by Mary Daheim
Judith handed Joe his martini. “That I can’t tell you. What I don’t see is why you led me on. Couldn’t you have confided the victim’s identity to me?”
Joe shook his head. “You know better than that. When we work a case like this where we’re trying to trick the killer into thinking we know much less than we really do, we don’t dare tell anybody. Believe me, word leaks out.”
Judith sat down and took a first sip from her own drink. “I would never have told…” She paused, hearing herself whisper the news to Renie, hearing Renie tell Bill, hearing Arlene listening out in the hedge. “Okay, I see your point. But you made such a big deal out of it, describing the victim, the circumstances, all the rest of it. You laid it on pretty thick.”
The magic green eyes surveyed her over the rim of the martini glass. “I thought it was thick enough to give you a hint. I described Billy Big Horn perfectly, including his questionable health and poor nutrition.”
Judith thought back to the evening at the Heraldsgate Pub. “It could have fit Harley, too. DJs are famous for eating junk food and keeping odd hours and taking pills and doing heaven-knows-what to ruin their health. Chuck Rawls mentioned how Harley was always hyper.”
Joe lifted one shoulder in a guarded gesture. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize Billy yourself. You saw him in that body bag.”
With deep chagrin, Judith sadly shook her head. “That’s the pitiful part. I should have. But you don’t really look at the homeless. You look through them. I’m ashamed of myself. As often as I’d seen him, I never really knew what Billy looked like. I knew his harmonica better than I knew him.”
Joe sighed. “It’s true, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t talked to him outside the Naples that night, I might not have recognized him either.”
They grew silent for a few moments, as if honoring the memory of Billy Big Horn. “Your ruse with the mistaken identity hasn’t worked so far, has it?” Judith said in a melancholy tone.
“No. No, it hasn’t.” Joe’s shoulders sagged as he gazed into his glass. “We lost track a week ago today.”
“You and Woody are smart. You’ll figure it out.”
Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “Now you’re the one who’s being condescending.”
Judith shook her head. “Not really. You and Woody were always one step ahead of me on this one. It’s okay. Really. It’s your job. It’s just that you go through all the procedures, and you don’t always know what’s going on in the other divisions, things that might have a connection to the case, and you get stifled because the department doesn’t encourage creativity and…” She stopped, rubbing at her forehead. “I’ve lost perspective. I’m not an investigator. Maybe it’s just a game to me. To you, it’s your job. It’s who you are, what you are. I’m sorry I ever got involved in this one.”
Joe gave Judith a half-smile. “Apology accepted. But,” he went on, putting his hand on Judith’s, “if you get any inspirations, let me know.”
Judith smiled back. “Right, sure.” She shook her head in a forlorn manner. “Don’t hold your breath. I’m out of gas on this one.”
The green eyes locked with her dark-eyed gaze. “Are you?” Joe chuckled. “Are you really?”
Judith doubted herself, but maybe Joe didn’t. The thought was as surprising as it was comforting.
“Then you don’t think I’m just another bungling amateur?” Judith asked with a touch of diffidence.
“There’s nothing wrong with your amateur status,” Joe asserted, his knee nudging her leg under the table.
“Bungling is bad,” Judith said.
“Bundling is good,” Joe grinned. “So is snuggling and hugging and…”
“It’s dinnertime,” Judith broke in.
Joe rose from his chair. “Put it on the back burner. We’ll do the same with this case. Let’s bundle ourselves upstairs.”
They didn’t bungle the bundling.
NINETEEN
JOE HAD LISTENED to the news of his ex-wife with barely a murmur. He didn’t seem at all surprised that Uncle Gurd had joined Vivian in Panama City. If anything, Joe was amused.
“I’m going over to her house this evening,” Judith said while cleaning up from the hors d’oeuvres hour. “She wants me to keep watering the garden and the house plants.”
“I can do that,” Joe volunteered. “I’ll get the mail, too.”
“No, let me,” Judith protested as she wiped down Grandma Grover’s sterling silver tray. “You’ve put in a hard day at work.” Judith didn’t care for the idea of Joe doing favors for his ex. It was bad enough that Herself had bought a house in the cul-de-sac in the first place.
