Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  The advice was of minor consolation, but Judith didn’t see what else she could do. Halfway up the block stood a large, ornate pedestal clock. It was going on four-thirty. For once, Judith’s investigative thirst was quenched.

  “I’m going home,” she announced morosely. “I’ll call you after I’ve committed suicide.”

  “You do that,” Renie said, reorganizing her packages and giving Judith an encouraging smile. To cheer her cousin, Renie offered a small sacrifice: “If you want to snoop around KRAS tomorrow, I’ll see if Kip can get us an entree.”

  Judith brightened only fractionally. It was very hot under the late afternoon sun, and traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, had intensified in the last hour. “Okay. That sounds nice,” Judith said weakly.

  Having parked in separate garages, the cousins parted company. The drive home was aggravating. Like Judith, her fellow Pacific Northwesterners didn’t take kindly to the heat. Most of them seemed determined to work out their frustrations with their cars. Judith used her horn four times and mouthed a shocking obscenity twice on the short drive from downtown to Heraldsgate Hill.

  After serving her guests their punch and hors d’oeuvres, Judith called Ron’s Bar and Grill. The staff still hadn’t seen her package. Perhaps she’d care to call back tomorrow? She would, but hope was fading. Nursing a too-tart lemonade, she wondered whether or not her homeowners’ insurance covered lost designer dresses.

  It was after eight when Joe got home. It had been a long, hot, tiring day for him, too. He was on his second beer before he deigned to discuss what had now become the Harley Davidson case.

  “I told you that tux would be easy to trace,” Joe said as he and Judith sat outside in the long summer evening. “It was some high-priced brand that’s only carried in I. Magnifique’s men’s department. From there, it was easy. Davidson had worn one for the fashion show Friday. The model who wore the wedding dress was Tara Novotny. Woody and I checked with the radio station first, and found out that Davidson hadn’t shown up for his Monday morning gig. We got a gofer at KRAS, name of Darrell Mims, to ID the body. He went to pieces, but he did it. Then, after you called this afternoon, we tracked down Tara who was at that designer’s shop—you know, the one who made Kristin’s dress.” Joe’s gaze slid in Judith’s direction. “I’m sure you accidentally heard about that connection, too.”

  “Well, yes,” Judith answered vaguely. She might as well admit it, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Joe about her extravagant purchase—and subsequent loss.

  “Tara went into shock,” Joe recounted, batting with his hand at a flurry of gnats. “She wasn’t much help. That Bohl guy was a real pain. He swore that Tara didn’t really know Davidson, and demanded that we leave until she recovered. We’ll get back to her tomorrow.”

  Judith had long ago traded her sour lemonade for a diet soda. Taking a big sip, she tried to focus on Joe’s recital. It wasn’t easy, not with Lavender Dreams giving her nightmares.

  “Did Harley Davidson have family?” Judith asked.

  “Not around here,” Joe replied as Sweetums trotted across the patio. “He’s from the Midwest. Indiana, I think. Thirty-three, unmarried, worked all over the country, been here two years. Blind. But I suppose you unwittingly discovered that, too.”

  Judith avoided Joe’s gaze. “Renie told me. Bill’s nephew, Kip, works for…”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, Kip Sherman. He wasn’t around when Woody and I were there, but somebody said he was filling in for Davidson. I remember Kip from some of the Jones family get-togethers.”

  A few feet away from the patio, Gertrude appeared at the door to the toolshed. She leaned on her walker and peered at Joe. “Judith Anne!” Gertrude called sharply. “Who’s that man you’re entertaining?”

  Judith tensed. “What?”

  “I said,” Gertrude repeated, banging her walker for emphasis, “who’s your gentleman caller?”

  Judith glanced at Joe, but he had lowered his head and was staring at the birdbath. “It’s Joe, Mother,” Judith finally answered.

  “Joe who? I don’t know any Joe. Tell him he’s got to go home by ten o’clock. We keep proper hours around here.” Gertrude slammed her walker one more time, then laboriously turned around and went back indoors.

  “Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Is she kidding? Is she gaga? Or is she going to drive me as crazy as she may or may not be?”

