Wed and Buried (10 page)

“Oh, yes, I was there two or three times,” Judith said,
nodding vaguely. She recalled the designer's atelier very well. While the furnishings might seem stark, Judith knew they must also be expensive. Artemis Bohl could afford them, however; at twenty-five-hundred dollars for an evening gown, he could just as well have accented his studio in gold leaf. Judith reminded herself to call their insurance agent in the morning.

Judith figured that Joe probably noticed that she was unusually quiet for the rest of the evening. She was fairly sure he'd ascribe her frame of mind to his foray in the shrubbery. She might as well; the truth was even more depressing.

Nor did Judith's mood lighten in the morning. Her insurance agent informed her that loss of apparel wasn't covered under her homeowners' policy. Unless Judith was sure that the item had been stolen. If that's what she believed, then she'd have to file a police report before the insurance company could act.

“I don't think I want to do that,” Judith said in an anguished voice. “I mean…well, I'll wait.”

Twenty minutes later, Phyliss was reporting on her tour of duty at Belgravia Gardens. “Lots of antique stuff, or at least stuff that's supposed to be old. You can't put your feet up on any of it. Why do people have to show off? But Mr. Deetooleyville keeps it pretty clean, I'll give him that.”

“What's he like?” Judith inquired.

“Couldn't tell you,” Phyliss replied, shaking up a bottle of furniture polish. “I never saw him. He left a key, and didn't come back while I was there. I suppose he was at work.”

“There's no work number on his card,” Judith pointed out.

“Then he was out somewhere not working.” Phyliss dismissed her new employer with a swish of her housedress and the flounce of pink slip that showed below the hem. “Maybe he's one of them idle rich.”

Phyliss was upstairs in the guest bedrooms when Arlene came to the back door. “You've pruned your shrubs,” she said in a cheery voice. “I'm going to nag Carl to clip the hedge. Maybe that'll discourage Uncle Gurd.”

“It's a thought,” Judith said hopefully, then indicated a stack of mail which had just arrived. “Almost all of the wedding bills are in—except yours and Morris Mitchell's. We can't do anything about his until Mike and Kristin get back and make their choices from the proofs. But I'd like to send your invoice on to Kristin's folks, so you can get paid.”

Arlene shook her head. “I'm not charging you. We're partners, for heavens' sake! Just consider the reception as part of my wedding gift.”

“But Arlene,” Judith protested, “that's far too generous, even for you. At least submit a bill for your expenditures.”

Arlene, however, remained firm. “You have only one child. We have five, and by the time we've married them all off—if we ever do—you will have spent as much on presents for them as I did on Mike's reception. Just forget it. When do you want to see the condos? You've certainly got a much better view of them now that Joe has cleared out most of your bushes.”

Judith sighed. “Yes, it's wonderful—in a way.” While delivering Gertrude's breakfast, Judith had noticed that she could not only see more of the Dutch colonial that housed the Dooley brood on the other side of the fence, but that her expanded view took in almost all of the balconies on the south side of Belgravia Gardens. However, the augmented vista had been achieved at an upsetting price—the once lush growth of quince, forsythia, honeysuckle, and cotoneaster had been hacked and whacked until it was virtually decimated. “I don't know,” she murmured, comforting herself with the thought that the bushes and shrubs eventually would grow back, “maybe we
could go up to Belgravia Gardens tomorrow. Are you free in the early afternoon?”

Arlene said that late afternoon on Friday would be better. With a vow to get Carl's rear in gear and into the hedge, Arlene sailed out of the kitchen and through the back door. Judith immediately picked up the telephone and called Renie.

“Can Kip arrange a meeting with Chuck Rawls Jr.?” Judith asked without preamble.

Renie groaned. “The correct question is, ‘Are you busy?' The correct answer is, ‘Yes, I'm working on another fall catalogue, for DOA, the outdoor equipment suppliers.' However, you flunked, so I must ask why in the world are you pursuing this Harley Davidson thing? I've humored you twice, and that's plenty. Back off, let Joe and Woody do their jobs.”

