Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  “Send the Rundbergs a bill for his keep,” Renie proposed. “That will put them on the defensive. You are in the hostelry business, after all.”

  “I suppose I could,” Judith admitted. “It seems kind of crass, though. I mean, it isn’t even our hedge.”

  “Don’t get soft,” Renie warned. “Knowing you, you’ll let those Rundbergs walk all over your ever-so-willing carcass. Stick it to them, every chance you get. I marvel you stay in business, coz, I really do.”

  Judith marveled at her cousin’s toughness. Judith could always find excuses, and thus, reasons, for bad behavior. Renie’s rules were more rigid: one strike, and you were out. Both attitudes got them into trouble.

  “So what’s our gig?” Judith asked, anxious to change the subject, and, as Renie would have put it, bury her head in the sand. “Something to do with a DOA promotion?”

  “No. I went for the truth,” Renie said with a little sigh. “I couldn’t put Kip on the spot. I told him to tell Chuck Rawls Jr. that you were assisting your husband in the homicide investigation.”

  Judith was dismayed. “But that’s not the truth. I’m just trying to…”

  “Solve it on your own?” Renie shot Judith a swift glance, then cut the corner perilously close on a right-hand turn. “I’d like to think otherwise.”

  “Well…” Judith chewed on her index finger. “I guess you’re right. But Joe doesn’t want my help.”

  “Surprise,” Renie said dryly, honking at a car that was taking its time pulling out of a parking space. “By the way, we’re not meeting Chuck at the station. We’re going across the street to Foozle’s.”

  Foozle’s was a local watering hole with stiff drinks and mediocre food. Despite the establishment’s proximity to Hillside Manor, Judith had been in the place only once, to rescue a guest who had passed out in the bar.

  “Is Foozle’s a hangout for the radio people?” Judith asked as Renie maneuvered the big Chev into the parking spot.

  “I guess,” Renie answered. “We’re supposed to meet Rawls in the bar.”

  “Oh.” Judith was growing leery of bars. In her two recent visits to Ron’s, she had lost a designer dress and found a homeless boxer. “I’m drinking pop,” she declared.

  “I’m eating lunch,” said Renie as the cousins waited for the traffic signal to change. “I got so busy on that blasted church council project that I didn’t get to eat much this morning.”

  “Wow,” Judith murmured, as always awed not so much by her cousin’s prodigious appetite as by Renie’s metabolism, which kept off the extra pounds. “I’m going to have a look at Belgravia Gardens later this afternoon. Arlene’s taking me. Want to come?”

  The cousins hurried across the busy intersection. “No, thanks,” Renie replied. “I told you, I’m really under the gun. I have to turn in my design first thing Monday morning, and I hate working weekends.”

  Foozle’s was old, evincing not charm but neglect. The red and black carpeting was worn, the walls needed paint, the booths sagged, and the waitresses looked as if they were counting not tips, but the days until they became eligible for Social Security. In the bar, the lights were dim and the tables were tiny. Renie gazed around the tawdry room, trying to pick out Chuck Rawls Jr.

  Rawls picked out the cousins instead. “You must be Mrs. Jones,” he said, rising from one of the tiny tables. “Kip described you. Chuck Rawls here.” He shook hands, while Renie introduced Judith.

  The producer was a short, burly man with a deep voice that at one time had probably been heard over the airways. At close to fifty, he was balding and looked as if he needed a shave. When he sat back down at the table, there wasn’t much room left over for Judith and Renie.

  “Explain this to me,” Rawls said, gripping the table edges with his beefy hands. “You’re a cop, Mrs. Flynn? Or some sort of consultant?”

  Judith’s smile felt like a grimace. “A…consultant. That is, I sometimes interview witnesses. The woman’s touch, you know. And the city is so short-handed with all the budget cuts. It’s helpful to my husband to…have someone he can trust. I’m not…official.” Aware that she was babbling, Judith shut up.

  But her explanation seemed to satisfy Rawls, who was nursing a beer. “I don’t know much, so I can’t tell you much. Your husband and his partner already asked all the serious questions.”

  “Yes, Joe and Woody are very good at their jobs,” Judith said with enthusiasm. “I’m sure they inquired into Harley’s background, and how he got in trouble in L.A. for selling drugs.”

