Wed and Buried

by Mary Daheim

Judith’s face fell. “You’re right. It doesn’t make much sense. What am I missing?”

  Naturally, Renie didn’t know. “One thing,” she finally offered, gazing thoughtfully at the bowl of yellow, pink, and red roses that sat in the middle of the dining room table, “if Billy was killed at the Belmont—and I’m not saying you’re completely wrong about that—then where is his body?”

  “I asked Joe if they’d searched the Naples or any of the other buildings, but he said they had no reason to. In fact,” she added sheepishly, “I even called St. Fabiola’s awhile ago and tried to find out if they could account for all the bodies in their morgue.”

  Renie couldn’t suppress a grin. “What did they say?”

  “They thought I was crazy, of course. But I did manage to learn that nobody died at the hospital between June twenty-first and July sixth, which washes out my theory.”

  For a few moments, the cousins fell silent. “Then Billy’s body has to be at the Belmont,” Renie said at last.

  Judith shook her head. “Joe insists they searched everywhere.”

  “You miss my point,” Renie said. “You can’t cart a body around and not have someone notice. Ergo, if your premise is right, Billy was never taken out of the Belmont. Think about it, coz.”

  Frustrated, Judith held out her hands. “Then my premise is wrong. Billy is alive and well and missing his harmonica on a Greyhound bus bound for southern California. The truth is, the killer didn’t care if Harley’s body was found, so why would they care about a poor homeless man being discovered? The only precaution the murderer took was to remove all of Harley’s ID and to cut Mr. Artemis’s precious labels out of…”

  The cousins’ eyes met. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Judith breathed.

  “I think so,” Renie answered in a weak voice. “But why?”

  “I don’t know.” Judith chewed on her lower lip, then ripped off the pages of notes she’d made in the tablet and crumpled them into a ball. “We’re back to square one.”

  Renie caressed her Pepsi can. “Are you going to tell Joe?”

  Judith thought for a minute. “No. He wouldn’t believe me. I haven’t a shred of evidence, and no motive. Not a real motive, that is.”

  “So what do we—ah, I mean, you—do next?” Renie inquired.

  Judith uttered a nervous laugh. “I haven’t a clue. Literally.”

  What Judith actually did was fetch the mail, which brought yet more wedding bills, including a couple of courteous “reminders.” She also received her I. Magnifique statement and an innocuous-looking envelope from the U. S. Treasury Department.

  “I’m getting so I hate to bring in the mail,” Judith declared to Renie who’d been about to leave. “Damn, if those Rundbergs don’t start tending to some of these, I’m in big trouble.” With apprehension, she tore open the I. Magnifique envelope. “Double damn! I’m in big trouble anyway. That lavender dress is charged to this statement. You’re right, coz. I’ve got to report it as stolen.”

  “Do it now,” Renie urged, “while Joe’s not at work. Maybe he won’t hear about it. He’s always complaining about how one division doesn’t know what the other is doing.”

  “That’s so. I will.” Judith sighed as she fingered the brown government envelope which was addressed to Joseph P. Flynn and Judith A. Flynn. “I don’t like this. Dan and I used to get these and they were always bad news. Dare I?”

  “You’d better,” Renie said with reluctance.

  Judith carefully tore the envelope open, removed the two-page missive, and collapsed against the oak credenza in the entrance hall. “Oh, God! We’re being audited!”

  “So?” Renie seemed unmoved by the announcement. “We’ve been audited three times. It happens when you’re in business for yourself. What’s the problem? Expense deductions?”

  Judith scanned the two pages. “No. It’s…Mother.”

  “Your mother?” Renie was aghast. “What on earth…?”

  “We’ve been claiming Mother as a deduction. Our accountant said it was okay,” Judith said, speaking nervously and rapidly, as if Renie herself were a vicious IRS agent. “She lives with us, you see. Sort of. I mean, she’s on our property.”

  Renie shrugged. “Of course she is. There shouldn’t be any problem. It’s probably just a random check. People like you and me who are in business for ourselves automatically raise a red flag with the IRS. Don’t worry about it. You’ll have a hearing and you can explain. If they don’t believe you, you have the perfect fall-back position.”

