Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  “He never saw it coming,” Judith murmured, suddenly overcome by the disc jockey’s helplessness. “Dear me.”

  The bedroom was in approximately the same state of disintegration as the rest of the building, though the ceiling and walls were still intact. A couple of empty places where the rug looked cleaner and less worn indicated that someone had removed furniture.

  “Did you take something out of here?” Judith asked, wincing at the dark stains on the carpet which she assumed were dried blood.

  Joe shook his head. “Thieves, maybe. Whatever was in those spots was gone when we got here.”

  “The dust, the fallen plaster,” Judith commented, studying the bed with its moth-eaten blanket. “Could you get footprints?”

  “Dozens,” Joe replied. “Transients, the demolition crew, whoever else has been around in the past month. We’re still sorting through them.”

  “Where’s the bedspread?” Renie was leaning against the wall next to a window that was covered by a tattered blue drape.

  “We took that with us,” Woody answered from his kneeling position by the bed. He held a powerful flashlight, which he played around the floor. “Possible hair and fibers, bloodstains. Not much help, though. Too many people over too long a time period have been here.”

  Judith moved quietly around the room, inspecting a dressing table, the closet, the bathroom. She found nothing unusual, only signs of deterioration and a hint of long-ago luxury. One item, however, caught her eye: It was an ordinary galvanized bucket that was almost filled with a gray, mushy substance.

  “Plaster?” she asked as Joe joined her by the doors that led to the balcony.

  Joe peered into the ten-gallon bucket. “No. It’s some kind of ash. We noticed that earlier.”

  “Burning evidence?” Judith inquired, her eyes wide.

  “Not likely,” Joe responded, straightening up. “Some bum probably was trying to cook something and started a fire by accident. Whatever it is—was—it’s completely destroyed.”

  Renie had returned to the sitting room. “Are you done?” she asked Judith with a trace of impatience. “I’ve got to get back to work. You can’t say I haven’t done my share by finessing Woody into a free pass.”

  “I appreciate it,” Judith said and meant it. “But I’m afraid it hasn’t done much good. It looks as if Joe and Woody are just going through the motions before they sign off on the building. I’m sure they made a thorough search of this place earlier.”

  “Of course.” Renie made a fidgety gesture with one hand. “Let’s hit it then. We are parked illegally.”

  “I think we’re safe from being arrested,” Judith responded, going to the Fench doors that led onto the balcony. “I wonder…”

  Joe and Woody came out of the bedroom. “Okay, it’s a wrap,” Joe announced, then eyed his partner questioningly. “Unless you want to check the other bedroom one last time?”

  Woody, who was still looking pained over Renie’s operatic report, glumly allowed that he’d have a look. “It never hurts to be sure,” he said in a morose tone that would have done a spurned baritone proud.

  Judith pointed to the balcony. “You looked out there?”

  Joe nodded. “We didn’t find anything. We didn’t expect to. It was latched from the inside. We checked the roof, too.” He avoided Judith’s eyes. “Nothing, except what you’d expect to find on an old roof.”

  The latch to the balcony was simple. Judith opened one of the two doors and stepped outside. As she’d figured, the Naples Hotel rose a couple of floors above the Belmont on the far side. This was the balcony where Tara had fallen; it was a remarkably short drop.

  “So the doors were latched when you came here Monday to find the body?” Judith inquired, still standing on the balcony.

  “Yes.” Joe was pacing the sitting room. Renie was halfway out into the hall. Woody remained in the second bedroom. “We don’t think Harley came in through the balcony, if that’s what you’re implying,” Joe added.

  “Why not?” Judith asked the question while poking around in the rubble on the balcony floor.

  “Because it doesn’t make sense,” Joe replied easily. “Would a blind man jump off a roof onto a balcony and get inside that way? Or would he come through the main entrance, which apparently wasn’t secure?”

  “Why come in at all?” Judith called over her shoulder.

  “It has the makings of a drug deal gone wrong,” Joe answered and then swore under his breath. “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

  Judith didn’t have to pretend. Something had caught her eye among the pieces of tar paper and bird droppings and dirt. It wasn’t much, just a chunk of dull green glass. On a whim, she slipped it into the pocket of her slacks and came back inside.

