Wed and Buried
Page 10
“I didn’t even know who was dead until today,” Judith replied in annoyance. “You hadn’t told me anything.”
“I didn’t know anything,” Joe replied reasonably.
“You must have known he was blind,” Judith asserted. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Joe made a face. “I thought I did.”
“You did not. You mentioned that he wasn’t in very good health, but not that he was blind. What,” Judith pressed, as relentless as Joe himself inside the interrogation box, “did you mean by that?”
“By what?” Joe ruffled his thinning red hair. “How do you feel about a combover?”
“Repulsed. Come on, Joseph, tell me about Harley’s health.”
Joe sighed. “The ME said the guy suffered from some form of malnutrition. I gather that’s not uncommon among radio personalities. They don’t eat right, they chug down uppers and downers, they generally abuse themselves. Their idea of two major food groups are coffee and cigarettes. Worse, in many cases. Did you meet Esperanza Highcastle?”
Judith started to balk at the change of subject, then decided not to further aggravate her husband. “No, not exactly,” she answered, recalling the collision with the station owner. “We talked only to Darrell Mims. I suppose you know all about Esperanza’s marital breakup with TNT Tenino.”
“Woody and I’ll question them tomorrow,” Joe said, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. “We’ll zero in on Chuck Rawls Jr. and the rest of the crew, too. We tried to see Tara Novotny again, but she was unreachable. Or so that hoity-toity dress designer told us.”
“Artemis Bohl?” Judith’s anger began to fade, replaced by apprehension. The designer’s name evoked more than curiosity; Judith still hadn’t heard any word of her missing dress.
“Right,” Joe replied as Judith fidgeted by the stove. “What a pain in the butt. He acted as if Woody and I were vermin.”
“You went to his studio?” Judith asked in an unusually meek voice.
Joe cast his eyes to furthest reaches of the kitchen’s high ceiling. “You bet. What a place! All white and steel chrome and those damned floating draperies—but you’ve seen it. Didn’t you go there when Kristin was picking out her wedding dress?”
“Oh, yes, I was there two or three times,” Judith said, nodding vaguely. She recalled the designer’s atelier very well. While the furnishings might seem stark, Judith knew they must also be expensive. Artemis Bohl could afford them, however; at twenty-five-hundred dollars for an evening gown, he could just as well have accented his studio in gold leaf. Judith reminded herself to call their insurance agent in the morning.
Judith figured that Joe probably noticed that she was unusually quiet for the rest of the evening. She was fairly sure he’d ascribe her frame of mind to his foray in the shrubbery. She might as well; the truth was even more depressing.
Nor did Judith’s mood lighten in the morning. Her insurance agent informed her that loss of apparel wasn’t covered under her homeowners’ policy. Unless Judith was sure that the item had been stolen. If that’s what she believed, then she’d have to file a police report before the insurance company could act.
“I don’t think I want to do that,” Judith said in an anguished voice. “I mean…well, I’ll wait.”
Twenty minutes later, Phyliss was reporting on her tour of duty at Belgravia Gardens. “Lots of antique stuff, or at least stuff that’s supposed to be old. You can’t put your feet up on any of it. Why do people have to show off? But Mr. Deetooleyville keeps it pretty clean, I’ll give him that.”
“What’s he like?” Judith inquired.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Phyliss replied, shaking up a bottle of furniture polish. “I never saw him. He left a key, and didn’t come back while I was there. I suppose he was at work.”
“There’s no work number on his card,” Judith pointed out.
“Then he was out somewhere not working.” Phyliss dismissed her new employer with a swish of her housedress and the flounce of pink slip that showed below the hem. “Maybe he’s one of them idle rich.”
Phyliss was upstairs in the guest bedrooms when Arlene came to the back door. “You’ve pruned your shrubs,” she said in a cheery voice. “I’m going to nag Carl to clip the hedge. Maybe that’ll discourage Uncle Gurd.”
“It’s a thought,” Judith said hopefully, then indicated a stack of mail which had just arrived. “Almost all of the wedding bills are in—except yours and Morris Mitchell’s. We can’t do anything about his until Mike and Kristin get back and make their choices from the proofs. But I’d like to send your invoice on to Kristin’s folks, so you can get paid.”