  “No comment,” Joe murmured. “My mother died young. It was my father who was impossible. Luckily, in his later years, he didn’t want to see me any more than I wanted to see him.”

  Sweetums was weaving in and out between Judith’s feet. He paused just long enough to brush up against her leg in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. Then, as she reached down to pet him, he threw up a hairball on her hand.

  Repulsed, Judith jumped out of the lawn chair and went into the house to wash. It had been that kind of day. Standing at the kitchen sink, she stared out into the hedge. Uncle Gurd’s home away from home was undetectable in the laurel’s thick branches and glossy leaves. There had to be a way to get the old man back to Deep Denial, Idaho or Trenchant, Montana, or whichever isolated dot on the map he claimed as his legal address. Maybe Herself could coax him into leaving.

  Maybe the I. Magnifique box would turn up tomorrow. Maybe Gertrude’s apparent memory loss would stop bothering Judith so much. Maybe, after the wedding and the reception and the out-of-town company, life would settle down at Hillside Manor.

  Maybe Judith was kidding herself.

  The morning mail brought more wedding-related bills, but also the contact prints from Morris Mitchell’s photographs. Judith excitedly opened the thick package and began perusing the dozens of proofs that Morris had clicked off over the two-day period. As ever, her heart sang when she saw her son’s wide, infectious smile; she was enveloped by a sense of completion when the camera captured her husband’s magic eyes. There they were together, Mike and Joe, shoulder-to-shoulder. Except for their coloring, there wasn’t much of a resemblance. That was good, Judith thought. And yet…she really should have talked to Mike before he went off on his honeymoon.

  She was studying the pictures inside Our Lady, Star of the Sea when Phyliss came to stand at her elbow.

  “Gaudy,” the cleaning woman remarked, pointing to the altar with its life-sized crucified Christ and statues of the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph. “Idolatry. Don’t you Catholics feel like pagans in such an ungodly place? And that Lutheran fellow—he didn’t seem the least put out by all the flim-flam. I’d hope for better from one of his kind.”

  “We don’t worship statues,” Judith said firmly. “I’ve told you that before, Phyliss. The images are reminders—like these photographs.”

  Phyliss snorted. “Did you ever see Our Savior taking snapshots? ’Course not. He didn’t make sketches, either. It’s blasphemy, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Judith said dryly, moving on to the reception photos. “You were at the wedding. Didn’t you think it was a lovely ceremony?”

  “It was all right, as such things go,” Phyliss allowed. “But where were the hymns? Why didn’t you have joyful voices raised to the Lord? All that slow stuff on the organ didn’t move me one bit.”

  Judith knew it was useless to argue religion with Phyliss—or anybody else, for that matter. Fortunately, she was spared by the telephone. It was Renie, asking when her cousin wanted to call on KRAS. Judith said any time was fine, but would Renie like to stop in first and see the wedding proofs? Renie said she would.

  Half an hour later the cousins were sitting in the living room, poring over the pictures. Judith now had fixated on the first set, taken at the rehearsal dinner.

  “I know these aren’t very big,” she said, “but when they’re blown up, some of them will show the roof of the Naples Hotel. Do you suppose we’ll be able to see Harley and Tara?”

  Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “And if we did?”

  “Well…” Judith fidgeted a bit on t
he sofa. “We might be able to tell something from their facial expressions. You know, if they were angry or happy or…whatever.”

  Renie wagged a finger at Judith. “Look, you’d have to get those things blown up about three hundred percent to see anything that far away. Morris wasn’t using a telephoto lens, he was shooting subjects in the same room. I’m perfectly willing to go along with this gag and take you to the radio station, but that’s it. Joe and Woody seem to be doing just fine with the investigation. After today, let it ride, coz. You’ll only get in the way.”

  It was useless trying to defend herself. Indeed, if Judith had to be honest, she didn’t have a leg to stand on. Unlike other situations where she had had some personal involvement with either the victim or the suspects, Judith had been witness to a nonevent. Or so it appeared. Joe, she realized, hadn’t yet quizzed her closely about what she had seen on the hotel roof. It was obvious that he didn’t believe she had seen anything, at least not anything of importance.