  “Oh, that.” Rawls tugged at his ear. “Those kind of stories always follow radio people whenever they make a move. Dope, alcohol, sex with groupies, stalker fans, law suits, whatever. If Harley’d had a record, we wouldn’t have hired him. Ms. Highcastle’s strict about our employees. It’s okay to be outrageous, but you can’t be illegal.”

  “I see,” Judith said, somehow disappointed. “But he wasn’t well-liked among his colleagues, was he?”

  A waitress with frizzy gray hair and wing-tipped glasses trudged to the table. Renie asked for a beef dip, rare, fries, a salad with Roquefort dressing, and a large Pepsi. Judith ordered a bowl of clam chowder and a diet 7-UP. Rawls declined another beer.

  “Harley was a pain in the ass, excuse my French,” Rawls said with a sigh. “He had this huge ego, and because his ratings were so good, he thought he was God. You couldn’t tell him anything, even when he was going off the deep end. He knew it all.”

  Judith wore a politely curious expression. “You mean Harley took risks on the radio?”

  “God yes!” Rawls uttered an exasperated laugh. “Talk about pushing the envelope! I kept warning him we’d get our FCC license yanked if he didn’t watch his mouth. But he’d just jeer at me, and say that kids these days talk exactly the same way, so why the big sweat? And his ratings would go up another notch. He was getting a strong following among listeners in their twenties, because he played their kind of music, too.”

  “What about sponsors?” Renie inquired, keeping an eye out for the return of the waitress with her food.

  “They were in a bind,” Rawls responded, lighting a cigarette. “His morning share was huge and it crossed over from the teenage to the young adult market. They couldn’t afford not to advertise, even if they privately deplored his radio persona.” The producer waggled his cigarette. “Do you mind?”

  Judith shook her head. “I quit several years ago, but I still spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

  “If the waitress doesn’t hurry with my order, I’ll eat that cigarette,” Renie vowed, sounding cross.

  Judith sniffed at the smoke-tainted air, then posed another question: “Who, in your opinion, benefits from Harley’s death?”

  Rawls examined his square-cut fingernails. “Nobody. He’s literally irreplaceable. We’re going on a talent search to find somebody, but whoever we hire will automatically lose half the audience. Good-bye listeners, good-bye sponsors, good-bye promotional opportunities, good-bye big profits.”

  “Does that mean the station is going to find itself in financial trouble?” Judith asked.

  Rawls considered. “Red ink by the end of the year, maybe. Ms. Highcastle won’t want to pour money into a leaky boat. KORN’s ratings have slipped this past year, because country and western isn’t as big as it was.” Rawls glanced at Renie. “Losing your nephew didn’t help. He had a loyal following in KORN’s morning drive-to slot. Lots of radio and TV stations are being taken over by conglomerates. That’s what I see happening to KRAS and KORN down the road.”

  “So,” Judith mused, “from a business point of view, it was in everybody’s best interests to keep Harley alive.”

  Rawls nodded. “Alive and on the air. Instead, we’ve got a memorial service for his fans this weekend. A lot of the ghouls wanted an open casket, but I put a stop to that. Harley might not have had or wanted much dignity in life, but he’s going to have some in death, dammit.”

  The waitress delivered the c
ousins’ orders. Renie pounced. Judith toyed with her soup spoon and waited for the chowder to cool. “So you don’t have any idea who might have killed Harley?” Judith finally asked.

  “Not a glimmer,” Rawls answered, stubbing out his cigarette. “That’s what I told your husband and his partner.”

  “Did Harley act afraid or nervous the last few days before he died?” Judith’s question was rushed; she was afraid that Chuck Rawls was preparing to leave.

  “Hell no,” Rawls replied. “He was always antsy, you know, on a perpetual high. That’s the way it is in radio, at least on the rock stations. But he was the same old Harley, maybe more so.”

  “More so?” Judith paused with the spoon at her mouth.

  “Well…” The producer grew thoughtful, fingering the stubble on his chin. “I sort of threw that out, and yet there was something different about him. I really hadn’t considered it until now. He was always excited and excitable. But last week, he…how can I put it?” Rawls frowned. “Harley acted as if he was anticipating something. In retrospect, it might have been a job offer from a bigger market, like Chicago or New York.”

