Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

Judith shook her head. “It was that disc jockey, Harley Davidson. Did you ever listen to him on KRAS-FM?”

  At thirteen, O.P. was into the local music scene. “Sure. I heard he got killed, but not exactly how. What happened?”

  Judith started to explain, but was interrupted by the arrival of Dooley himself. “I didn’t realize you were home from college,” Judith exclaimed, giving the older boy a hug.

  Dooley, who was now well over six feet and beginning to fill out, gamely hugged Judith back. “I got out of school a couple of weeks ago, but I went camping with some friends for a few days. I got home Wednesday. Don’t tell me you’re tracking down another killer?”

  Somewhat to her chagrin, Judith admitted that indeed she was. “Mr. Flynn’s working on it, too,” she clarified. “But some of the suspects may be in this neighborhood.”

  Clearly intrigued, the Dooley brothers eyed each other. “Wild,” Dooley breathed. “Who is it this time? Mr. and Mrs. Rankers?”

  Judith couldn’t help but laugh. “No, but Arlene—Mrs. Rankers—was with me today when I spotted one of the witnesses. We were at Belgravia Gardens, going through the vacant condo, and…”

  As Judith’s tale unfolded, her eyes strayed to O. P.’s windows. He had a corner room, and while one window looked out over the cul-de-sac, the other faced the hill behind the Dooley and Flynn houses. Belgravia Gardens’ imposing facade looked straight down onto the Dooley property.

  “So what I was wondering,” Judith concluded after a lengthy recital that was interrupted by many questions from both boys, “is if you could see into the top floor of those condos with your telescope.”

  O. P. jumped off the bed and went over to the telescope which was positioned in front of the back window. “The angle’s going to be tough,” he said, peering through the lens and making some adjustments. “Gee, I think the building’s too tall. Maybe if we moved the telescope into the attic, we could see better.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble,” Judith said, but her quibble ceased when O. P. and Dooley insisted on giving it a try.

  “Some of the littler kids sleep up here,” Dooley noted as they ascended a narrow wooden staircase that smelled of camphor wood. “Don’t trip over anything. It might be one of the kids.”

  As far as Judith could tell, there were no children rolling around on the attic floor. The dormer room that looked up onto Belgravia Gardens was filled with clothes, toys, and unmade beds. The brothers eased the telescope into place, and O. P. took a look.

  “Way cool,” O. P. murmured. “All these people must be rich. I watched this place being built, and that was pretty cool, too. Mrs. Rankers came over to look through it a couple of times. She said she was keeping track of stuff for her daughter, the real estate lady.”

  “That’s what she said, huh?” Judith smirked, then caught herself. She, too, was snooping, and had no right to criticize Arlene. “Well? What about the penthouse?”

  “You mean the top floor?” O. P. still had his eye glued to the telescope. “I can see in—sort of. The angle’s still not real good. Lots of fancy furniture, but no people. Here, have a look.”

  Judith affixed her eye to the lens. She saw the antiques or antique reproductions that Phyliss had mentioned. The living room appeared beautifully, if lavishly, decorated. Two other, smaller windows also faced south, but the drapes were pulled. Like O. P., she saw no activity of any kind.

  “I’ll bet they left,” Judith said, more to herself than to the boys. “But they’ll have to come back. Or will they?” She stood by the telescope, tapping a finger against her cheek.

  “Do you want us to keep a watch on the place?” O. P. asked eagerly. “Now that school’s out, I’ve got lots of time.”

  “Sure,” Judith replied, though she wasn’t certain what good it would do. The stakeout was in effect. But after the initial rush of freedom, no doubt O. P. was already growing bored with summer vacation. “The man who lives there is named Bascombe de Tourville, and although I haven’t seen him…” Judith did her best with Phyliss’s sketchy description, but painted a more precise picture of Tara Novotny. For good measure, she threw in TNT Tenino. “There are two officers watching the condos,” Judith noted. “If Tara and de Tourville left before the stakeout personnel arrived, they’ll be intercepted when they try to get back inside.”

  O. P. nodded solemnly. “Got it,” he said.

  Judith and Dooley left O. P. at his post. “I used to listen to Harley Davidson all the time before I went away to college,” Dooley said as they maneuvered the narrow stairway. “He was one wild guy.”

