Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  “Flynn,” Judith said hastily. “But…”

  She was interrupted by a diffident Rodney. “Tara isn’t here today, Mr. Artemis. I mentioned it earlier, I believe.”

  A pulse suddenly throbbed in Mr. Artemis’s bald skull. “What? She’s still not here? I left a most emphatic note at her flat. Send for her at once.” The designer gestured at Judith. “Come, perhaps Deirdre can show you the dress. Her coloring is all wrong, but you’ll be able to see how it flows, how it moves, how it catches fire.” With long, quick steps, Mr. Artemis led Judith into his inner sanctum, where she had previously waited during Kristin’s fittings.

  Judith cleared her throat. “Actually, you needn’t go to any trouble, Mr…Artemis. My husband hates me in red.” It was a lie, but Judith was beginning to feel desperate.

  “Nonsense!” Mr. Artemis snapped his fingers again. “Deirdre! At once!”

  A willowy blond appeared from behind the gauzy pearl-white curtains that cordoned off one end of the show room. The designer gave his orders, then indicated that Judith should sit in a white armless modular chair. With a sigh of resignation, Judith sat. A Saint-Saëns symphony played softly in the background, and a hint of incense floated on the air. At the far end of the room a large muted TV screen showed Mr. Artemis’s latest collection. Judith recognized Tara Novotny in a pumpkin orange suit. Her dark hair was very short and her graceful stride was very long. Judith cudgeled her brain for a tactful way of asking Mr. Artemis about Harley Davidson’s connection with the designer’s favorite model.

  “Tara must have made a beautiful bride in last week’s show at I. Magnifique,” Judith said at last. “Did Kristin and I see the gown she modeled?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Artemis replied, adjusting the fawn-colored ascot he wore with his ecru shirt and slacks. “The bridal gown in last week’s show had never been seen by anyone. It had only just arrived from my shop in Santa Teresa del Fiore Thursday afternoon.”

  “I see,” Judith said, still working her brain overtime. “Did you also design Mr. Davidson’s tuxedo?”

  Mr. Artemis looked grave. “Yes, I have a limited menswear line. But after what happened Friday, I feel like stopping it. Such an outrage!”

  Judith nodded solemnly. “Yes, it was terrible. Did you know him well?”

  “Him?” Mr. Artemis seemed puzzled. “Oh, you mean that disc jockey? Certainly not. I was referring to the tuxedo. Someone removed my labels. I was infuriated when the police told me about it. Imagine! Cutting out a Mr. Artemis label! Whatever is the point?”

  “The point of…?” But the question went unfinished as Deirdre appeared in a crimson satin gown with a gathered waist and décolleté neckline.

  “Excellent, Deirdre!” Mr. Artemis applauded gently. “Yes, move forward, step back, sway a little. You see,” he said in a confidential tone to Judith, “the motion of the dress is like liquid fire, a molten force that rises up out of nature and consumes not only the wearer, but the observer. It’s not a design for the faint-hearted, let me tell you! Have you courage, Mrs. Flynn?” A faint smirk played at Mr. Artemis’s thin lips.

  I have some courage but no money, Judith wanted to say. Instead, she murmured that the gown was lovely. Deirdre paraded back and forth across the room, posing and preening. Mr. Artemis applauded some more.

  “Enough!” he declared. “You’ll give us the vapors, my dear. Shoo, away with you.”

  Deirdre slipped between the pearl-white draperies, a tongue of fire enveloped by an avalanche of snow. Or so Judith imagined. It was a much safer fantasy than picturing herself in the crimson gown.

  “Tara didn’t know Mr. Davidson either, I guess,” Judith said as Mr. Artemis opened a white oak armoire to pour the ritual glasses of champagne.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” the designer replied, though his words lacked their usual certainty. Indeed, as he handed Judith a tulip-shaped glass, his very green eyes showed a trace of doubt. “Why do you ask?”

  Judith started to think of a plausible fib, then realized there was no point in hiding the truth. “Because I saw them together Friday evening after the fashion show. They were on the roof of the Belmont Hotel.”

  Mr. Artemis had taken a sip of champagne; he suddenly looked as if he’d swallowed poison. “No! Never! You’re referring to that dilapidated old building where my poor mutilated tuxedo was found in such incredibly shabby surroundings?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, thinking that it was pointless to remind Mr. Artemis that a dead man had been discovered inside the tuxedo. “I was attending the rehearsal dinner for Kristin and my son. It was early evening, around eight. What time was the show over?”