  “Okay, I’m done,” she declared just as Woody returned from the second bedroom.

  “So am I,” he said.

  The quartet headed for the elevator. Joe didn’t bother to lock up, and instead pocketed the padlock. “We’re finished. That’s official. They can wreck the damned place now.” He poked Judith in the ribs. “Are you satisfied?”

  Judith smiled, albeit a trifle weakly. “Oh, yes. Thank you. My curiosity must have gotten the better of me.”

  “No kidding,” Joe said drolly, getting into the rickety elevator. “You don’t want a souvenir?”

  Judith patted the pocket of her blue cotton slacks. “I’ve got one.”

  “What is it?” Joe looked faintly amused.

  “This.” Judith removed the chunk of glass and held it out in front of her. “It was on the balcony.”

  Joe, Woody, and Renie all gave the fragment a cursory look. “A piece of a cheap wine bottle?” Joe remarked with a glance at Woody.

  “Maybe,” Woody replied. “It looks old and dirty. It might have come off of a paperweight or it could be one of those electrical transformer things.”

  Joe chuckled. “Whatever it is, it belongs to my dear wife. She’s had her fun, now she can go home and run the B&B.”

  Judith heard the condescending note in Joe’s voice and started to bristle. Instead, she put the glass back in her pocket and patted it again. The rugged bulge felt comforting, though Judith didn’t know why. Maybe it was a symbol of her small victory over Joe. Maybe it was a sop to her sentimental nature.

  Maybe it was nothing at all.

  Maybe it was much more.

  “Wow!” Judith exclaimed, admiring the view from the sixth floor of Belgravia Gardens. “You can see all over the city and across the bay and to the mountains on the other side.”

  “You could see more if it weren’t so cloudy,” Arlene noted. “It’s going to rain. I suppose our summer is over.”

  Arlene was not a native Pacific Northwesterner, and didn’t share Judith’s aversion to warm weather. “It’ll clear off in a couple of days,” Judith said idly as she explored the master bedroom with its fireplace and sunken Jacuzzi. “These condos have everything. No wonder the asking price is a million dollars.”

  “It’s nine hundred thousand for this one,” Arlene said. “Of course the annual maintenance fee isn’t included in the asking price. The only unit that actually went for a million was the penthouse Bascombe de Tourville bought.”

  “The view would be even better up there on the tenth floor,” Judith remarked as they wandered into the state-of-the-art kitchen with its marble countertops and hardwood floor. “Did you say you don’t know how de Tourville made his money?”

  “That’s right, I don’t.” Arlene flipped on the recessed lights. “Regular oven, convection oven, microwave, dishwasher, trash compactor, garbage disposal, dishwasher, security monitor.” She poked a button and turned on a small screen that was discreetly placed by the telephone. “Look, you can see the lobby.”

  Judith peered at the monitor. The color transmission was excellent. “This is better than the one at the bank. Everybody there looks like they’re standing in front of a funhouse mirror. I always feel like I weigh three hundred pounds a
nd I’m deformed.”

  “Yes, it’s no wonder they never catch the bank robbers,” Arlene agreed. “They don’t look the least like they do in real life. Oh, see there—someone is coming in.”

  Judith watched the screen, which showed a woman entering the lobby. She was tall and dark and slim with a graceful, confident walk. Judith gasped.

  “That’s Tara Novotny! Come on, Arlene, let’s head her off!” Judith dashed for the front door.

  “What?” Arlene was still at the monitor. “Here, you can see an exterior of the building. There’s a cab pulling away, and here comes Corinne Dooley down the street in her van with some of the kids. Now which ones are with her…?”

  Judith was at the elevators, willing one of the two cars to hurry. Noiselessly, one set of gilded doors slid open. No one was inside. Judith swore under her breath. Tara must have taken the other elevator.

  The lobby was empty, as Judith had feared. There was no indicator to show at which floors the cars stopped. The elevators opened directly into each condo unit. Feeling forlorn, Judith spotted the mailboxes, two rows of five, set into the wall above a brocade-covered bench.