  “Did you ever see him in person?” Judith inquired.

  “Once. It was a rock concert at one of the downtown theaters. Harley was outrageous. It was great.” Dooley smiled at the memory.

  Judith and Dooley were now heading for the main floor. “Did you know he was blind?” she asked.

  “Blind? No! Wow, that’s the bomb! He sure didn’t act like he was blind.” Dooley stood on the landing, running a hand through his fair hair. “But then he didn’t do anything except stand there and get down with the bass. After he surfaced on stage in the submarine, that is.”

  “I understand he was well paid for those gigs,” Judith said as one of the two children who had been rolling around in the sandbox charged through the front door screaming.

  “I guess,” Dooley said, scooping up the screaming child. “Hey, Pius X, what’s wrong? Did you hurt something, little buddy? Come on, Pix, tell your uncle all about it.”

  Never ceasing to be amazed at the saintly names and peculiar nicknames given to the Dooley brood, Judith exited to the front porch. Corinne was still swaying in the swing, looking blissfully unperturbed and seemingly unaware that the other small child was now naked and riding the dog around out on the sidewalk.

  “Did you find O. P.?” she inquired with only a slight move of her head.

  “Yes, thanks. Um…” Judith hesitated, one hand gesturing vaguely at the street. “Is it okay if…?” Wincing, she let the words trail away.

  “Everything’s okay,” Corinne replied, turning neither head nor hair. “Everything’s always okay. See you in church, Judith.”

  Judith left. The child and the dog followed her to the corner, then stopped and turned back. Apparently, even the Dooleys had some sort of limits.

  Or maybe the dog was better trained than the family.

  Saturday morning, Joe left for work while Judith was serving breakfast to her guests. Ordinarily, he would have been out of the house for at least half an hour before the eight-thirty dining room call. But this was a weekend, and Joe wasn’t inclined to push himself.

  Neither he nor Judith had heard any news from their respective lookouts. Consequently, Judith had to assume that de Tourville and Tara hadn’t returned.

  After her guests had left for the day, Judith felt at loose ends. She didn’t dare pester Renie, in case her cousin was still working. It was still drizzling, which meant working in the yard was off-limits. Trying to track down the lost lavender dress after nearly a week seemed hopeless. Checking in with the Rundbergs about the wedding bills was daunting. Aside from the usual cleanup, Judith had nothing to do. She wandered around the long living room, pausing to put in a couple of jigsaw puzzle pieces.

  Her eye strayed to the chunky envelope that held Mike and Kristin’s wedding proofs. Maybe she should check some of her favorites now, before the honeymooners returned on Tuesday. Judith carried the packet over to one of the matching sofas and sat down.

  There were at least two dozen photos that she felt she must keep. Some were at the rehearsal dinner, several were at the church, and most came from the reception. Judith smiled fondly at the shot of her son and his bride as they toasted each other over the family dining room table.

  On a faintly wicked whim, she dialed Morris Mitchell’s number. To her surprise, the photographer himself answered.

  “My weekend receptionist’s sick,” he said tersely. “She gets sick every time it rains. She
should never have moved here from California.”

  Briefly, Judith commiserated. “Say, Morris, could you send the bill to Kristin’s parents? They’re paying, and it seems silly that it should have to be forwarded through me.”

  “You signed for it,” Morris pointed out, not unreasonably.

  “Of course I did,” Judith agreed. “But it’s such a nuisance, and this way, you’ll get your money sooner. I’ll give you their address.”

  After the photographer had taken down the address of the Rundberg wheat ranch, Judith posed a question. “On the night of the rehearsal dinner, did you see anything unusual on the roof of the Belmont Hotel?”

  “The Belmont Hotel?” Morris echoed, sounding surprised. “Is that what’s next to the Naples? Hunh. Let me think. Why do you ask?”

  Judith swallowed hard before offering her candid explanation. “Please don’t think I’m crazy, Morris, but the night of the rehearsal dinner, I saw Tara Novotny and Harley Davidson on the Belmont roof. Some people—such as my husband—don’t believe me. But they were there, still wearing their bridal gear from Mr. Artemis’s fashion show at I. Magnifique.”