Arlene shook her head. “I’m not charging you. We’re partners, for heavens’ sake! Just consider the reception as part of my wedding gift.”
“But Arlene,” Judith protested, “that’s far too generous, even for you. At least submit a bill for your expenditures.”
Arlene, however, remained firm. “You have only one child. We have five, and by the time we’ve married them all off—if we ever do—you will have spent as much on presents for them as I did on Mike’s reception. Just forget it. When do you want to see the condos? You’ve certainly got a much better view of them now that Joe has cleared out most of your bushes.”
Judith sighed. “Yes, it’s wonderful—in a way.” While delivering Gertrude’s breakfast, Judith had noticed that she could not only see more of the Dutch colonial that housed the Dooley brood on the other side of the fence, but that her expanded view took in almost all of the balconies on the south side of Belgravia Gardens. However, the augmented vista had been achieved at an upsetting price—the once lush growth of quince, forsythia, honeysuckle, and cotoneaster had been hacked and whacked until it was virtually decimated. “I don’t know,” she murmured, comforting herself with the thought that the bushes and shrubs eventually would grow back, “maybe we could go up to Belgravia Gardens tomorrow. Are you free in the early afternoon?”
Arlene said that late afternoon on Friday would be better. With a vow to get Carl’s rear in gear and into the hedge, Arlene sailed out of the kitchen and through the back door. Judith immediately picked up the telephone and called Renie.
“Can Kip arrange a meeting with Chuck Rawls Jr.?” Judith asked without preamble.
Renie groaned. “The correct question is, ‘Are you busy?’ The correct answer is, ‘Yes, I’m working on another fall catalogue, for DOA, the outdoor equipment suppliers.’ However, you flunked, so I must ask why in the world are you pursuing this Harley Davidson thing? I’ve humored you twice, and that’s plenty. Back off, let Joe and Woody do their jobs.”
“I know, I’m asking for trouble,” Judith admitted. “But I feel very proprietary about this case. I guess I need to vindicate myself about what I saw on the Belmont roof. It’s not that I think Joe and Woody can’t find the killer, it’s that I need to know what happened on that blasted roof. Since Joe doesn’t believe me—no matter what he says—I have to figure out how that little scene fit into Harley’s death. And Joe and Woody will never discover the truth because they think I was hallucinating. Tell me this—do you agree with them?”
“No,” Renie responded with conviction. “I don’t. You only make things up when it’s a necessity. But…”
“Then you have to help me,” Judith interrupted. “You always do.”
“Rats.” Renie could be heard rummaging through papers. “I don’t want to pester Kip any more. Maybe we could fake something, like a conference with this Rawls about a promotion for DOA. He’s not really the person who’d handle such a thing, but it’d give us an excuse. Rats,” Renie repeated.
“That’s brilliant,” Judith enthused. “When can you set it up?”
Reluctantly, Renie said she’d aim for Friday afternoon. Half an hour later she called back to say that they had an appointment for one-thirty the following day. Judith was pleased.
She was less pleased when the phone rang again as soon as Renie hung up. This time it was Merle
Rundberg, calling from the family’s wheat ranch across the state.
“I’m in shock,” Merle declared in a strained voice. “I’ve received the wedding bills you forwarded, and Sig and I had no idea how extravagant you’d been. Judith, we really didn’t intend to spend this kind of money. Do you realize that the total now comes to over twelve thousand dollars?”
Judith was taken aback. “It was Kristin who made most of the decisions. She had very fixed ideas of what she wanted.”
“But she needed guidance, Judith,” Merle insisted. “Young people these days often have no concept of what things cost. You should have set limits. Kristin operates very well within parameters. I would have expected you to let her benefit from your experience. After all, you were married quite recently. Again.” Merle made it sound as if Judith took trips to the altar as often as doctors played golf.
