the Naples was now one of the city’s premier hostelries.

  There were almost thirty people gathered in the penthouse dining room. The tables formed a U-shape, with Mike, Kristin, Judith, Joe, the Rundbergs, and Gertrude in the places of honor. Mike’s best man and former college roommate, Nick Satayama, appeared oblivious to the curious, even malevolent, stares of Uncle Tank and a few other in-laws. Kristin’s maid of honor, Chandra Smith-Washington, seemed used to the hostile gazes. Judith realized that as Kristin’s best friend, she probably understood the clan only too well. Asian-Americans and African-Americans were inimical to survivalist mentality.

  Despite it all, the rehearsal at Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church had gone smoothly. Uncle Gurd had refused to go inside, but had finally been coaxed by Herself, who somehow had finagled an invitation. Judith suspected that Vivian had presumed upon her former husband. At first, Judith had inwardly bristled, but decided that Herself’s ability to keep Uncle Gurd in tow was worth a free meal.

  Now, deep into the cocktail hour with the open bar set up in a corner of the room, the guests were beginning to relax. Morris Mitchell, the flamboyant photographer who had been hired to film all the wedding events, was slipping in and out, clicking his camera and making hissing noises. No one paid much attention, which, Judith reflected, was the sign of a good photographer. Yes, the gues
ts were definitely oblivious to everything but food and drink. Away from a church atmosphere, they were unwinding in a strange and wondrous way. More than unwinding, Judith noted, as Kristin’s brother Norm put a cluster of white and yellow roses on his head and began to dance the hula. Great whoops of laughter followed, along with Cousin Thorald’s playing of the paper comb. Thorald’s wife, Gitti, sidled up to Judith and announced that they were staying near the zoo in their RV. Judith thought that figured.

  Sipping her Scotch, Judith turned to enjoy the view which was similar, but at a different angle from that of Hillside Manor’s. The dining room actually looked out over a corner of the bay as well as downtown, but also took in Heraldsgate Hill. If Judith studied the rows of dwellings that marched up to the crest, she could pick out her beloved B&B.

  As the entree carts were rolled into the dining room, Joe caught his wife peering through the big plate glass window directly behind them. “Are you wishing we were home in bed?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “What?” Judith turned to smile at her husband. “Oh. Yes. Always.”

  Uncle Tank was eating filet mignon with his hands. Actually, Judith realized with a startled look, he was eating three filets. She wondered where he’d gotten the other two. Cousin Thorald’s paper comb wheezed to the tune of “Swanee River.”

  “The darkies are gay!” shouted Uncle Gurd. “Wouldn’t you know it?”

  Judith shot Chandra a commiserating look. Chandra laughed and shook her head. Judith knew that Kristin’s maid of honor was interning as a pediatrician. No doubt she had enough understanding—and self-confidence—not to be bothered by bigoted boobs whose IQs were lower than their body temperatures.

  While Norm and Jewel flipped French peas at each other, Judith resolutely turned back to the plate-glass window. Directly below her was the roof of another, far less elegant hotel. The Belmont, Judith recalled. It had once been as grand as the Naples, but not now. Drapes were pulled at all of the windows, a thick patina of grime covered the exterior, and the roof’s tar paper was peeling away to reveal dingy concrete.

  An argument had broken out at the end of the table on Judith’s left. The widowed sisters were in the thick of things, hurling rolls and potatoes at each other and whoever else came within range. Aunt Leah got smacked in the chops and began throttling Aunt Tilda. Joe started to rise from his chair, but Herself was already on top of the table.

  “Love is in the air,” she asserted, making a minor, sensual adjustment to her skin-tight red dress. To dispute the point, Aunt Leota smashed a plate over Aunt Tilda’s head. Herself was undaunted. “Mike and Kristin symbolize young love. S’wonderful, s’amorous, s’marvelous.” She leaned down—way down—to exhibit her cleavage to Uncle Gurd. “But not everyone has someone. For example…” She nodded to Cousin Thorald. “A-one and a-two…I ain’t got nobody…”

  The diners seemed transfixed. Aunt Tilda picked the shards of china from her gray hair and Cousin Thorald labored through the accompaniment. Norm was so awestruck that he didn’t notice several peas rolling down his arm. Morris Mitchell clicked away with his various cameras.

  Judith touched Joe’s sleeve. “Your ex can be very helpful.”

  “Former lounge singers have a way with them,” Joe murmured, patting Judith’s hand. “We may get out of this without any fatalities.”

  Herself crooned on. Judith’s gratitude ebbed a little as she recalled how her former rival had sung her torch songs to Joe on the night they had eloped to Vegas. Try as she might, the memory could still rankle Judith. She shifted in her chair, gazing out at the shades of gold that edged the sky across the sound. It was well after eight, and the waiters were bringing on dessert. Soon they could all go home. Judith couldn’t wait.

  Herself had launched into “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” Judith allowed her dinner plate to be removed, and just as she was turning to face the table, she sensed movement on the Belmont Hotel’s roof. Curious, she swiveled around again. A dark-haired woman in a wedding dress and a bearded man in a tuxedo were standing by one of the big air vents. Judith was intrigued.