  “Sevenish.” Mr. Artemis frowned. “Or later. Time is of no importance.”

  “When did Tara return the wedding dress?” Judith inquired casually.

  “Later. She and that dreadful radio man were to meet us in Ron’s Bar and Grill for a celebratory bottle of champagne.” Expectantly, the designer kept his eye on the draperies, awaiting Deirdre’s return.

  “They didn’t come?” Judith hoped she still sounded casual.

  “No. So unpredictable, these models. I didn’t see Tara again until we returned here. Really, what can be taking Deirdre so long to change?” Mr. Artemis made a fretful gesture with his long, thin fingers.

  “Was Tara still wearing the wedding gown when she finally got here?” Out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw Deirdre come through the draperies with the crimson gown on a satin-covered hanger.

  “Certainly,” Mr. Artemis replied, turning to Deirdre. “You looked marvelous, my dear. But of course that color is meant for someone darker, such as Mrs. Flynn.” The designer sketched a little bow.

  “Did Harley come back, too?” Judith asked, wishing that the pearl-white carpet would open up and swallow Deirdre and the crimson dress.

  “No,” Mr. Artemis answered, “which vexed me. He was to return the tuxedo immediately. Of course he did not, and look what happened to my marvelous creation!” Once again, the designer’s expression conveyed extreme distress. “Deirdre, you helped Tara out of the wedding gown, did you not? It was pinned in ever so many places.”

  Deirdre nodded her sleek blond head. “Yes, it took forever. And the hem and train were quite soiled.” Deirdre pouted at Mr. Artemis. “Tara can be very careless. She’d torn the hem right out of the Amber Autumn suit and ripped an entire seam in the Winter Wonderland coat. She should never be allowed to take your lovely garments home with her from Santa Teresa del Fiore instead of bringing them straight to the salon.”

  Mr. Artemis didn’t take well to the implied criticism. “I depend on her to transport my very special creations. Tara understands workmanship. If there’s even the slightest imperfection, she can have it tended to on site. You, my dear,” he added with caressing sarcasm, “haven’t got the eye for such detail.”

  Deirdre sniffed and gave a toss of her blond head. “I know damage when I see it. I still say Tara is careless. I wouldn’t doubt that she wears your garments before she brings them here.”

  Afraid that the conversation was not only getting off-track, but out of hand, Judith smiled ingratiatingly at Deirdre. “While you were helping Tara out of the wedding gown the other night, did she seem…upset?”

  “Oh, very!” Deirdre’s slender hands fluttered. “She adores that gown! It broke her heart to take it off.”

  “Oh.” Judith’s face fell. “That’s why she was upset?”

  Mr. Artemis nodded in his languid fashion. “Tara has a genuine affinity for my creations. Which,” he continued with a cold stare for Deirdre, “is why I permit her a few minor aberrations.” He glanced at the double chrome doors. “I certainly hope Rodney has gotten hold of her by now. This absenteeism has lost its charm. I need her tomorrow for the show at Nordquist’s.”

  It seemed to Judith that Tara’s employer didn’t understand the enormity of his model’s defection. Perhaps he had not been fully informed. Or maybe he didn’t want to know. Judith had the feeling
that Mr. Artemis believed only in what suited him.

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith said in a rather whimsical voice, “that you’d know why Tara was on the Belmont Hotel roof with Harley Davidson?” She gazed first at Mr. Artemis, then at Deirdre.

  Mr. Artemis shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Indeed, I doubt very much that you saw Tara. This time of year, there are brides here, there, and everywhere. Tell me, Mrs. Flynn, do you have a particularly active imagination?” The designer’s smile was somewhat smug.

  “Not really,” Judith answered a bit more sharply than she’d intended. “Doesn’t it strike you as unlikely that Harley Davidson would show up on the Belmont roof with a woman in a wedding dress who wasn’t Tara?”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Artemis poured himself some more champagne. “There’s no accounting for what people like this disc jockey will do. Radio personalities are highly volatile, extremely unpredictable, and often addicted to drugs. Come, let us try on Flames of Desire.”