“I know, I'm asking for trouble,” Judith admitted. “But I feel very proprietary about this case. I guess I need to vindicate myself about what I saw on the Belmont roof. It's not that I think Joe and Woody can't find the killer, it's that I need to know what happened on that blasted roof. Since Joe doesn't believe me—no matter what he says—I have to figure out how that little scene fit into Harley's death. And Joe and Woody will never discover the truth because they think I was hallucinating. Tell me this—do you agree with them?”

“No,” Renie responded with conviction. “I don't. You only make things up when it's a necessity. But…”

“Then you have to help me,” Judith interrupted. “You always do.”

“Rats.” Renie could be heard rummaging through papers. “I don't want to pester Kip any more. Maybe we could fake something, like a conference with this Rawls about a promotion for DOA. He's not really the person who'd handle such a thing, but it'd give us an excuse. Rats,” Renie repeated.

“That's brilliant,” Judith enthused. “When can you set it up?”

Reluctantly, Renie said she'd aim for Friday afternoon. Half an hour later she called back to say that they had an appointment for one-thirty the following day. Judith was pleased.

She was less pleased when the phone rang again as soon as Renie hung up. This time it was Merle Rundberg, calling from the family's wheat ranch across the state.

“I'm in shock,” Merle declared in a strained voice. “I've received the wedding bills you forwarded, and Sig and I had no idea how extravagant you'd been. Judith, we really didn't intend to spend this kind of money. Do you realize that the total now comes to over twelve thousand dollars?”

Judith was taken aback. “It was Kristin who made most of the decisions. She had very fixed ideas of what she wanted.”

“But she needed guidance, Judith,” Merle insisted. “Young people these days often have no concept of what things cost. You should have set limits. Kristin operates very well within parameters. I would have expected you to let her benefit from your experience. After all, you were married quite recently. Again.” Merle made it sound as if Judith took trips to the altar as often as doctors played golf.

“Since it was your money Kristin was spending, I assumed you and Sig had already set parameters,” Judith said, planting her feet firmly on the kitchen floor and staring stonily through the window above the sink. “By the way, you won't be charged for the reception, which is a huge savings. My neighbor has very kindly donated not only her time and labor, but all the food and drink as well.”

“I never thought we would pay for the reception,” Merle huffed. “Wasn't it put on by one of your sidelines?
Goodness, I can't imagine paying
you
for your own son's reception!”

Judith realized that she really didn't know Merle and Sig Rundberg. Like so many people, they appeared pleasant and congenial on the surface. But when the issue of money was raised, their true colors showed up in neon lights.

“I'm sorry,” Judith said, her tone now as chilly as Merle's. “Weddings are terribly expensive, especially the kind that Kristin wanted. If you feel you've been cheated, you should discuss it with your daughter. Maybe she can help shoulder some of the cost.”

“Nonsense,” Merle snapped. “That's out of the question. I suspect that because you only have a son, you were living vicariously through Kristin, and filling her head with all sorts of ridiculous and extravagant ideas.”

At that moment, Judith could see Uncle Gurd through the window as he emerged from the Rankers's hedge. He was wearing a blue dress and red patent leather pumps.

“One other thing,” Judith said between gritted teeth. “We still have your uncle staying here. Shall I send you the bill for that, too?”

“Gurd?” Merle sounded startled. “He's not
my
uncle. Talk to Sig.” She hung up.

J
UDITH REMAINED IRATE
and indignant for almost twenty minutes. Then she began to lecture herself:
The Rundbergs eventually would see reason. When the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon, Kristin would exert some influence on her parents. Everyone knew that the bride's family paid for most of the wedding expenses. Merle and Sig would realize that they had an obligation, not only to their creditors, but to their daughter
.

Judith had to stop fussing about Merle's reluctance to pony up. But of course it was Judith who had signed all the bills.

To take her mind off the latest imminent disaster, Judith decided to go downtown. So far there had been three duplications among the wedding gifts, and Judith had told Mike and Kristin that she'd return the unwanted items and get store credit. The task would, she hoped, take her mind off of the Rundbergs' stinginess, the lost evening gown, and Uncle Gurd's unusual attire. Judith didn't want to know where he'd gone or what he was doing in the blue dress and red patent leather pumps.

