Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

  Joe was working late to make up for the holiday. Still, Judith had to take care of her guests—and Gertrude. She hemmed and hawed while Renie coaxed and cajoled.

  “Since it’s the Naples,” Judith finally relented, “I won’t beg off. If we didn’t go until seven-thirty, maybe Arlene could fill in here at the B&B.”

  Arlene could—at first. Then she called back and said she couldn’t after all. Judith was about to dial Renie’s number when the phone rang again in her hand. Arlene would be glad to help out. Judith asked if she was certain; what about her previous refusal? Had her plans changed?

  “What plans?” Arlene asked in a dumbfounded voice. “Why would I have plans?”

  As was often the case in dealing with Arlene, Judith’s brain felt as if it were on the spin cycle. Then, in a typical gesture of generosity, Arlene invited Gertrude to dinner. “It’s always such fun to entertain your mother,” Arlene enthused. “She keeps Carl and me in stitches.”

  Mystified as ever by Gertrude’s ability to amuse the neighbors, Judith thanked Arlene. Then she called Joe at work to tell him of her plans. He was out, so she left a note on the bulletin board that a baked potato was in the oven, green beans were on the stove, and a T-bone steak was in the fridge.

  After preparing the guests’ punch and hors d’oeuvres, Judith brought in the evening paper. The previous day’s edition had contained a four-inch story on the bombing at the Heraldsgate 400 building. Though Judith carefully scanned both the front page and the local section, she could find nothing more on the incident. It was the first thing she mentioned to Renie as the cousins set out for the Naples Hotel shortly after seven.

  “Sometimes,” Renie responded thoughtfully, “the media bands together to protect their own. The local newspapers might feel that by publicizing the explosion they’d be inviting more of the same, only next time it might be directed at them, instead of a radio or TV station.”

  “I’ll have to ask Joe about it,” Judith said. “He must have heard something at work. After all, there is a connection with the homicide case. I mean, Harley Davidson worked for the station that was targeted by the bomb.”

  In the Naples’s circular drive, Judith and Renie were met by Kobe. Renie gave him a jaunty wave, but Judith practically backed him up against the Italian fountain.

  “Kobe, you’re just the man I want to see,” she said, employing a big, friendly smile. “Have you got a minute?”

  Anxiously, Kobe looked at the drive and the street beyond. No other cars were approaching. “I guess. The night after a holiday is usually kind of slow.”

  “Okay.” Judith kept smiling. “I’m Detective Flynn’s wife, remember? The rehearsal dinner, the body in the Belmont, the cigar?”

  Kobe’s earnest young face grew puzzled. “I remember most of that, sure. What about the cigar?”

  “You gave one to Mr. Flynn the night we were here for dinner,” Judith explained as Renie stood by the entrance, tapping her foot. “You know, when he came down to ask if you’d heard or seen anything odd?”

  “Oh!” Kobe grinned and put a hand to his head. “Right, I don’t smoke, so I gave it to Mr. Flynn.”

  The smile deserted Judith’s eyes and tightened on her lips. “Where did you get it?”

  Kobe frowned briefly, then wagged a finger toward the sidewalk. “From that guy who panhandles around here sometimes. Billy Something-or-other. He’s not supposed to hang out by the hotel, but he doesn’t cause any trouble and I don’t hassle him. I guess that’s why he gave me the cigar.”

  Judith glanced at the empty corner where she had last seen Billy Big Horn. “Where did he get it?”

  Kobe shrugged. “Somebody gave it to him, I suppose. You’d be surprised at what people give a panhandler besides money. Of course Billy uses a cigar box for his donations, which may be why he ends up with cigars sometimes. But he doesn’t smoke, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings which is why I took the cigar from him.”

  “Have you seen Billy lately?” Judith asked.

  Kobe shook his head. “Not since that night, now that you mention it, but he isn’t a regular fixture. Once a week, maybe.”

  Judith grew silent while Renie loudly cleared her throat. “Kobe,” Judith began at last, “do you recall anything—anything at all—unusual about the Friday that we were here for the rehearsal dinner?”

  Kobe took the question seriously. “I didn’t at the time,” he said slowly, “but since then, when I heard that the body they found in the Belmont was that disc jockey I listen to sometimes, I remembered that he’d come here for lunch that day.”