  The only name she recognized was that of Bascombe de Tourville in Unit Ten. Mentally, she crossed off the retired military man and the two interior decorators. That left six other possibilities, not counting de Tourville.

  Arlene came out of the elevator, wearing a frown. “Really, Judith, I can’t think why you tore off in such a hurry! You hadn’t seen the storage space.”

  Judith started to explain, then thought better of it. Arlene would ask a million questions, which Judith didn’t feel like answering. Instead, Judith asked one of her own:

  “Do you know if any of these residents have a connection with the fashion or apparel business?” She waved a hand at the mailboxes.

  Dutifully, Arlene scanned the names. Judith’s long-time friend and neighbor’s knowledge of Heraldsgate Hill was legendary. Arlene’s grapevine was so all-encompassing and her manner of dispensing information so efficient that Judith referred to this carefully cultivated network as the ABS—or Arlene’s Broadcasting System.

  “The Blumes on four are both lawyers, Devlin and Keel on two have something to do with computers and may or may not be married, here’s General and Mrs. Bid-well, the interior designers—oh, I didn’t realize it was Kain with a K—and this Witherspoon on nine is a retired broker who supposedly was a bookie on the side.” Arlene grimaced. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the other three. They may have moved here from somewhere else.”

  “You left out de Tourville,” Judith noted. “I still don’t understand. Did you say you knew how he made his money?”

  Arlene ran an agitated hand through her red-gold curls. “Did I? Did I say—well. I’m not sure. Oh!” Her blue eyes lighted up. “He travels! That was it!”

  Judith was growing impatient. “That’s not a career, it’s an avocation. What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone a lot,” Arlene replied breezily. “Or so I hear. Does it matter as long as he keeps up the payments?”

  “I guess not.” Judith went over to the phone which was installed in an alcove near the door. “I have to call Joe.”

  Arlene looked at her watch. “Couldn’t you do that at home? I really should run. I need to get the condo key back to Cathy before they close the real estate office. It’s going on five now.”

  Judith hesitated. “Okay, go ahead. I’ll walk. It’s downhill.”

  Arlene’s protests were feeble. A minute later, she was on her way, while Judith dialed Joe’s number at work.

  “I’ve found Tara,” she said excitedly into the phone.

  “There’s no Ivan Taro here,” the harsh voice said at the other end, and slammed down the receiver.

  Judith made a face, then dialed Joe’s number again. The same man answered. Judith asked if Joe was in. He wasn’t. Judith decided to wait for Tara, and took up her watch on the brocade-covered bench. It was a quarter to five; she could spend a half-hour at Belgravia Gardens without detriment to her guests or the dinner hour. With any luck, Joe might get home early. She’d try to call him at Hillside Manor before she left the condos.

  For the next thirty minutes, the only person Judith saw in the lobby was an older woman with a Dandie Dinmont on a leash. At five-twenty, Judith dialed her own number. The standard recording reached her ear. Apparently, Joe wasn’t home yet. Torn between her household duties and abandoning her post in the lobby, Judith fretted. On a whim, she picked up the private condo line and dialed Unit Ten.

  A man with a smooth, faintly accented voice answered. Judith asked if Tara was available. The man hesitated, then said that there was no Tara at that number.

  “Is this Mr. de Tourville?” Judith inquired.

  “Yes,” the man responded with what Judith thought was a trace of wariness. “Who is this, please?”

  “This is Mrs. Flynn,” Judith said in her friendliest manner. “I’m trying to reach my cleaning woman, Mrs. Rackley. I believe she also works for you. She accidentally left my house the other day with my address book. Is she there now by any chance?”

  “No,” de Tourville replied, no longer wary but aloof. “She comes but once a week, on Thursday.”

  “Oh!” Judith tried to sound both excited and pitiable. “She was there yesterday! I’m sure she must have left the address book then. That’s when I missed it. Would you mind if I came up?”

  “Yes,” de Tourville answered. “I’m quite busy. Nor have I seen this lost address book. Tell me this—if you believed that the cleaning woman left this item, why did you ask for a person named Tara?”