It took almost an hour for Judith to make the returns at the Belle Epoch and Donner & Blitzen department
stores. Since Donner and Blitzen was located catercorner from I. Magnifique, Judith felt her feet carry her across the intersection, past the store's elegant wrought-iron entrance, beyond Ron's Bar and Grill, and through the door that led to the lobby of the building that housed Artemis Bohl's atelier.

Even as she stepped out onto the plush white carpet on the top floor, Judith wasn't sure why she had come to the designer's lair.
Do I think he somehow retrieved my evening gown from Ron's? Am I gullible enough to believe I might be able to talk down the price-tag on Kristin's wedding dress? Or am I here to ask questions of Tara Novotny?

The first two tasks struck Judith as impossible. Thus, when she approached the young man at the chrome desk, Judith inquired of Tara.

“Mrs. Flynn?” The young man smiled broadly, revealing perfect teeth that had probably cost his parents more than the price of an Artemis Bohl dress. “I remember you—Kristin was your daughter's name, right?”

“My daughter-in-law,” Judith said as her signature on the bridal gown receipt rose to haunt her.

“Oh. Yes.” The excellent teeth flashed some more. “How was the wedding?”

“Wonderful,” Judith answered, though it seemed that more than a month had passed instead of less than a week since the big event. “Thanks for asking, Rodney. Now about Ms. Novotny…”

The teeth all but disappeared. “I'm afraid she hasn't been in today.” Rodney pawed nervously at the desktop, then tugged at his gold earring. “I really think we should call the police.”

Judith edged closer. “The police? Why?”

Rodney turned an anxious face up to Judith. “Mr. Artemis pooh-poohs the idea, but Tara hasn't been here since Tuesday, and after that very peculiar situation with Harley
Davidson, I can't help but wonder if something's happened to her, too.”

Swiftly, Judith glanced around the reception area, which was cut off from the main part of the atelier by double chrome doors. Large photographs, mostly of Tara in Artemis Bohl's creations, lined the white walls. But there was no one else in sight.

“You mean,” Judith said, lowering her voice despite the fact that no one could overhear, “Tara really was involved with Harley?”

“Oh, no!” The suggestion shocked the young man. “Tara would never date a
disc jockey
! But it does seem strange that he gets killed and suddenly Tara disappears.”

“Well…” Judith fingered her chin. “Perhaps she saw something or somebody at the Belmont Hotel. Is that what you mean?”

Rodney nodded vigorously. “She's been very high-strung since Friday. That is, she's always high-strung, models are like that, it's their peculiar diet and all the stress. But Monday and Tuesday Tara was practically a wreck. I can't believe how much Evian she drank.”

Judith's eyes strayed to the largest of the color photographs which showed Tara in a flowing satin evening gown with emeralds at her throat and ears. She looked incredibly beautiful and stultifyingly bored.

“Where does she live?” Judith asked.

Rodney gestured in a direction that indicated the hospital district. “Tara has an apartment in one of the newer high-rises, a block from St. Fabiola's. But Mr. Artemis says no one has seen her for the last couple of days. Her Mercedes 280 SL is in the building's garage, but her mail hasn't been picked up, and UPS has left notices of several parcels that she has to sign for. Mr. Artemis has a key so he let himself in, but there was no sign of her. Don't you think someone ought to call the police?”

Judith recalled that Joe had tried to see Tara on Wednesday, and had failed to find her. Twenty-four hours
later, he and Woody had probably grown suspicious.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Judith cautioned. “Does she travel a lot?”

“She certainly does,” Rodney responded, looking piqued. “Tara is supposed to have an exclusive arrangement with Mr. Artemis, but she's often on the East Coast or in Europe or South America. I can't help but think that she's freelancing when Mr. Artemis's back is turned.”

“But there'd be pictures to prove it,” Judith pointed out.

“Not if she's doing runway work,” Rodney said, still piqued. “Mr. Artemis never looks at the competition's tapes or photos.”

“I see,” Judith said, though she was less concerned with Tara's career than her whereabouts. “Well, she might have left town.”