  Judith shot Renie a dubious look. “Like what?”

  Renie grinned. “Take your mother with you to the audit interview. It’ll serve the IRS right. If worse comes to worse, you can leave her there. See you, coz.”

  Renie left.

  Joe wasn’t as sanguine as Renie about the audit notice. To Judith’s surprise, he recognized the envelope’s significance even before he saw its contents.

  “I told you we should have put your mother in a retirement home,” he shouted as he stomped around the living room. “It isn’t just whether or not she’s living at the same address, but her net worth. Don’t try to tell me she doesn’t have money socked away some place. To claim her as a dependent, she has to be virtually broke.”

  “She may be,” Judith said in a small voice. “I had to borrow from her quite a bit while Dan and I were married.”

  Joe stopped in the middle of the living room and stared at Judith. “Are you trying to tell me that she still does her own books? How can she, when she’s so addled?”

  “She’s still sharp about some things,” Judith said in a defensive tone. “I wouldn’t dream of offering to take over her finances. She has so little independence left, and it means so much to her.”

  Joe threw up his hands. “This is crazy! You’ve been claiming her when you don’t even know what she’s got stashed away? Do you realize what kind of trouble we can get into?”

  Judith, who was sitting on the arm of one of the matching sofas, cast her eyes down at the Persian carpet. “We pay everything for her,” she murmured. “Why doesn’t that make her a dependent?”

  Joe clapped his hand to his forehead. “Jeez! It doesn’t work that way, that’s why. And if you’ve been dumb enough to foot all her bills, she’s probably got a big savings account. Social Security, your father’s pension, whatever.” He collapsed onto the windowseat and shook his head.

  Judith swallowed hard. “Are you and Woody going fishing tomorrow?” It seemed prudent to change the subject.

  “What?” Joe reacted as if he’d never heard of fishing. “Oh—fishing. Yeah, I think so. Woody wants to try out his new fly rig. We’ll hit one of those lakes above the family cabin.”

  “That sounds nice.” Judith teetered on the sofa arm. “If it’s not too hot, I’ll work in the garden.”

  Joe didn’t comment. Rising from the windowseat, he scratched his head in a stupefied manner and headed out through the Fench doors. Judith slipped onto the sofa and stared at a wilting floral arrangement that had been part of the decor for Mike and Kristin’s wedding reception. Five years earlier, she and Joe had been newlyweds. Early on, they had never quarreled, or so it seemed to Judith. Lately, tension existed between them on an almost daily basis. Maybe Renie was right: Marriage wasn’t just about quarreling and making up; it was about deep-rooted mind-sets and individual experiences and personality conflicts that could never be resolved, only ignored in order to make life bearable.

  Judith’s eyes traveled to a brochure for Hillside Manor. “Full-course breakfasts, cozy atmosphere, and comfortable accommodations,” the copy read. Maybe “comfortable accommodations” were what marriage was all about. But you paid for them, Judith thought, not just at Hillside Manor, but in real life.

  With an effort, Judith got up and went to the telephone on the cherrywood pedestal stand. She started to dial the number for police headquarters to report her stolen dress, but before she could enter the last digit, Joe came back into the
living room.

  “I’m going to five o’clock Mass,” he said, “so Woody and I can get an early start in the morning.”

  Judith could never attend the Saturday evening service. She had to be at the B&B to serve her guests for their cocktail hour.

  “Okay,” she said in a tired voice. “We’ll eat at six-thirty.”

  Joe continued through the living room, brushed past Judith, and went upstairs. Judith picked up the phone again, lost her nerve, and replaced the receiver.

  Sunday, the ninth of July, was a long, hot day. Judith spent an hour weeding in the shade. But after her mother had interrupted to ask the whereabouts of her glasses, her solitaire deck, her jumble puzzle, her TV Guide, her dentures, and her Granny Goodness Chewy Caramels, Judith gave up and went into the house. She tried calling Renie, but nobody answered. Feeling bereft, she sat at her computer in the kitchen and tried to figure out what had really happened at the Belmont Hotel.

  No fresh inspiration struck. She was thinking about making a big gin and tonic when the phone rang.