  But she was interrupted when dessert arrived in the form of an elegant meringue topped with chocolate and raspberries. Herself kept singing, Morris kept clicking, Thorald kept tootling on the paper comb. Judith glanced behind her to check out the couple on the hotel roof. They had now moved to the opposite edge and appeared to be engaged in a heated discussion. Judith leaned sideways in her chair, craning her neck.

  Then, to her horror, the man grabbed the woman by the shoulders and threw her off the roof. Judith let out a little cry. On her left, Sig Rundberg swung around to see what was wrong. Joe, however, appeared transfixed by Herself’s hip-swinging rendition of the “St. Louis Blues.”

  Judith shook her husband’s arm. “Joe!” she whispered in an urgent voice. “Joe!”

  With a small quiver, Joe swerved to look at Judith. “Mmm?” he said with what Judith considered a silly-assed smile on his face. “What is it?”

  Trying to refrain from frantic gestures, Judith pointed to the Belmont. “A man just pushed a woman off the roof! Look!”

  Joe complied. But when Judith turned again, the roof was empty. Joe frowned. “What are you talking about? I don’t see anything except bird poop and garbage.” He glanced suspiciously at Judith’s empty cocktail glass.

  “I’m not drunk!” she asserted in a low but angry voice. “Just now I saw a man push a woman off that roof! Go check on it. There must be a body in the street. Hurry!”

  Herself had finished her set and finally climbed down from the table. Uncle Gurd was holding both hands over his heart and appeared to be hyperventilating. With an air of reluctance, Joe got up and left the dining room.

  Judith toyed with her dessert and tried to keep up an intelligent conversation with Sig Rundberg. Yes, traffic in the city was terrible. No, Judith never felt hemmed in by the tall buildings. The rain didn’t bother her, the freeway wasn’t intimidating, the steep hills weren’t the least bit frightening, except when it snowed. Which, Judith acknowledged, trying to cast a discreet backward glance at the Belmont roof, it didn’t do very often.

  “In our part of the state,” Sig noted, then paused to put a sugar cube in his mouth and drink his coffee through it, “we have snow several months out of the year. It never ceases to amaze me how the mountains divide us and make two entirely different kinds of climate and geography.”

  “Me neither,” Judith replied vaguely. The roof was still empty. She switched her gaze to the private dining room entrance. Joe had not yet returned, nor had Judith heard the sound of sirens. Hadn’t her husband summoned emergency personnel?

  “Then there are all those panhandlers,” Sig was saying as he returned to his litany of complaints about city life. “It looks to me as if a lot of able-bodied people are sitting around with their hands out. Why can’t they do an honest day’s work like the rest of us? Oh, I’ll give a buck to somebody like that blind guy with the harmonica who was sitting outside the hotel. I don’t mind when somebody’s really handicapped. That’s different.”

  “Billy Big Horn,” Judith murmured. The bearded Montanan with the sweet songs was something of a local legend, though his usual post was outside of Donner & Blitzen department store. But Judith’s compassion for the less fortunate was temporarily diluted. If Joe didn’t show up in two minutes, she was going after him.

  “Hey, Siggy,” Gertrude called from her place next to Mike, “what’s that trick with the sugar cubes?”

  Sig held up his coffee cup. “It’s an old Norwegian custom. You put the sugar in your mouth, not in your coffee.”

  Gertrude looked impressed. “Think I could manage it with my dentures?”

  Sig chuckled. “Are you Norwegian?”

  “Nope,” Gertrude replied. “Not that I can remember.” Her wrinkled face fell as she looked at Judith. “Am I?”

  “No, Mother,” Judith answered, standing up and going over to the window. From that an
gle, she could see nothing past the top three floors of the Belmont. “You’re English and German, just like my father was.”

  “Your father?” Gertrude seemed puzzled. “Who’s he?”

  The return of Joe Flynn spared Judith an explanation. To Judith’s consternation, her husband seemed more annoyed than upset. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth:

  “Nothing. Zip. Zero. Sit down, eat your meringue, and keep your eyes to the front.”

  Bewildered, Judith hesitated, then obeyed. “But…I saw the woman go over the edge,” she whispered. “The man pushed her.”

  “Uh-huh.” Joe lapped up his dessert.

  “Joe…” Judith sounded miserable.

  “Forget it,” Joe ordered tersely.

  With great reluctance, Judith tried to concentrate on her food. But it wasn’t easy. She’d had only two drinks, she’d eaten in the meantime, she was a mere thirty yards away from the man and woman who had been standing on the Belmont roof.

  “This is the back of the hotel,” Judith said in a low, determined voice as she gestured behind her chair. “The front of the hotel is on the other side, facing the opposite street. That’s where the woman fell. Did you look there?”

  Joe refused to answer. Judith pinched him, hard.

  Joe scowled. “I went all around the damned block. There’s no sign of anything unusual, let alone a dead body. I checked with Kobe, the parking valet who took our car. He and the other valets are moving cars along the street and into the garage next to the Belmont all the time. They didn’t see anything, but Kobe gave me a cigar.” Joe pulled the object out of his pocket. “It smells terrific. I’m going to smoke it in about four minutes.”

  Judith ignored the cigar. “Was anyone else around? Guests, passersby?”

  Joe sighed. “Plenty of them, but they were all coming and going. I did ask Billy Big Horn if he’d noticed anything unusual. He hadn’t.”

  “Billy Big Horn is blind,” Judith pointed out with some asperity.