Rodney didn't appear convinced. “She shouldn't have. The police came by to question her the other day. Wouldn't they have warned her to stay in the city?”

Judith considered. “Maybe.” Joe hadn't mentioned warning Tara Novotny or anyone else, but then he hadn't been forthcoming about any details concerning the investigation. “How did Harley get involved in that fashion show in the first place?” Judith queried.

Rodney twirled a pencil in his long, slim fingers. “The show was sponsored by I. Magnifique and KRAS-FM. It was geared to cultivate younger customers. Apparently Harley Davidson and some of the other radio personalities modeled menswear.”

Judith pounced on the information. “Were other male models wearing tuxedos?”

Rodney didn't think so. “I gather there were only a few outfits for men—business suits and sport coats and some casual wear. Harley Davidson wore the tuxedo because he was the groom in the closing sequence.”

“Yes, so I heard.” Judith saw the chrome doors open
to reveal Artemis Bohl. He noticed Judith and gave her a questioning look.

“Mr. Bohl,” Judith smiled. “I mean, Mr. Artemis. I just wanted to let you know how everyone admired my daughter-in-law's wedding gown. I'm sure you'll get some new customers now that they've seen your wonderful work.”

Artemis Bohl's long, lean face exhibited disdain. “I don't shop my designs around, like some peddler with a pushcart. If a potential client is seeking the best, he or she will find me. Are you here to pay the bill or are you interested in something new?”

Judith gulped. “I…um…ah…Well, yes. Something new. For fall. An evening gown, in lavender. My husband thinks I look my best in lavender.”

Sadly, Mr. Artemis shook his bald head. “No, no. Not for you. Crimson, that's your color. In any event, I have no more lavender gowns. They've all been purchased or shipped.” He snapped his fingers. “Flames of Desire! Rodney, ask Tara to model the gown for Mrs….?” The long face again wore a questioning air.

“Flynn,” Judith said hastily. “But…”

She was interrupted by a diffident Rodney. “Tara isn't here today, Mr. Artemis. I mentioned it earlier, I believe.”

A pulse suddenly throbbed in Mr. Artemis's bald skull. “What? She's
still
not here? I left a most emphatic note at her flat. Send for her at once.” The designer gestured at Judith. “Come, perhaps Deirdre can show you the dress. Her coloring is all wrong, but you'll be able to see how it flows, how it moves, how it catches fire.” With long, quick steps, Mr. Artemis led Judith into his inner sanctum, where she had previously waited during Kristin's fittings.

Judith cleared her throat. “Actually, you needn't go to any trouble, Mr…Artemis. My husband hates me in red.” It was a lie, but Judith was beginning to feel desperate.

“Nonsense!” Mr. Artemis snapped his fingers again. “Deirdre! At once!”

A willowy blond appeared from behind the gauzy pearl-white curtains that cordoned off one end of the show room. The designer gave his orders, then indicated that Judith should sit in a white armless modular chair. With a sigh of resignation, Judith sat. A Saint-Saëns symphony played softly in the background, and a hint of incense floated on the air. At the far end of the room a large muted TV screen showed Mr. Artemis's latest collection. Judith recognized Tara Novotny in a pumpkin orange suit. Her dark hair was very short and her graceful stride was very long. Judith cudgeled her brain for a tactful way of asking Mr. Artemis about Harley Davidson's connection with the designer's favorite model.

“Tara must have made a beautiful bride in last week's show at I. Magnifique,” Judith said at last. “Did Kristin and I see the gown she modeled?”

“No, no,” Mr. Artemis replied, adjusting the fawn-colored ascot he wore with his ecru shirt and slacks. “The bridal gown in last week's show had never been seen by anyone. It had only just arrived from my shop in Santa Teresa del Fiore Thursday afternoon.”

“I see,” Judith said, still working her brain overtime. “Did you also design Mr. Davidson's tuxedo?”

Mr. Artemis looked grave. “Yes, I have a limited menswear line. But after what happened Friday, I feel like stopping it. Such an outrage!”

Judith nodded solemnly. “Yes, it was terrible. Did you know him well?”