  Judith stared at Kobe. Even Renie took a step forward. “Harley Davidson was here?” Judith asked in a breathless voice.

  “Right,” Kobe answered. “He comes pretty often. But that day, one of the other valets got sick, so I had to fill in. I got here just before one, Davidson came a few minutes later with some recording types. I’ve seen them around before, but not with Davidson. They own a studio downtown.”

  Judith could barely control her eagerness to encourage more information from Kobe. “Do you know them? What are their names? Which studio?”

  Kobe seemed a trifle overwhelmed by Judith’s enthusiasm. “I…yes, I’ve seen them here several times, including with one of the rock groups they have under contract. But I don’t know their names. The rock group was Mud Bath, which I think records for the Red Fog label. I’ve got a couple of their CDs.”

  Judith turned to Renie, who appeared sufficiently interested to remain patient. “Do you know them, coz?”

  Renie scrunched up her face in the effort of recollection. “They sound vaguely familiar. Yes, I think they’re local.”

  Judith started to pump Kobe’s hand in gratitude, then thought of something else: “How did you recognize Harley Davidson the first time you saw him?”

  “He came with some other radio types in a car that had the KRAS logo plastered all over it,” Kobe answered. “Besides, I’d seen his picture around town.” The parking valet’s tone accelerated as a sleek white Cadillac pulled into the drive. “Mr. Davidson seemed like a nice guy—he gave Billy Big Horn a twenty that Friday. Excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Renie had saved her consternation until dessert. Throughout the meal, she’d let Judith meander through theories, ideas, and conjecture concerning Harley Davidson’s demise and the possibility that someone was involved in contraband. When Judith seemed to run down just as the crème brûlée was presented, Renie took over the conversation.

  “Okay, you were going to back off the last I heard, and let Joe and Woody do their jobs. Now you’re…”

  “I wouldn’t have gotten involved again if you hadn’t offered me a free dinner at…”

  “Shut up.” Renie knew Judith was lying. “You haven’t been idle these past two days or you wouldn’t have gone to de Tourville’s condo. And where on earth did this stupid contraband idea come from? A bunch of Cuban cigars?”

  “It’s not just the cigars,” Judith said in defense of her theory. “It’s the Belmont itself. It looks as if it were being used for some sort of rendezvous. The cigars may be just a peripheral item being brought in. I suspect that drugs are the real contraband.”

  Renie had paused to taste her crème brûlée, and it had pleased her greatly. “I’m sick of drugs,” she declared. “Why can’t it be something more glamorous, like Russian sables or Canadian fisher?”

  Judith started to make a flippant retort, but suddenly stopped, one hand poised over her ramekin. “That may be it, coz,” she said excitedly. “Not furs, but clothes. Mr. Artemis has his clothes made on an island in the Caribbean—Santa Teresa del Fiore. He’d received a shipment the day before the fashion show at I. Magnifique. What if parts of that shipment were filled with illegal drugs? Tara often brought the garments into this country and took them straight to her apartment. I remember Deirdre, one of Mr. Artemis’s other models, accusing Tara of ripping out hems and seams in some of the latest shipment. What if s
he did that to get at the drugs?”

  Renie’s eyes roved around the dining room’s gesso ceiling. “Could be. So who’s in on this scam beside Tara and Mr. Artemis?”

  “We can’t be sure about him, but Tara has to know if she’s tearing up designer outfits.” Judith was making notes on her cocktail napkin. “Then there’s TNT. Esperanza thought she could find him at the Belmont. Why else would he go there?”

  “Because,” Renie offered, “she’d thrown him out and it was a place to flop?”

  Judith’s sanguine manner faded. “It’s possible. But why did he come home with me? He said he had no place to stay. Admittedly, he was drunk. That’s all the more reason why—if he associated the Belmont with something else—like smuggling—he wouldn’t have thought of it as a home away from home. He was muddled.”

  The waiter came to take away their dessert dishes and inquire about after-dinner drinks. Judith chose Galliano on the rocks; Renie opted for Drambuie, straight up. Though there were empty tables on this Wednesday night, the hotel dining room’s simulated English hunting lodge hummed with the sound of contented customers. Judith consulted her cocktail napkin.