  “Nobody at Ron’s has seen my dress box,” Judith finally said, evading the issue at hand. “I called just a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s got to show up,” Renie said with conviction. “If somebody had taken it, the server or the maitre d’ would have noticed. Besides, we hadn’t been away from the table more than a minute or two when I saw that you didn’t have the box.”

  Judith tried to take comfort from Renie’s words. On the way down the hill to KRAS-FM, Judith also tried to put the lavender dress out of her mind. There was no point in worrying over something she couldn’t do anything about; or so she kept telling herself.

  The offices of KRAS and KORN were divided by a long, carpeted corridor on the main floor of an almost new six-story office building. Through the glass entrance to KORN, Judith could glimpse large photos of the station’s radio personalities. She recognized the laughing, freckled face of Kip Sherman.

  Renie nodded. “Morris Mitchell took those pictures. I think he also did the ones for KRAS.”

  Sure enough, the photos that lined the walls of the FM station bore a stylistic resemblance to their AM affiliate’s portraits. As the cousins entered the reception area, Judith nudged Renie.

  “Is that Harley?” she whispered, pointing to a photo that showed a bearded man in dark glasses.

  Renie studied the photo. “I think so. To tell the truth, I haven’t any idea what he looks—looked—like. But the dark glasses are a clue, right?”

  Behind the curving mahogany desk, a piquant, spike-haired receptionist offered to help the cousins. Renie mentioned Kip Sherman’s name, and was informed that Revolution Man was on the air. Except, the punk-rock receptionist went on, he was known as Rappin’ Rip on KRAS.

  “Rappin’ Rip, huh?” Renie said in an aside to Judith. “Kerri must love that.” Renie turned back to the desk. “We’re actually here to see Darrell Mims.”

  “Darrell?” The bleached blond spikes quivered and a look of disapproval passed across the piquant face. “Oh, why not?” The receptionist pressed a button and requested Darrell Mims’s presence up front.

  The young man who came bounding out through the long, narrow hall was no more than twenty-two, and his appearance was a far cry from the rockin’, rappin’, jammin’ image that KRAS presented to its listening public. Darrell Mims wore a pale blue dress shirt, neatly pressed gray slacks, and a muted, striped tie. His fair hair was cropped in a neat crewcut and his fine features were set in a face that looked as if it only had to be shaved twice a week. Patches of color stood out on his smooth cheeks.

  Renie introduced herself as Kip Sherman’s Aunt Serena, then offered up her cousin as Aunt Judith, which wasn’t exactly true but served the purpose.

  “Judith,” Renie explained with a bogus mournful air, “was one of the last people to see Harley Davidson alive.”

  If Darrell saw through Renie’s phony manner, he didn’t let it show. In fact, the color faded from his cheeks, and he staggered slightly.

  “No! Really?” His blue eyes widened, then he blinked several times before steadying himself against the reception desk. “Maybe we’d better sit down somewhere,” he said in a weak voice.

  Darrell’s choice of a private spot was the employee coffee room, a cluttered, windowless area down the hall. The walls were adorned not with Morris Mitchell portraits, but posters and glossy photos of various bands and other performers. The room reeked of coffee grounds, cigarette smoke, and a tinge of marijuana.

  “Excuse the mess,” Darrell said, indicating plastic molded chairs. “It’s my job to keep this place tidy, but frankly, it’s a losing battle. These people are animals.”

  Noting that Darrell seemed to have recovered himself, Judith gingerly sat down in one of the chairs. “You identified the body?” she inquired in what she hoped was a pleasant, conversational tone.

  Darrell jumped. “Is there some problem?”

  Judith assured him there was not. “I’m just curious how you got stuck with such a repugnant duty,” she said.

  “Well, I did.” Darrell looked pained. “The police came to the station yesterday and asked if someone could go to the morgue. Naturally, they sent me. I always get the jobs around here that nobody else wants.” The young man looked much put upon.

  “That was tough, I’ll bet,” Judith remarked with a sympathetic little smile.

  “It sure was,” Darrell responded. “I was just stunned. I mean, I knew what to expect, but somehow, when I saw poor Harley lying there, I almost blacked out. It took me awhile before I could speak.”

  Judith nodded solemnly. “That was very brave of you, Darrell. Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill Harley?”