  Judith jumped. “No! That is—I can’t! I broke my ribs. I’m in a cast. I mean, a brace. You can’t see it, but it’s there, all big and bulky. I’ll call you when I’m healed.” Judith practically galloped out of the salon.

  She slowed her pace when she reached the sidewalk. Just before reaching the entrance to Ron’s Bar and Grill, Judith spotted a familiar figure leaning against the building: It was Uncle Gurd, still wearing the blue dress and red patent leather pumps. He was holding a hand-lettered sign that said, “Will protest U. S. pig-faced government for cash. No checks accepted.”

  Judith wanted to turn tail and flee, but Gurd had seen her. “Hey,” he yelled, “you got a spare dollar?”

  “It’s illegal in this city to verbally solicit,” Judith informed Uncle Gurd as she approached him warily. “You can get arrested.”

  “Ha! I’ll bet I can! The government arrests anybody for anything.” He paused as a well-dressed young man dropped a quarter in the cardboard box that lay next to Uncle Gurd’s red pumps. “I’m testin’ city ways,” he said. “Folks dress mighty strange around here, so I’m tryin’ out some different duds. So far, it ain’t workin’—I been here ten minutes, and I only got ninety cents.”

  “Maybe it’s the dress,” Judith said through tight lips. “City fashions can be extreme, but there are some limits. How did you get here?”

  “On the bus.” He shrugged, then nodded in the direction of Donner & Blitzen. “Judgin’ from the other passengers, I fit right in, dress or no dress. There’s some mighty peculiar people ridin’ the bus in this town.” He shook his bald head. “I wanted to sit across the street by that big swanky department store, but they told me that spot’s reserved for some other guy. Does the government regulate the beggars in this city, too?”

  Judith had followed Gurd’s gaze across the street to the corner display window where Billy Big Horn had sat for the past few years. At the moment, his usual panhandling post was vacant. But Billy moved around, as Judith recalled from seeing him in front of the Naples Hotel the night of the wedding rehearsal dinner.

  “It’s a courtesy,” Judith explained, trying to ignore the stares of passersby. “I’ve seen Billy Big Horn outside of Donner & Blitzen for a long time, and I’ve often given him a donation. Everyone acknowledges that corner as his spot. The government—the city—only regulates how panhandling is conducted, not where.”

  “Well, I’m conductin’ it real slow.” Uncle Gurd’s leathery face showed disgust. “Maybe I’ll go home. Can you give me a lift?”

  To Judith’s horror, she lied: “No, I’m not headed that way yet. You can catch a bus two blocks over and one block down. See you in the hedge.”

  With a frantic step, she turned into Ron’s Bar and Grill. Chastising herself for refusing a ride to Uncle Gurd just because he was dressed like a woman, she asked the bartender if her I. Magnifique box had shown up. It hadn’t. The bartender was young, perhaps working his way through graduate school, and seemed to sense Judith’s distress.

  “Would you care for something?” he asked in a kind voice.

  Judith had also been a bartender, working nights at the Meat & Mingle three blocks from the McMonigle rental on Thurlow Street in the south end of town. During the day, she had served as head librarian in the local branch. Meanwhile, Dan had stayed home on the sofa, watching TV, napping, and eating and drinking and drinking and eating.

  “I really shouldn’t,” Judith said, gazing at the clock above the bar which indicated it was shortly before noon. She remembered the last time she’d had a drink alone in a bar. It had been the night when she’d waited for Joe, and he’d never shown up. Over twenty years had passed before she saw him again. The mere thought of all that lost time changed her mind.

  “Oh, what the heck,” she said with an uncertain smile. “I’ll have a Scotch—rocks.” The bartender struck Judith as very sweet. She’d always had a weakness for bartenders, not because she liked to drink, but because they were kindred spirits. Judith shared their enjoyment of other people’s company, the ability to listen, and the capacity for compassion. Indeed, Dan had been a bartender when she met him, before he became permanently underemployed and grossly overweight.

  “My name’s Barry,” the bartender said, deftly serving the drink. “What was in your missing box?”

  “A dress,” Judith replied. “A very expensive dress. In fact, it was an Artemis Bohl design. I believe he comes in here now and then.”

  Barry chuckled. “He does, usually with his entourage. He holds court at that table down there.” The bartender nodded in the direction where Judith had seen Mr. Artemis and Tara earlier in the week. “We call it our designer table; he tips well.”