  “I doubt if anyone at the radio station was in on this,” she said. “I see it emanating from de Tourville, Tara, TNT, and maybe Mr. Artemis.”

  “What about Harley?” Renie asked, placing her free coupon next to her water glass.

  “You said it.” Judith gave Renie a knowing look. “Remember, just before I…ran afoul of Clarence? Harley was killed to keep him quiet. He must have found out about the smuggling ring that night at the Belmont. It was dangerous knowledge, and the gang couldn’t afford to let him live.”

  A slight nod, the parting of lips, and then a peal of laughter erupted from Renie. “How, coz?”

  Judith frowned. “What do you mean, how? If Tara had brought the drugs with her that night she’d have to take them out and put them…” A horrified expression crossed Judith’s face. “Oh! I see what you mean!”

  Renie nodded sagely. “Of course you do. You see that Harley couldn’t see. Return to go, coz. Excuse the pun, but I just blindsided your theory.”

  FOURTEEN

  JUDITH WASN’T WILLING to quite let go of the premise she’d built out of a Caribbean workshop, Cuban cigars, and a dead disc jockey. “He may have heard something,” she argued as the cousins waited for Kobe to fetch their car. “If Tara didn’t kill him, somebody else was there. They talked. Harley listened. And that’s why he’s dead.”

  “Uh-huh.” Renie yawned. “So why don’t you let Joe figure it out?”

  Judith didn’t answer because Kobe appeared just then with the big Chev. The cousins both tipped him. “Thank you for being so helpful,” Judith said as she slipped a ten-dollar bill into the parking valet’s hand along with her phone number. “If Billy Big Horn shows up here, call me. Please.”

  As they circled the fountain and turned into the street, Judith craned her neck for a look at the Belmont. It loomed large and dark behind the Naples.

  “I don’t think they’ve started tearing it down yet,” she said.

  “The holiday probably interfered,” Renie replied without much interest. “Once you screw with schedules, things get put on the back burner.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” Judith mused. “That place could still be evidence. Want to visit Red Fog recording studios tomorrow?”

  “Not particularly,” Renie responded as they skirted the downtown area where the city’s commerce melded into the hospital and apartment district.

  Coming off the hill of high-rises, Judith glimpsed I. Magnifique a block away. “I wonder…what if there’s some kind of…I’m not sure what…residue, or whatever from the drugs left in the garments that are being sold? Maybe Joe and Woody should check out Mr. Artemis’s inventory there and at his studio.”

  “Maybe they have,” Renie said absently. “Their job, you know.”

  “I suppose that drugs are carefully packaged. At least they are on TV, in heavy plastic.” Judith stroked her chin. “Still, you could tell if the seams had been altered. I wonder if…Ohmigod!” She gave such a start that the seatbelt cut into her midsection.

  “What now?” Renie asked without turning to look at her cousin.

  “Lavender Dreams! I didn’t lose it, it was stolen!” Despite the fact that Renie was negotiating a corner, Judith grabbed her cousin’s arm. “I’ll bet that dress was worth a lot more than twenty-five hundred dollars! I’ll bet somebody thought it was loaded with cocaine!”

  Renie disengaged her arm and tugged at the steering wheel to keep the car from hitting the curb. “Do that again and I’ll smack you.”

  “Smack!” Judith exclaimed. “Isn’t that a drug term?”

  At the next stop light, Renie smacked her anyway.

  Judith had kept her cocktail napkin. On Thursday morning, she studied the scribbled names once more. Bascombe de Tourville. Tara Novotny. TNT Tenino. Mr. Artemis, with a question mark. Then she reproached herself for not asking TNT more questions while he was under her roof. What did he actually do as a boxing coach and scout? Did he travel? Who were his friends? It was one thing not to be able to quiz the suspects; it was quite another to neglect questioning them when she had the opportunity. Judith felt that she was slipping.

  “Hey, Mom, you’re slipping,” Mike said as he breezed into the kitchen. Judith jumped. “What?”

  Mike grinned and sat down on the counter where Judith had been cogitating. “Never mind,” he consoled his mother. “What’s up?”