  It was Mike. “Hey, Mom,” he said in a cheerful voice, “we’re about to leave Kristin’s folks and head for Idaho. Mrs. R. wanted me to tell you that they won’t be paying any of the wedding bills for awhile because of some tax problems. I don’t understand it, but it has something to do with the Rundbergs owning a wheat ranch. They pay differently than other people.”

  Judith snapped out of her doldrums. “We all have tax problems,” she declared in an angry tone. “We also have bills, some of which aren’t ours. You tell Mrs. R. to pony up before I get turned over to a collection agency. How dare she make you a patsy? Not only is she cheap, she’s chicken!”

  The cheer fled from Mike’s voice. “Hey, cool it, Mom. You don’t understand. They’re in a bind. They explained it all to Kristin and me, but it’s kind of confusing.”

  “No, it’s not,” Judith said, trying to rein in her temper. “It’s very simple. The bride’s family has an obligation for certain things. The Rundbergs know that. The only reason I signed for everything was because I was here in town and they were three hundred miles away on their ranch. Now they’re trying to weasel out of paying their share. It’s unconscionable.”

  “It’s smut,” Mike said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the other thing—some of the crop that’s supposed to be harvested later this summer has smut,” Mike explained, trying to remain reasonable. “It’s some disease that attacks wheat.”

  “Tough,” Judith retorted. “I don’t care if it’s smut, mutt, or butt. If Kristin’s parents don’t come across in the next few days, I’m going to get an attorney to go after them. Or the bunco squad.”

  “Mom!” Mike sounded horrified. “You’re talking about my in-laws!”

  “To me, they’re outlaws.” Judith paused. “Is Merle there?”

  “I’m not at the house,” Mike replied. “I’m calling from a pay phone at the gas station down the road. Hey, don’t put me in the middle of this!”

  “Mrs. R. already put you in the middle,” Judith growled. “Merle should do her own dirty work.” For Mike’s sake, Judith tried to simmer down. “Look, tell her that your…that Joe and I don’t have the money to pay these bills. Tell her we’ve got our own tax problems. Tell her I’m sure she can make arrangements with most of the creditors, but she’ll have to contact them herself. Their phone numbers and addresses are on the invoices.”

  “Gee, I don’t know…” Mike’s voice was skeptical. “Maybe Kristin should talk to them.”

  “Good idea,” Judith replied. “She’s the one who chose the dress, the flowers, the photos, and almost everything else. Just remember, this is the Rundbergs’ responsibility, not the Flynns’. You needn’t feel guilty.”

  “I’m not,” Mike responded.

  “That’s fine. It’s easy to feel guilty. I ought to know.”

  “I’m not talking about guilt,” Mike said, his voice lower. “I meant, I’m not a Flynn.”

  For a long moment, Judith said nothing.

  Joe returned from his fishing trip in a much happier frame of mind. He and Woody had actually managed to catch a half-dozen rainbow trout between them. By contemporary local fishing standards, they had had a successful outing.

  Judith decided not to deflate Joe’s good mood by telling him about the phone call from Mike. Though it cost her dearly, she put on a smile, and offered to clean and cook her husband’s share of the catch.

  “Say,” Joe said, much later that night as he and Judith were preparing for bed, “I was kind of harsh about that IRS notice. It sounds as if the CPA might have misled you. It’s not your fault.”

  “That we’re going broke?” Judith’s mask finally fell away.

  “That won’t happen,” Joe said. “We might have to pay something, but didn’t you say the hearing wasn’t scheduled until October? There’s no point worrying about it between now and then.” Getting into bed, Joe put his arm around Judith.

  “I guess not,” Judith replied dubiously. She snuggled closer. “Joe—do you love me?”

  “What?” He grinned at her before turning out the light. “Of course I do. Why would you ask such a silly question?”

  “I think I’ve been a twerp lately,” Judith said. “About a lot of things.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m sorry.”

  Joe’s arm squeezed Judith’s middle. “Forget it. You just married off your only child. That’s got to be hard.”

  Judith’s head popped up from the pillow. “I never thought of it like that,” she said in wonder. “I mean, it’s not just the expense and the busy work and the anxiety. It’s…more.”