“Whatever,” he said with a shrug. “I’m going upstairs to watch ESPN. They should have some stuff on tomorrow’s All Star baseball game.”
But Joe was interrupted by a phone call. He spent most of it listening and saying little more than “Uh-huh,” “Is that right?”, and “Okay.”
Judith had answered the phone, but wasn’t able to identify the male voice at the other end. A colleague, she reasoned and felt a pang of sympathy for her husband. Ordinarily, Joe didn’t like to be bothered at home. “Who was that?” she asked after he’d hung up.
“Bradley at Immigration,” Joe replied, looking more pleased than aggrieved. “U.S. Customs has come in on the smuggling angle. De Tourville still swears he knows nothing about the ring.” The green eyes sparked, and Judith paused in the act of loading the dishwasher. “But they’ve found the link with Tara Novotny.”
“Lovers?” Judith asked.
Joe shook his head. “One of de Tourville’s passports turned out to be the real thing. It was issued by the Cuban government, and his legal name is Basil Novotny.”
Judith laughed. “They’re married? Or brother and sister?”
“Neither,” Joe replied, leaning against the refrigerator. “Got another guess?”
Judith went blank. Her usually logical mind seemed to have deserted her. “Cousins?” she offered, thinking of herself and Renie.
“Tara is Bascombe’s—Basil’s—daughter.” Joe chuckled.
“Oh!” Judith laughed aloud. “Well, why not? She’s in her twenties, and his age is hard to figure, but he could be closer to fifty than forty.”
“It would explain why she fled to his place at Belgravia Gardens after Harley was supposedly murdered.” Joe had become thoughtful. “Now if Bascombe was smuggling cigars out of Cuba, where did they end up? Santa Teresa del Fiore, maybe, which doesn’t make him a crook. Not there anyway, because Cuban cigars are perfectly legal. But let’s say Tara handles that part of the emerald smuggling at Mr. Artemis’s sweat shop. She puts the emeralds into some of the cigars and then into selected garments. Maybe Tara brings these garments with her. Shipping them to Mr. Artemis’s atelier would be risky. Anyway, she removes the cigars with the emeralds and trots the dresses or whatever over to Mr. Artemis. How does that sound?”
Judith had been listening with fascination. It seemed that Joe had gone from being virtually incommunicado to thinking out loud. “It sounds fine. The next question is where did the cigars go?”
“To the Belmont,” Joe replied, giving the refrigerator a thump. “That’s what was in the bucket of ashes. After the emeralds were removed, the cigars were burned.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “But Tara couldn’t take the contraband there herself. She’s a tall, stunning woman whose job in the real world is to be noticed, which is the last thing she wants at the Belmont.”
Judith, feeling fairly tall but not exactly stunning, put the last items into the dishwasher. “She could go at night.”
Joe’s index finger was drawing squiggly circles on the side of the refrigerator. “No. That’s when the bums would go there. Tara would be afraid.” He looked up from his invisible doodling. “Do you know when she’ll be back from San Francisco?”
Judith tried to remember the brief conversation in the Belgravia Gardens elevator. “No. But she did complain about so much traveling. She might hav
e been going on to some other place.”
“Damn!” Joe pounded his fist into his hand. “Of course it’s not our worry now. Still, I think there’s a tie-in between Billy’s murder and the emeralds.”
“You do?” Judith was still marveling at her husband’s immersion in the case during his off-hours. Maybe, she thought, he was trying to show his confidence in her ability to help. “I’d begun to think they were two separate issues,” she said in a less than certain voice.
“That’d be too big a coincidence,” Joe responded. “I don’t believe in coincidence in a murder investigation.”
“I do,” Judith said, giving a start. “I just realized there’s another motive for Billy’s murder besides the possibility that he unwittingly discovered the smuggling ring.” With mounting excitement, she grabbed her husband’s arm.
Joe was skeptical. “Like what?”