  Judith glanced toward the backstairs where Mike had just descended. “Where’s Kristin?”

  “In the shower. We’ve opened all the wedding presents, and we’re getting the bigger ones ready to ship to Idaho. We’ll take the rest in my Wrangler.”

  Judith barely heard the last of her son’s words. Kristin was in the shower. Phyllis was upstairs cleaning the guest rooms. Gertrude was out in the toolshed. Judith was alone at last with Mike.

  “Mike,” she said, clearing her throat, “we’re overdue for a talk.”

  Mike’s grin grew even wider. “Isn’t it kind of late for that, Mom? I mean, Kristin and I are married. You should’ve talked to me about fifteen years ago.”

  “I don’t mean that.” Judith moved around nervously in her chair. “Besides,” she added, stalling to find the right words, “I did talk to you about that sort of thing. You were in sixth grade.”

  “It was Dad,” Mike said. “And I was in fourth grade. Sometimes I think you forget how much time I spent with Dad while you were working.”

  Sometimes Judith did forget. It was easy to do in the blur of years. While she’d held both a day and an evening job, Dan had stayed home with Mike. Dan would have stayed home if there’d been no Mike, but the truth was that father and son had forged a close, if sometimes uneasy, bond. Dan had been there for Mike, and Judith hadn’t. It wasn’t her fault, but it was a fact.

  “Yes…well…of course.” Judith stumbled over the words. “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes people do things that seem right at the time, but in the long run they may regret them. Do you know what I mean?”

  Mike turned serious. “Oh. So you did notice. I should have guessed.”

  Mystified, Judith frowned at her son. Then he held out his left arm. “So what do you really think? I had it done in Mexico. I like it.” Mike’s tone was proud and defensive.

  Tattooed inside his upper arm in discreet but easily read letters was “Daniel Neal McMonigle, 1937–1986.”

  Judith bit her lip. “I didn’t notice.” She felt her eyes fill with tears. “That’s…very moving, Mike. What does Kristin think?”

  Mike rubbed at the tattoo, as if it were a talisman. “She thinks it’s nice. She’s always said she wished she’d known my dad. This makes him a little more real to her.”

  And keeps him real for you, Judith thought with a pang. Judith might not have loved Dan, at least not the way a wife should love a husband, but Mike had loved him
like a son loves his father. Judith reached up and hugged Mike.

  “Your…dad would be proud,” she murmured.

  “I think so,” Mike said quietly. Then giving Judith a tight squeeze, he drew back. “Hey, I thought you were talking about the tattoo a minute ago. What did you want to tell me?”

  “Oh.” Judith stepped back, falling over the chair. She caught herself and giggled. “Just that…ah…I never really got to wish you and Kristin all the happiness in the world. Things got so hectic around here before the wedding, and I know I must have said something, maybe often, but not one-on-one, when everything was calm.” The heartfelt words finally came tumbling out, though they were not what Judith originally had intended. “I hope that the two of you will be as happy as…”

  The phone rang, cutting Judith off. But as she picked up the receiver, Mike grinned and finished for her:

  “As you and Dad were. Thanks, Mom. I’m going to the basement to get some cartons.”

  It wasn’t, Judith thought fleetingly as she answered the phone, what she was going to say. She wanted to wish Mike and Kristin to be as happy as she and Joe were. But if her son thought that she and Dan had been happy, why spoil his illusion? Why spoil anything and everything? Judith would never bring up the subject of Mike’s parentage again.

  “Coz,” Judith said, relieved that it was Renie on the other end of the line. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “My turn first, I called,” Renie said. “What did Kobe say last night about Billy Big Horn? I need to find him for Morris Mitchell. We want to use him in the homeless photographs. He’s very picturesque, especially with that harmonica.”

  Judith explained that Billy hadn’t been around the Naples since the night of the rehearsal dinner. “I told him to call me if he does show up. Did you check the corner by Donner & Blitzen?”

  “Morris did,” Renie replied. “Nobody’s seen Billy there for the last two weeks. One of the other panhandlers told Morris that he might be in jail. Sometimes the cops make a sweep of the bums, especially during tourist season. Could you check with Joe?”