  Renie dribbled Roquefort dressing on her sleeveless top. “Was it?”

  Rawls shrugged his brawny shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you. Though if that had been the case, there should have been some followup. As far as I know, nobody’s called from out of town to see what happened to him.”

  “Do you have any idea why Harley and Tara went to the Belmont Hotel after the fashion show?” Judith asked.

  Rawls shook his head. “Maybe Harley thought he’d get laid. Look, I told you—and your husband—I’ve no idea why Harley did what he did or why he got killed. A deranged fan is my best guess. It happens.”

  The clam chowder was mediocre. Judith ate it anyway. “I understand Harley didn’t want his listeners to know that he was blind. Yet he took part in special promotions. How did he disguise his lack of sight?”

  Rawls made a face, and turned ruminative. “You know, when he first came to KRAS, I admired him a whole lot. He’d overcome this handicap, and made a successful career for himself. But when you got to know what an egomaniac he was, you forgot he was blind. It’s a funny thing, how we categorize people, whether it’s their race or their religion or whatever—then we get to know them and that stuff on the surface doesn’t matter, shouldn’t have mattered in the first place. A jerk is a jerk.”

  Renie looked up from stuffing her face with her beef dip. “Nice homily. But you got sidetracked. Promotions? Public appearances?”

  “Oh, right.” Rawls fingered a matchbook that bore Foozle’s outmoded logo. “He was pretty sly about that stuff. Take that fashion show—I gather all he had to do was hang onto Tara Novotny and walk down the runway. Who could guess he couldn’t see? The same thing at rock concerts he emceed—once he got into his place on stage, he faced the audience and screamed his head off. You don’t have to have eyes to do that, you just follow the sound. That was Harley’s thing, sound, noise, voices, music. He used them all to his advantage. I hate to admit it, but it was something to watch him do his show. Everything’s done by computer these days, and he played that board like a piano. I never heard him make a slip.”

  Judith inclined her head. “Harley must have been quite smart. Is it true that he had a lot of enemies, especially at work?”

  Getting to his feet, Rawls chuckled. “Enemies, rivals, people he’d offended—they’d fill a phone book. But none of the ones I could name would kill him. They wouldn’t have the guts. Sorry to be such a washout. I’ve got to find a DJ who can get at least a five market share.”

  Twenty minutes later, the cousins were cruising for a parking place by the Belmont Hotel. As they passed the Naples for the third time, Renie tapped her temple.

  “Billy Big Horn,” she said. “He’d make a perfect photo for the homeless brochure. If he’s not sitting outside the hotel fountain, I’ll have to try Donner & Blitzen. That’s his usual spot.”

  “He wasn’t there yesterday,” Judith noted. “Try the Cascadia Hotel. I’ve seen him there once or twice.”

  “I’ll do that,” Renie said, turning once more into the street that led to the Belmont’s entrance. “Actually, I’ll tell Morris Mitchell. He’s the photographer who’s doing the shoot.”

  Ahead of them, a white sedan was pulling out of a parking space. Renie applied the brakes, just a little too late. The big Chev’s bumper nudged the rear of the other car.

  “Yikes!” Renie cried. “I told Bill we needed a brake job. He always thinks I’m imagining things.”

  “You didn’t allow enough time,” Judith said. “You were going kind of fast.”

  “Oh, hush!” Renie was glaring at the other car, the door of which was now being thrust open. “I couldn’t have been doing more than twenty-five.”

  “On these narrow streets, that’s still…” Judith swallowed the next words.

  The driver emerging from the white sedan was Joe Flynn, and he was very angry.

  TEN

  IT APPEARED THAT Joe didn’t recognize Judith and Renie until he was within five feet of the Chev. He was reaching for his badge when Renie poked her head out of the window. A split second later, Joe saw Judith in the passenger seat.

  “Hi, Joe,” Renie said in what sounded like a falsetto. “What’s up?”

  “Jeez.” Joe held his head. “I’m not asking. I don’t want to know.” He gave Renie a hard stare. “Maybe I should arrest both of you. Then I could do my job and not feel as if I’m being followed by a pair of doofus amateur sleuths.”