“Like Billy himself. Kobe, the parking valet at the Naples, said Billy used a cigar box to collect contributions, and that some people actually gave him cigars even though he didn’t smoke. I’m betting those weren’t ordinary cigars. The conduit between Mr. Artemis’s atelier and the Belmont was Billy Big Horn.”
Joe whistled softly. “It fits. Who’d suspect a poor homeless man of being an accomplice in an international smuggling ring? We also know who frequented the Naples Hotel restaurant. But how in hell are we going to bring that slippery customer in?”
Unfortunately, Judith didn’t know. Joe’s mood skidded into the doldrums. Judith wasn’t far behind.
On Tuesday morning, Phyliss was late. The bus had had a problem, lost its trolley or its driver or its brakes. The explanation wasn’t clear, though the Good Lord had played a large part in finally getting Phyliss to Hillside Manor. Maybe, Judith thought irreverently, He’d driven the bus. She let Phyliss rattle on, paying attention only when the cleaning woman pulled a snapshot out of her well-worn purse.
“Here’s the whole bunch of ’em,” she said, tapping the three-by-five color snapshot. “There’s Cousin Thorald and Aunt Tilda and Aunt Leota and…”
The Rundberg clan held no charm for Judith. Even if Sig and Merle didn’t dwell in Deep Denial, the rest of the family still represented potential penury to Judith. They were all painted with the same brush.
“Later, Phyliss,” Judith said. “There’s someone at the back door.”
O. P. Dooley was practically jumping up and down on the porch. “Mrs. Flynn!” he cried. “Guess what!”
Judith opened the screen door to admit O. P., but he remained outside, pointing to the hill that swept up to Belgravia Gardens. “It’s that condo,” he said, out of breath. “I just remembered, there’s a rear entrance. I used to see it when the place was being built. Then they planted a bunch of shrubs and stuff and you can’t really see it now, at least not in the summer. That’s how those people got in and out without being seen from the front of the condos.” His fair face was flushed with excitement.
“That certainly explains it,” Judith said. “Good work, O. P. Would you like to come in and…”
“That lady just went in there,” O. P. continued in a rush. “I could see her walking down the path that goes around the side of the building. She had a suitcase and one of those…what do you call them? The long things you put clothes in.”
Judith frowned in puzzlement. “A garment bag?”
“That’s it.” O. P. nodded vigorously. “Anyway, she’s come back. Is that important?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Judith’s gaze traveled up the side hill to the impressive stone facade of Belgravia Gardens. She tapped her foot and considered. “I think I’ll stop by.”
“Can I come with you?” O. P.’s face was all boyish eagerness.
“Ah…” It didn’t seem right to turn O. P. down. “Okay, hop in the car. We’ll drive up there because I’ve got to go to the grocery store. But I think I’ll have you wait in the lobby. Backup, you see.”
“Oh, wow!” O. P. jumped into the Subaru. “This is totally cool!” Then, since even a twelve-year-old can have doubts, he turned a concerned face to Judith. “What are we doing? Is it dangerous?”
“I’m not sure. The main thing is to get inside.” Phyliss had been scheduled to clean de Tourville’s condo on Monday, but he had called to tell her to wait. His circumstances, he’d explained, had changed since their last communication. Pretending that she was Phyliss or Phyliss’s replacement wouldn’t work. At this point, pretending she was anybody but herself was virtually impossible.
“O. P., are you still a Boy Scout?” Judith inquired as they turned out of the cul-de-sac and headed for Heraldsgate Avenue.
“Sure,” O. P. replied. “I’m working to make first class.”
“Does that involve searching for lost children—like your nephew, Pix?”
O. P. frowned. “Pix isn’t lost. He just ate one of our goldfish and got sent to his room.”
“Let’s pretend.” Judith turned off of Heraldsgate Avenue and found a parking place at the far end of the block. “Come on, I’ll tell you what to say into the intercom.”
Three minutes later, O. P. was speaking to Tara Novotny while Judith hid behind a large mountain laurel. “He’s just a little guy,” O. P. said in an agitated voice with his face pressed against the mesh grille. “I think what must have happened is that somebody left the back entrance unlocked within the last few minutes, and he scooted inside. He really loves to ride elevators, and I need to get in so I can see if he’s going up and down. Down and up. That’s what he likes to do. Please, could I come in and look? If he’s not here, he must have tumbled down the hill and he’s lying all smashed up and bloody in the bushes.”