  Over time, Judith had come to expect a standard response to the question: The usual answer was a flat no. But Darrell Mims’s face screwed up in an agonized expression. “Yes, I do. There must be at least a half-dozen people who would have loved to kill Harley. He was that kind of person. Despicable.”

  Judith damped down her elation. “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “You bet,” Darrell said earnestly, “but I don’t know if they believed me. One of the detectives, an older guy with reddish hair, acted as if I were a head case. His partner, a younger black man with a big mustache, took notes. I couldn’t tell much from his attitude, though. He was kind of…”

  “Stoic?” Judith suggested, well aware of how Woody Price operated. Joe’s partner always kept his own counsel.

  “That’s the word,” Darrell nodded. “Still, they’ve got to check the names I gave them, right?” Now Darrell was not only earnest, but eager. The spots of color had returned to his cheeks.

  “I’m sure they will,” Judith said. Even if Joe and Woody might be skeptical, they’d never default on a lead. “Just who in particular would have wanted to get rid of Mr. Davidson?”

  Darrell folded his hands on the marred tabletop. “First, there’s his producer, Chuck Rawls, Jr. Mr. Rawls and Harley never got along. I’m not sure why, but I think it was something personal. Sometimes they came to blows and had to be pulled apart. It was amazing to see how a sight-impaired person could engage in hand-to-hand combat. He usually went for Mr. Rawls’s nose. Once, Mr. Rawls knocked Harley right off the air.” Darrell blanched at the violent memory.

  “What did they fight about?” asked Judith.

  “Mostly Harley’s pro-drug attitude,” Darrell answered with an expression of deep dismay. “Even he couldn’t come right out and say that it was okay to do drugs. But he sure didn’t speak out against them. It was more subtle, like always taking a stand on personal freedom. In fact, one time that he and Mr. Rawls came to blows was over that Ruby Ridge incident, with the survivalists. Harley supported Randy Weaver, and Mr. Rawls said that people couldn’t twist the law to suit themselves.”

  Judith recalled the high-profile standoff which had held the nation spellbound a few years earlier. “There were terrible mistakes on both sides,” she allowed, then tried to put Darrell back on track: “What about the rest of
the people at KRAS?”

  “Well, there’s Ms. Highcastle, who owns the station,” Darrell replied in his earnest manner. “She’d had to warn him about his language a million times. I don’t blame her—he gets really raw in his broadcasts. There’s no place for that kind of talk on radio. You can get your FCC license pulled if you go too far. Besides, KRAS is aimed at young people, and it’s wrong to present a crude image. Oh, some of the music is pretty gross, but a lot of it is wonderful. Why not cater to our listeners’ better natures instead of all this dirty talk? It makes me mad.”

  Noting that Darrell was now completely red in the face, Judith put out a restraining hand. “Your attitude is commendable,” she murmured. “But you were saying about…suspects?”

  Adjusting his tie and taking a deep breath, Darrell gave Judith an apologetic look. “Sorry. I jumped on my favorite soapbox there for a minute. You see, I’d like to be a DJ myself some day. I’d call myself Blip Man, the DJ with a conscience. What do you think?”

  “That’s good. I think that’s good,” Judith said hastily. “Now about those suspects…”

  Darrell held up a hand. “Sorry, I got sidetracked again.” He paused as two young women in very short skirts and very tall boots came into the coffee room. Chatting and giggling, they paid no attention to Darrell or the cousins. When they sat down at the far end of the table, Darrell lowered his voice:

  “Ms. Highcastle’s husband couldn’t stand Harley, either,” Darrell said almost in a whisper. “That may be the one thing they agreed on.”

  “They don’t agree on other things?” Judith queried.

  Darrell shook his head. “They’re getting a divorce. But they both hated Harley.”

  “Does Mr. Highcastle work at the station?” Judith asked, noting that Renie was staring off into space.

  Darrell shook his head some more. “It’s not Mr. Highcastle. It’s Tino Tenino. You know, TNT Tenino, the boxer. He’s Ms. Highcastle’s fourth husband. She’s had bad luck with men. Like Nero and Ethelred the Unready and Karl Marx.”