“Him?”
Mr. Artemis seemed puzzled. “Oh, you mean that disc jockey? Certainly not. I was referring to the tuxedo. Someone removed my labels. I was infuriated when the police told me about it. Imagine! Cutting out a Mr. Artemis label! Whatever is the point?”

“The point of…?” But the question went unfinished
as Deirdre appeared in a crimson satin gown with a gathered waist and décolleté neckline.

“Excellent, Deirdre!” Mr. Artemis applauded gently. “Yes, move forward, step back, sway a little. You see,” he said in a confidential tone to Judith, “the motion of the dress is like liquid fire, a molten force that rises up out of nature and consumes not only the wearer, but the observer. It's not a design for the faint-hearted, let me tell you! Have you courage, Mrs. Flynn?” A faint smirk played at Mr. Artemis's thin lips.

I have some courage but no money
, Judith wanted to say. Instead, she murmured that the gown was lovely. Deirdre paraded back and forth across the room, posing and preening. Mr. Artemis applauded some more.

“Enough!” he declared. “You'll give us the vapors, my dear. Shoo, away with you.”

Deirdre slipped between the pearl-white draperies, a tongue of fire enveloped by an avalanche of snow. Or so Judith imagined. It was a much safer fantasy than picturing herself in the crimson gown.

“Tara didn't know Mr. Davidson either, I guess,” Judith said as Mr. Artemis opened a white oak armoire to pour the ritual glasses of champagne.

“I shouldn't think so,” the designer replied, though his words lacked their usual certainty. Indeed, as he handed Judith a tulip-shaped glass, his very green eyes showed a trace of doubt. “Why do you ask?”

Judith started to think of a plausible fib, then realized there was no point in hiding the truth. “Because I saw them together Friday evening after the fashion show. They were on the roof of the Belmont Hotel.”

Mr. Artemis had taken a sip of champagne; he suddenly looked as if he'd swallowed poison. “No! Never! You're referring to that dilapidated old building where my poor mutilated tuxedo was found in such incredibly shabby surroundings?”

“Yes,” Judith replied, thinking that it was pointless to
remind Mr. Artemis that a dead man had been discovered inside the tuxedo. “I was attending the rehearsal dinner for Kristin and my son. It was early evening, around eight. What time was the show over?”

“Sevenish.” Mr. Artemis frowned. “Or later. Time is of no importance.”

“When did Tara return the wedding dress?” Judith inquired casually.

“Later. She and that dreadful radio man were to meet us in Ron's Bar and Grill for a celebratory bottle of champagne.” Expectantly, the designer kept his eye on the draperies, awaiting Deirdre's return.

“They didn't come?” Judith hoped she still sounded casual.

“No. So unpredictable, these models. I didn't see Tara again until we returned here. Really, what can be taking Deirdre so long to change?” Mr. Artemis made a fretful gesture with his long, thin fingers.

“Was Tara still wearing the wedding gown when she finally got here?” Out of the corner of her eye, Judith saw Deirdre come through the draperies with the crimson gown on a satin-covered hanger.

“Certainly,” Mr. Artemis replied, turning to Deirdre. “You looked marvelous, my dear. But of course that color is meant for someone darker, such as Mrs. Flynn.” The designer sketched a little bow.

“Did Harley come back, too?” Judith asked, wishing that the pearl-white carpet would open up and swallow Deirdre and the crimson dress.

“No,” Mr. Artemis answered, “which vexed me. He was to return the tuxedo immediately. Of course he did
not
, and look what happened to my marvelous creation!” Once again, the designer's expression conveyed extreme distress. “Deirdre, you helped Tara out of the wedding gown, did you not? It was pinned in ever so many places.”

Deirdre nodded her sleek blond head. “Yes, it took
forever. And the hem and train were quite soiled.” Deirdre pouted at Mr. Artemis. “Tara can be very careless. She'd torn the hem right out of the Amber Autumn suit and ripped an entire seam in the Winter Wonderland coat. She should never be allowed to take your lovely garments home with her from Santa Teresa del Fiore instead of bringing them straight to the salon.”