  “No kidding.” To Judith’s relief, Morris didn’t sound surprised. “And not long after that, Harley gets whacked in Mr. Artemis’s tux. You didn’t see that, did you?” The photographer seemed amused.

  “No,” Judith admitted. “Did you see them?”

  “Afraid not. I must have been shooting away from the windows. Damn, it would have made a good picture,” Morris lamented. “You know, wedding couple inside, wedding couple outside. A double image. I wish you’d told me at the time.”

  “It all happened so quickly,” Judith said, deciding it was pointless to mention having seen Harley push Tara off the roof. “I mean, they weren’t there for more than a minute.”

  “Another photo op down the drain. Oh, well.” Morris chuckled. “All I saw on that roof was a bunch of pigeon doo and some cigars.”

  Judith’s grip on the phone tightened. “Cigars?”

  “Yeah, about a half-dozen brand new cigars scattered around,” Morris replied. “I’ve got an eye for detail, it’s part of my work. But they didn’t say anything, you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Judith said though she wondered if the cigars said something that had nothing to do with visual aesthetics. “Why cigars? Where did they come from?”

  “Maybe from Harley,” Morris answered. “He liked cigars. He must have dropped them. Got to run, Mrs. Flynn. I’ll send the bill to the Rundbergs. Meanwhile, try to get your bride and groom to return the proofs by Friday, okay? I’m off to Europe week after next and won’t be back until the end of the month. See you.”

  Judith’s mind flashed back to the rehearsal dinner. She heard herself nagging Joe about his inquiry outside of the Naples and Belmont hotels. She saw him shrugging off the queries, then lighting up a big fat cigar. He’d gotten it from Kobe, the Naples parking attendant. But where had Kobe gotten the cigar in the first place? And why hadn’t the cigars still been on the Belmont roof when she and Renie had gone there with Joe and Woody?

  Judith sensed that the cigar played some part in her little mystery. She was determined to find out how before everything went up in smoke.

  TWELVE

  FUELED BY A six-pack of Pepsi, Renie was hard at work in the basement den. “Go away,” she mumbled when Judith appeared on the basement steps. “I’m busy.”

  “You need a break,” Judith said, crossing through the one-time playroom that was now used mainly for storage. “Bill told me so.”

  “Bill would never say any such thing,” Renie declared, still not looking up from her drawing board. “Good-bye.”

  “Morris Mitchell saw cigars,” said Judith as Clarence, the Holland dwarf lop, sniffed at her shoes.

  “Morris Mitchell can see visions of cigars, stars, and men on Mars for all I care,” Renie snapped, glaring at her cousin. “Are you nuts? This is the first time you’ve ever barged in here to pester me while I’m up against a deadline. I’m about to get very angry.”

  “Don’t. Please.” Judith put on her most pathetic face. “I need to talk to somebody. Just for five minutes. Joe’s working this weekend.”

  “So am I,” Renie retorted, though her expression had softened a bit. “I don’t know why you can’t let this thing go. Joe and Woody are pros. If you keep meddling, Joe’s going to blow a gasket.”

  “I’ve told you I have to vindicate myself,” Judith said doggedly. “You seemed to understand. And if that vindication comes through figuring out who killed Harley, so be it.”

  Renie didn’t look convinced. With a huge sigh of reluctance, she swiveled around in her chair. “Okay, you’ve got five minutes. But watch out for Clarence. He likes to get under foot.”

  Judith began by telling Renie that Joe and Woody were going through the Belmont one more time, trying to figure out what seemed to make it such a magnet to various persons involved in the murder case. She touched lightly on her visit to the Dooley house, but emphasized Morris Mitchell’s cigar sighting on the old hotel roof.

  “That’s the part that puzzles me most,” Judith said in conclusion. “It suggests something, but I don’t know what.”

  A casual listener might have dismissed Judith’s statement, but Renie instinctively understood. If Judith felt the cigars were important, then they probably were. On several occasions Judith had figured out important clues from seemingly trivial items. Renie would give her cousin the benefit of a doubt.

  “And Joe actually smoked one of these cigars the night of the rehearsal dinner?” Renie finally inquired.