“Since it was your money Kristin was spending, I assumed you and Sig had already set parameters,” Judith said, planting her feet firmly on the kitchen floor and staring stonily through the window above the sink. “By the way, you won’t be charged for the reception, which is a huge savings. My neighbor has very kindly donated not only her time and labor, but all the food and drink as well.”
“I never thought we would pay for the reception,” Merle huffed. “Wasn’t it put on by one of your sidelines? Goodness, I can’t imagine paying you for your own son’s reception!”
Judith realized that she really didn’t know Merle and Sig Rundberg. Like so many people, they appeared pleasant and congenial on the surface. But when the issue of money was raised, their true colors showed up in neon lights.
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, her tone now as chilly as Merle’s. “Weddings are terribly expensive, especially the kind that Kristin wanted. If you feel you’ve been cheated, you should discuss it with your daughter. Maybe she can help shoulder some of the cost.”
“Nonsense,” Merle snapped. “That’s out of the question. I suspect that because you only have a son, you were living vicariously through Kristin, and filling her head with all sorts of ridiculous and extravagant ideas.”
At that moment, Judith could see Uncle Gurd through the window as he emerged from the Rankers’s hedge. He was wearing a blue dress and red patent leather pumps.
“One other thing,” Judith said between gritted teeth. “We still have your uncle staying here. Shall I send you the bill for that, too?”
“Gurd?” Merle sounded startled. “He’s not my uncle. Talk to Sig.” She hung up.
EIGHT
JUDITH REMAINED IRATE and indignant for almost twenty minutes. Then she began to lecture herself: The Rundbergs eventually would see reason. When the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon, Kristin would exert some influence on her parents. Everyone knew that the bride’s family paid for most of the wedding expenses. Merle and Sig would realize that they had an obligation, not only to their creditors, but to their daughter.
Judith had to stop fussing about Merle’s reluctance to pony up. But of course it was Judith who had signed all the bills.
To take her mind off the latest imminent disaster, Judith decided to go downtown. So far there had been three duplications among the wedding gifts, and Judith had told Mike and Kristin that she’d return the unwanted items and get store credit. The task would, she hoped, take her mind off of the Rundbergs’ stinginess, the lost evening gown, and Uncle Gurd’s unusual attire. Judith didn’t want to know where he’d gone or what he was doing in the blue dress and red patent leather pumps.
It took almost an hour for Judith to make the returns at the Belle Epoch and Donner & Blitzen department stores. Since Donner and Blitzen was located catercorner from I. Magnifique, Judith felt her feet carry her across the intersection, past the store’s elegant wrought-iron entrance, beyond Ron’s Bar and Grill, and through the door that led to the lobby of the building that housed Artemis Bohl’s atelier.
Even as she stepped out onto the plush white carpet on the top floor, Judith wasn’t sure why she had come to the designer’s lair. Do I think he somehow retrieved my evening gown from Ron’s? Am I gullible enough to believe I might be able to talk down the price-tag on Kristin’s wedding dress? Or am I here to ask questions of Tara Novotny?
The first two tasks struck Judith as impossible. Thus, when she approached the young man at the chrome desk, Judith inquired of Tara.
“Mrs. Flynn?” The young man smiled broadly, revealing perfect teeth that had probably cost his parents more than the price of an Artemis Bohl dress. “I remember you—Kristin was your daughter’s name, right?”
“My daughter-in-law,” Judith said as her signature on the bridal gown receipt rose to haunt her.
“Oh. Yes.” The excellent teeth flashed some more. “How was the wedding?”
“Wonderful,” Judith answered, though it seemed that more than a month had passed instead of less than a week since the big event. “Thanks for asking, Rodney. Now about Ms. Novotny…”
The teeth all but disappeared. “I’m afraid she hasn’t been in today.” Rodney pawed nervously at the desktop, then tugged at his gold earring. “I really think we should call the police.”
Judith edged closer. “The police? Why?”
Rodney turned an anxious face up to Judith. “Mr. Artemis pooh-poohs the idea, but Tara hasn’t been here since Tuesday, and after that very peculiar situation with Harley Davidson, I can’t help but wonder if something’s happened to her, too.”