  “Sleuths?” Renie exclaimed.

  “Doofus?” Judith blurted.

  Joe looked grim. “That’s what I said.” Turning his back on the cousins, he examined the rear of the unmarked city car. “You’re lucky,” he called to Renie. “I don’t see any damage.”

  “What about my car?” Renie demanded, her own temper resurfacing.

  Joe didn’t bother looking. He started back towards the white sedan, but Woody was getting out of the passenger side.

  “Is that…?” Woody began, and then stopped. “Hello, Judith, Serena. Nice to see you. I think.”

  “It’s not nice,” Joe snapped, swerving on his heel. “It’s damned annoying. Look,” he said, reapproaching the Chev, “Woody and I are here for one last look at the crime scene. The demolition people and the builders and the contractors want to get moving again on this old dump come Monday. We want to shut down our part. Now go home. I mean it.”

  Judith was leaning out of the Chev. “If you’re going to take a look around, why can’t we come with you? We won’t get in your way, we won’t let out a peep.”

  Joe shook his head. “That’s against police procedure. We don’t allow citizens to tag along on a homicide investigation. You heard me, go home.”

  “Hey, Woody,” Renie called out. “Did you see that the local opera company is going to do Trovatore set in Iraq? Manrico and Azucena will be Kuwaiti spies.”

  Woody, who was now standing by the white sedan, gave a start. His passion for opera was as great as Renie’s and had helped forge a bond between Joe’s partner and Judith’s cousin. “What? They can’t be serious!”

  “That’s what I hear,” Renie said, nodding sagely. “You won’t believe what they plan for Tristan und Isolde.”

  Horrified, Woody walked up to the Chev. “Now wait a minute—nobody should mess around with Wagner, especially not Tristan. Oh, I know they do some peculiar things with the Ring, but…”

  “Isolde is on a bus,” Renie interrupted. “She’s going to Salinas to meet her future husband, who’s a wealthy lettuce farmer. The bus driver is…”

  “Stop!” Woody put his hands over his ears. “You’ve got to be making this up!”

  “Would I?” Renie wore her middle-aged ingenue’s expression.

  With his arms folded across his chest, Joe regarded his partner, his wife, and his cousin-in-law with exasperation. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got work to do.�
��

  Renie jumped out of the car. “I’ll tell you about it while we go inside the hotel, Woody. According to Melissa Bargroom, the local music critic, who just happens to be a dear friend of mine, from now on, all the operas will be presented in a different setting and time period. Faust becomes a dentist in Milwaukee, and Mephistopheles is a patient who needs a root canal…” Renie and Woody headed for the hotel entrance.

  Joe glared at Judith. “You win. I didn’t think Renie would pull such a cheap stunt.”

  “I didn’t either,” Judith agreed, falling in step with her husband. “But I’m glad she did. It’s really silly of you to keep us from having a peek inside. After all, how else can I figure out what happened to Tara when she was pushed off the roof?”

  “Oh, that!” Joe’s voice was full of disgust. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten that nonsense.”

  Judith felt it was best not to argue. She kept quiet as they entered a much-abused freight elevator. While Renie and Woody lamented the state into which the local opera company allegedly had fallen, the cables groaned and the car creaked. At last they reached the top floor.

  Joe led the way down a dingy corridor where the aged carpet was torn and the walls showed water damage. Electrical wiring dangled from the ceiling, piles of plaster littered the floor, and at least two doors had been ripped off of their hinges.

  The door marked with crime scene tape was padlocked, however. The lock looked new, and Judith assumed it had been put in place by Joe and Woody. Sure enough, Joe unlocked it with a key that he had taken out of his pocket.

  The room itself was spacious, with furnishings that had once been stylish and comfortable. But a patina of age and dust and decay had settled in over what Judith figured had once been a penthouse. Two bedrooms led from the sitting room which looked out onto a balcony. Judith had to restrain herself to keep from checking to see if it was the same balcony onto which Tara had been pushed.

  “In here,” Joe said, going into the bedroom on the left. “Harley was lying on that double bed. Half-lying, as if he’d fallen after he was stabbed.”