Peering through the mountain laurel, Judith marveled at O. P.’s acting ability. There was a long pause before Tara’s accented voice came over the intercom: “Why are you asking me this?”
“You’re the first button I poked,” O. P. answered, still sounding distraught, but looking quite ingenuous. “Please, ma’am, I’m so worried. My mother’s sick and my father’s…”
“Very well.” A buzzer sounded, indicating that Tara had opened the front door. The intercom at her end switched off.
As he’d been instructed, O. P. held the door open long enough to give Judith time to slip inside. “Okay,” she said, “Tara probably stopped looking at the screen when you came in. Wait here in the lobby. If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, buzz de Tourville’s unit again.”
As the car glided noiselessly to the penthouse, Judith suddenly asked herself what on earth she planned to do. Perhaps Tara wasn’t alone; maybe de Tourville was there, too. But the elevator doors slid open before she could figure out a scheme. Tara was standing by the big window, gazing out over the city and the bay. Apparently, she didn’t hear Judith come in.
“Ms. Novotny,” Judith said in what she hoped was a confident voice. “Where’s your father?”
Tara whirled. “You! Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m…a neighbor. I’m helping one of the Dooley children look for his little nephew.”
“No,” Tara breathed, advancing on Judith. “You are police. You warned me about police when I saw you in the elevator last week.”
“No, I’m not.” Judith had made up her mind that honesty was the best policy. “I live just below the condos, I run a bed and breakfast. You may have seen the sign. It’s small and discreet.”
“You are not small and you are not discreet.” Tara drew herself up to her imposing height. “Get out.”
Judith didn’t budge. “I asked about your father. Is he here?”
“I have no father. He died many years ago in a slave labor camp.” Tara was now standing only a foot away from Judith. “Go, go, go!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw the garment bag that O. P. had described. “Have you got some new Mr. Artemis fashions?”
Tara’s green eyes flickered in the direction of a Louis XV armoire, where the garment bag hung from an ornate gold handle. “Yes.
” She spoke in clipped, impatient tones, obviously anxious to be rid of her uninvited guest. “There is a fall fashion show next week at Donner & Blitzen.”
Something clicked in Judith’s brain. “How long has he being doing that? I thought his merchandise was an I. Magnifique exclusive.”
Tara gave an impatient shake of her head. “For a year or more he has permitted Donner & Blitzen as well as Nordquist’s to feature a handful of his creations. But there must be no duplication between the stores. That would be a dreadful thing.”
Judith assumed an awestruck expression. “He’s such a brilliant couturier. Could I see the garments? It’d give me a huge thrill.”
“No.” Tara’s perfect features hardened. “They are not to be viewed until the show. Now go, please. I have no small child here.”
“Nor a father,” Judith murmured, docilely heading for the elevator. “Well, thank you just the same.”
In the lobby, O. P. was slouched against the mailboxes. “You’re okay?” he inquired, sounding disappointed.
“More or less,” Judith replied in a distracted tone. She was still in the elevator, pressing various buttons. At last she found the right one. “Call for the other car,” she said to O. P. “I want both these elevators immobilized.”
Looking intrigued, O. P. did as he was told. A moment later, the two cars stood frozen in place, with their doors open to the lobby. Judith rushed to the pay phone and called 911. She didn’t want to waste time going through Joe; it would be much quicker to summon Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle in their patrol car.
Hanging up the phone, Judith scanned the lobby. “Where do you suppose the freight elevator is? There must be one.”
“By that rear entrance?” O. P. suggested. “I remember they used to haul stuff in that way when they were building.”
Judith snapped her fingers. “Good thinking, O. P. Let’s see if we can find it.”
Their attempt was short-lived. The lobby dead-ended just past the elevators.
“It must be accessed only from that rear door and probably through the underground parking,” Judith said, trying to stay out of the surveillance camera’s range. “Oh, well. We’ll wait here for the police.”