  “Much more.” Joe chuckled. “You know, Jude-girl, sometimes you get so caught up in things that you don’t stop to reflect.”

  Maybe, Judith thought to herself, that’s why I get so caught up in the first place. I don’t want to reflect. Reflection can be painful.

  She fell back onto the pillow and relaxed. “You’re awfully sweet—usually,” Judith said in a soft voice.

  “Usually.” Joe yawned. “There’s a breeze coming in tonight. Maybe we’ll sleep okay. G’night, Jude-girl.”

  “Goodnight, Joe.” She patted his hip. He was right. The wind was ruffling the chintz curtains. The third floor family quarters, which always retained more heat than the rest of the house, were beginning to cool down.

  “Joe?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I have one small favor to ask. Do you mind?”

  “Mmm.” Joe rolled over and yawned again. “No, what?”

  “Can you dig up Harley Davidson?”

  EIGHTEEN

  JOE COULDN’T HONOR Judith’s request, because, as he put it, the evidence had gone up in smoke. Harley had been cremated, and his ashes had been interred at a local mausoleum. But to Judith’s immense relief, her husband had not become upset when she explained her reason for wanting the corpse exhumed.

  “I wasn’t going to tell him,” she said to Renie Monday morning as the cousins sat at Judith’s kitchen table drinking coffee. “But then I realized that if this case was ever going to be solved, that would be one way to do it.”

  “So what’s another way?” asked Renie who was just barely awake at ten past ten and was dribbling coffee down the front of her frayed pocket tee.

  “By getting hold of Darrell Mims and shaking him until his teeth rattle,” Judith answered with a cunning expression. “I intend to do that when he goes off the air at noon. Want to join me?”

  Though Renie looked puzzled, she didn’t ask why Judith wanted to see the former gofer and apprentice disc jockey. “Sure, it beats cleaning my closet which is what I planned to do today. I’m all wrapped up on the homeless brochure.”

  Judith had left word at KRAS that she and Renie would like to treat Darrell Mims to lunch at Foozle’s. It was twelve-thirty when the cousins arrived. On this visit, they eschewed the bar, and settled into one of the vinyl-covered booths by the grim
y front window.

  “Do you think he’ll come?” asked Renie, who was now wide awake and had figured out the reason for questioning Darrell.

  “I don’t see why not,” Judith responded as she glanced at the menu. “He has no reason to suspect what we want to ask him.”

  “I suppose not.” Renie grimaced at the luncheon listings. “Did I have the beef dip last time? Was it rare? Did I get ptomaine?”

  “Yes. No. No. I’m going to get a hamburger. They’re hard to screw up.” Judith replaced the menu and stared across the street at the entrance to the Heraldsgate 400 building. “We should have turned the radio on in the car. I wonder if he’s gotten any livelier.”

  “Dubious,” Renie replied, still frowning at the menu. “I wonder what the chili would do to me? Sometimes dives like this make good chili.”

  “You might as well order Sterno,” Judith counseled. “Play it safe, get a burger.”

  “I’m not in a burger mood,” Renie said. “What could go wrong with fish and chips?”

  “The fish? The chips? I believe the term is ‘go bad,’ not ‘go wrong.’” Judith snickered but kept her gaze on the 400 building.

  A weary waitress wearing fuzzy blue carpet slippers shuffled over, but Judith told her they were waiting for someone. The waitress poured coffee and left, her slippers flip-flopping on the worn carpeting. The restaurant clock, with hands that were the wings of a manic duck in a top hat, indicated that it was now twelve-forty-five. Judith kept watch.

  “Darrell probably has things to do after he goes off the air,” Renie said. “I know Kip always stays at the studio for several hours, usually getting ready for the next day’s show.”

  “Darrell still has to eat,” Judith pointed out.

  “DJs eat while the records are playing,” Renie said, leaning out of the booth to examine an armload of orders that were being delivered to the customers across the aisle. “The hot turkey sandwich looks okay.”

  “You can’t eat hot turkey in July,” Judith pointed out.

  “Yes, I actually could,” countered Renie. “If Darrell doesn’t show up pretty soon, I could eat your arm.”