Swiftly, Judith glanced around the reception area, which was cut off from the main part of the atelier by double chrome doors. Large photographs, mostly of Tara in Artemis Bohl’s creations, lined the white walls. But there was no one else in sight.
“You mean,” Judith said, lowering her voice despite the fact that no one could overhear, “Tara really was involved with Harley?”
“Oh, no!” The suggestion shocked the young man. “Tara would never date a disc jockey! But it does seem strange that he gets killed and suddenly Tara disappears.”
“Well…” Judith fingered her chin. “Perhaps she saw something or somebody at the Belmont Hotel. Is that what you mean?”
Rodney nodded vigorously. “She’s been very high-strung since Friday. That is, she’s always high-strung, models are like that, it’s their peculiar diet and all the stress. But Monday and Tuesday Tara was practically a wreck. I can’t believe how much Evian she drank.”
Judith’s eyes strayed to the largest of the color photographs which showed Tara in a flowing satin evening gown with emeralds at her throat and ears. She looked incredibly beautiful and stultifyingly bored.
“Where does she live?” Judith asked.
Rodney gestured in a direction that indicated the hospital district. “Tara has an apartment in one of the newer high-rises, a block from St. Fabiola’s. But Mr. Artemis says no one has seen her for the last couple of days. Her Mercedes 280 SL is in the building’s garage, but her mail hasn’t been picked up, and UPS has left notices of several parcels that she has to sign for. Mr. Artemis has a key so he let himself in, but there was no sign of her. Don’t you think someone ought to call the police?”
Judith recalled that Joe had tried to see Tara on Wednesday, and had failed to find her. Twenty-four hours later, he and Woody had probably grown suspicious.
“Wait until tomorrow,” Judith cautioned. “Does she travel a lot?”
“She certainly does,” Rodney responded, looking piqued. “Tara is supposed to have an exclusive arrangement with Mr. Artemis, but she’s often on the East Coast or in Europe or South America. I can’t help but think that she’s freelancing when Mr. Artemis’s back is turned.”
“But there’d be pictures to prove it,” Judith pointed out.
“Not if she’s doing runway work,” Rodney said, still piqued. “Mr. Artemis never looks at the competition’s tapes or photos.”
“I see,” Judith said, though she was less concerned with Tara’s career than her whereabouts. “Well, she might have left town.”
Judith considered. “Maybe.” Joe hadn’t mentioned warning Tara Novotny or anyone else, but then he hadn’t been forthcoming about any details concerning the investigation. “How did Harley get involved in that fashion show in the first place?” Judith queried.
Rodney twirled a pencil in his long, slim fingers. “The show was sponsored by I. Magnifique and KRAS-FM. It was geared to cultivate younger customers. Apparently Harley Davidson and some of the other radio personalities modeled menswear.”
Judith pounced on the information. “Were other male models wearing tuxedos?”
Rodney didn’t think so. “I gather there were only a few outfits for men—business suits and sport coats and some casual wear. Harley Davidson wore the tuxedo because he was the groom in the closing sequence.”
“Yes, so I heard.” Judith saw the chrome doors open to reveal Artemis Bohl. He noticed Judith and gave her a questioning look.
“Mr. Bohl,” Judith smiled. “I mean, Mr. Artemis. I just wanted to let you know how everyone admired my daughter-in-law’s wedding gown. I’m sure you’ll get some new customers now that they’ve seen your wonderful work.”
Artemis Bohl’s long, lean face exhibited disdain. “I don’t shop my designs around, like some peddler with a pushcart. If a potential client is seeking the best, he or she will find me. Are you here to pay the bill or are you interested in something new?”
Judith gulped. “I…um…ah…Well, yes. Something new. For fall. An evening gown, in lavender. My husband thinks I look my best in lavender.”
Sadly, Mr. Artemis shook his bald head. “No, no. Not for you. Crimson, that’s your color. In any event, I have no more lavender gowns. They’ve all been purchased or shipped.” He snapped his fingers. “Flames of Desire! Rodney, ask Tara to model the gown for Mrs….?” The long face again wore a questioning air.