  As Clarence sat on her left foot, Judith nodded. “That is, he smoked a cigar. Kobe, the parking attendant, gave it to him.”

  Renie fiddled with a couple of drafting pencils. “Usually, cigars are handed out at the birth of babies or at bachelor parties. But not at rehearsal dinners, which, I understand, is what the Naples was hosting for much of June. No tie-in with cigars there. You haven’t asked Joe, I take it?”

  “I haven’t seen him since I talked to Morris.” Trying gently to shake Clarence loose, Judith leaned up against a tall filing cabinet. The bunny resisted, planting his own oversized hind paws firmly on each of Judith’s shoes. “I suppose it’s silly—Kobe had probably been given the cigar, and doesn’t smoke, so he passed it on to Joe. But that doesn’t explain why Morris saw several of them on the Belmont roof. Why were they there and where did they go?”

  Renie was fingering her short chin. “The homeless don’t bring cigars to their self-proclaimed shelter. But somebody like Harley or TNT or even Tara might. Women are into cigars these days.”

  “True.” Judith glanced down at Clarence, who had finally hopped off of her person and was now circling her feet. His small, fluffy beige fur stood slightly on end, and he had one ear up and one ear down. “So Joe and Woody are going through the Belmont one last time, with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “Looking for cigars,” Renie remarked rather absently. “Or something. Is that it?” She gazed up at Judith with narrowed brown eyes.

  “You mean…Oh, am I done? Well, I guess so. You don’t have any ideas?”

  “Not about your little mystery. All my ideas are here.” Renie tapped her drawing board. “The only thing I can say is that you actually have two mysteries, which may or may not have anything to do with each other. One is Harley’s murder. The other is the Belmont itself.”

  Judith nodded eagerly. “That’s so. But it’s too much of a coincidence for the murder and whatever has been happening at the Belmont not to be tied in, right?”

  “The people involved are tied in, yes,” Renie replied somewhat impatiently. “Maybe Harley discovered what was going on at the old hotel. He had to be silenced.”

  Judith clapped her hands. “Yes! I hadn’t thought of that slant. Brilliant, coz!” She reached out to grasp Renie’s hand, and in the process, stepped on Clarence.

  The rabbit let out a terrified cry, rolled o
ver, and thrashed about. Renie leaped from her chair and dove for Clarence, who had gone completely limp.

  “Baby boy!” Renie shrieked in horror. “Darling bunny! Oh, Clarence! You’re hurt! Help!”

  Next to the filing cabinet, Judith stood as if frozen. “Coz! I feel terrible! I didn’t mean to…”

  But Renie had grabbed her cordless phone and was dialing frantically. “Get Bill,” she ordered Judith. “Hurry!”

  With a last glance at the motionless Clarence, Judith dashed upstairs. Bill, however, was nowhere to be found. A quick look outside showed that the Jones’s Chev, which had been parked in front of the house when Judith arrived, was now gone. A shout up the stairs that led to the bedrooms brought no response. Apparently none of the Jones children were home. Judith hurried back to the basement where an agitated Renie was carefully placing the injured rabbit into a cardboard pet carrier.

  “The regular vet is closed today,” Renie moaned, almost in tears. “We’ll have to take him to the emergency clinic across the canal.”

  “‘We’ll’?” Judith echoed.

  Renie’s face hardened. “You got it. Bill’s gone, right? You’re the one who stepped on Clarence, you clumsy moron. You’re the designated ambulance driver. Let’s hit it.”

  Renie cradled the carrier all the way to the emergency pet clinic, meanwhile making soothing, cooing noises which were interspersed with heartfelt lamentations: “Clarence may have a broken back.” “Clarence may be paralyzed.” “Clarence may be dead.”

  Grimly, Judith remained silent. She felt wretched about hurting the bunny, but the poor thing wasn’t exactly irreplaceable. Rabbits being what they were, there must be at least a thousand more Clarences in the city. By tomorrow, there’d be another thousand. They weren’t an endangered species. Or, Judith thought with a guilty pang, maybe they were, with careless people stepping on them.

  The receptionist said they could take Clarence right away, but tactfully told Renie and Judith to wait outside. It was very unusual for a rabbit to cry out, and often signaled the worst. Looking stricken, Renie began to pace the small waiting room.