  “Tara?” Judith was flummoxed. “Well…Ah, did I say Tara? That was the name of my previous cleaning woman, Tara…” Judith glanced at her surroundings for inspiration. “Tara Brocade. Goodness, my mind must have been playing tricks on me!”

  “It was playing tricks, yes,” de Tourville remarked dryly. “If, by some remote chance, this address book turns up, I shall have a messenger deliver it. Where do you live? And how did you get into the condominium lobby?”

  Nervously, Judith glanced around, trying to find the security camera. Now subdued, she recited her address. “I came with a realtor,” Judith said, telling yet another lie. “My husband and I may buy the vacant condo on the sixth floor.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end. Judith figured that Bascombe de Tourville was trying to decide whether or not Judith was telling the truth—or if she was just plain wacko. “I see,” he finally said. “Good luck to you. And goodbye.” He clicked off.

  Aware that she was probably still being observed on the security monitor, Judith forced herself to exit Belgravia Gardens at a leisurely pace. But as soon as she got out of range on the sidewalk, she half-ran to the corner, slowing only when she started the steep downhill descent. Turning onto her own street and then into the cul-de-sac, she saw no sign of Joe’s MG. When she reached the kitchen, she tried to call him again at work. This time she was told that he had just left. Judith gritted her teeth in annoyance and faced the stove.

  She was tossing a green salad when the front doorbell rang. Assuming it was some of her B&B guests, Judith put on her brightest smile. It dimmed when she recognized Esperanza Highcastle, dressed in an Argentinean gaucho costume.

  “Where’s my husband?” Esperanza demanded in an autocratic tone, barging into the entry hall.

  Taken aback, Judith stammered, “You mean T-T-TNT?”

  “I mean my husband,” Esperanza repeated, scrutinizing the Victorian hat rack, the maple stand with the B&B guest book, the staircase, the door that led to the downstairs bathroom. “I know he’s here. He called from this number this morning.”

  “He’s gone,” Judith replied, recovering her aplomb. “He left fairly early. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  Esperanza prowled the hallway, frowning under the brim of her hat. Black trousers billowed over black boots, and a brightly striped poncho swung from her shoulders. Judith gues
sed that the wide silver belt that flashed at her visitor’s waist was made of real coins.

  “Do you mean you don’t know where he is now?” Esperanza wheeled on Judith. In her high-heeled boots, she stood close to six feet, a strapping, handsome woman with hard gray eyes and prematurely gray hair.

  “No, I don’t know where he is,” Judith said firmly. “He spent the night and left, as I told you.”

  “A bed and breakfast,” Esperanza said, not looking at Judith, but shaking her head. “He refused to stay in B&Bs while we were together. Too ‘femmy,’ he called them. Why here? Why now?” She spoke as if Judith weren’t present.

  Judith kept quiet. Esperanza continued to roam around the entry hall, then went into the living room. “Books. A piano. A jigsaw puzzle. A bay window with floral cushions. All the things that Tino hates. Who would have thought it?”

  The doorbell rang again. This time it was two of Judith’s expected guests, a middle-aged couple from Oregon. Judith murmured her excuses to an unresponsive Esperanza and went through the ritual of welcome. Ten minutes later, after the Oregonians had been shown to their room, Judith rejoined Esperanza in the living room.

  “Would you care for some punch?” Judith asked, indicating the glasses and bowl on the gate-leg table. “I’m serving hors d’oeuvres in ten minutes.”

  “What?” Esperanza looked up sharply from the book cases she’d been inspecting. “Oh—no, certainly not. I must go.” She sailed past Judith, heading for the entry hall.

  Seeing the guest book, Esperanza waved a gloved hand. “He didn’t sign in. How like him! How were you paid? His credit cards have been canceled and he has no money.”

  “Actually, he—” Judith began, but her visitor interrupted.

  “Never mind.” Esperanza opened the front door with a sweeping gesture. She snapped her fingers, the effect almost lost because of the kidskin gloves. “The Belmont! Maybe he’s there!”

  With a flash of silver coins and a click of high-heeled leather boots, Esperanza was gone.