  “That’s the main thing,” Judith said, recalling how meager her tips had been with the crowd of riff-raff at the Meat & Mingle. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Tara Novotny in here the past couple of days?”

  “The model?” Barry chuckled again. “No, not since Tuesday. I think it was Tuesday. She’s something, isn’t she? I’ve never seen her eat, though. How do those super-thin models keep alive? One glass of white wine, that’s it.”

  “I wouldn’t know about being thin,” Judith said with a lame little laugh. “Keeping from being fat has always been my problem. You were here Tuesday? Then you must have been on duty when I lost that blasted dress.”

  Barry looked thoughtful. “That’s right, one of the servers asked me about it. Wow, that’s really too bad. I hope you find it.” Barry now seemed a bit distracted as the lunch trade began arriving. “Excuse me, I’ve got orders to fill.”

  Judith sipped at her drink and watched the influx of customers. The tables were filling up, mostly with office workers. A half-dozen older men in three-piece suits were scattered around the room, looking as if they were getting down to serious business, or serious drinking, or both. The stools at the bar were also becoming occupied. Judith moved her purse over a notch as a muscular man in shorts and tank top sat down next to her.

  “Barry,” the newcomer called, “throw me a Cuervo. I’ve had a rough morning.”

  Barry, who was mixing screwdrivers, nodded. “I got it, TNT. One tequila, straight up.”

  Catching the name, Judith couldn’t resist swerving on the stool to get a better look. The muscular man was in his thirties, and his ears and nose definitely showed signs of wear and tear. There were a couple of scars, too, on his lower lip and near his left eye.

  “You’re the boxer,” Judith said, and then lied: “I’ve seen you fight.”

  The man put out a beefy hand. “TNT Tenino. Who are you, Dark Eyes?”

  Judith was so flattered that she giggled. “Nobody. I mean, I’m Judith Flynn. Is it true that you’re retired?”

  “You bet.” TNT nodded at Barry as the shot of tequila was produced. “I did all right in the ring. Now I run clinics and check out new talent.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Judith said. “Is that why you had a rough morning? All aspects of the boxing profession must be a challenge.”

/>   Barry pointed to Judith’s now-empty glass. She didn’t want another drink, but needed an excuse to stay at the bar and talk to Esperanza Highcastle’s estranged husband. Reluctantly, she gave a thumbs-up sign to Barry.

  “Teaching, my butt!” TNT growled, downing the tequila in one gulp. “It’s women. Or woman.” He sketched a right cross at Barry, apparently the signal for another round. “You’re not the kind who’d try to screw your old man, are you? I mean when it came to money, not…”

  “No, no,” Judith answered hastily. “I’m very fond of my husband. Is your wife causing you trouble?”

  TNT put his curly dark head in his hands. “Brother! You don’t know the half of it! You marry a rich dame and figure you got it made. Just keep her happy in the sack, and no more worries, right? But not this one. It’d take an entire fight card to satisfy Espy. You know what?” His close-set brown eyes zeroed in on Judith. “I think she’s one of those nymphos.”

  “Really.” Judith sipped decorously at her second Scotch. “Your wife, you mean?”

  TNT had now polished off his second tequila. “That’s right, my wife. Some wife. She can’t cook, she hates sports, she makes fun of my friends, she thinks she used to be married to Napoleon.” He feigned a left hook at Barry. “She doesn’t drink, either. She’s no damned fun. Except between the sheets or on the sofa or the rug or…Hey, Bartender, you down for the count? Where’s my Cuervo?”

  Barry apologized, saying he had to mix a couple of martinis first. Judith cleared her throat, then reached for her purse. She couldn’t possibly finish her second drink, not this early in the day.

  “I take it you’re separated?” Judith said, placing a ten-dollar bill and two ones on the bar.

  TNT nodded as he accepted his third tequila. “She threw me out last Friday. I’ve been living at the Cascadia Hotel, but I had to get out. Espy canceled my credit cards. She’s a bitch on wheels. You know a good lawyer?”

  “Not really.” Somehow Judith didn’t think that the fuddy-duddy Grover family attorney, William Ewart Gladstone Whiffel, would make a match with TNT Tenino. “Try the Yellow Pages. They list lawyers who specialize in divorce.”