Wed and Buried (12 page)

“Don't look at me,” Renie warned. “With the kids home for the summer, we're full up. How about putting
TNT in the hedge with Uncle Gurd? Just think, coz, before the summer is over, you could have an entire colony living in there.”

“Very funny,” Judith snarled. Then she paused, and her voice softened. “Will you go with me to take a look at the Belmont tomorrow before we meet with Chuck Rawls?”

“Ohhh…” Renie was sounding irked. “I've got this damned brochure design to finish. If I work late tonight…Dammit, coz, it's a stupid idea. What's the point?”

“Please? I'm drowning in dilemmas. There's Uncle Gurd and TNT and the Rundbergs trying to stiff me for the wedding bills and the lost evening gown and Joe acting like a jerk and…Mother. There's always Mother.”

“Yes, there is,” Renie said, calming down. “Mine had me driving all over town this morning trying to find a certain color of tan thread. Not a true tan, not a deep tan, not a light tan, but one with just a hint of gold. And do you know why? She wanted to mend her nylons. Who the hell wears nylon stockings these days? Who the hell
mends
nylons?”

“Your mother?” said Judith meekly.

“Aaargh,” said Renie, and hung up.

 

When Joe returned from his long walk around seven-thirty, he was in a slightly better mood. Though she had a million questions, Judith decided not to mention the murder investigation. Fortunately, Uncle Gurd had settled in for the night, and TNT hadn't reappeared since Judith had shown him to his third-floor room and provided him with a huge plate of food.

In the morning, Judith couldn't resist posing one query for her husband: “Have you and Woody talked to Tara Novotny again?” she inquired after Joe had finished his second cup of coffee.

“The model?” Joe looked up from the morning paper. “No. She's playing hard to get.”

“Isn't she an important witness?” Judith hoped she wasn't pushing her luck.

“Maybe.” Joe seemed absorbed in the sports page. “We didn't get much the first time we interviewed her.”

“You don't think she's a serious suspect then?” Judith obligingly poured more coffee for Joe.

Joe didn't look up from the paper. “No. That wedding dress had some dirt on it, but there weren't any bloodstains. She couldn't have stabbed Davidson and not gotten blood on that white dress.”

“Do you think she's in danger?” Judith inquired, hearing some of her guests arrive in the adjacent dining room.

“What? No, why should she be? I doubt that she was around when the murder took place. Now what kind of an ERA is 5.86?” Joe demanded, finally lifting his head. “You don't win baseball games with hitting, you win with pitching, dammit.”

Judith decided not to ask any more questions. Instead, she took a basket of hot scones into the dining room, and played the gracious hostess. It was a job she understood. Joe was the detective, Judith was the innkeeper. She had to keep remembering those facts of life.

Renie picked up Judith at twelve-thirty. “We're meeting Rawls first,” she told her cousin. “He wants to see us on his lunch break. We'll do a quick trip to the Belmont afterwards, but I can only spare you ninety minutes, tops. How's TNT this morning? Did he get up at the bell?”

“He left,” Judith said, exuding a sigh of relief. “When I tapped on his door around nine, there wasn't any response. I assumed he was still asleep, so I peeked inside. He wasn't there. I guess he went out via the back stairs while I was with Phyliss in the living room.”

“He might have thanked you,” Renie noted as she eased the big Chev down the steep south side of Heraldsgate Hill. Clouds were moving in over the bay, and the temperature had dropped. Much to the relief of the
natives, the forecast called for possible showers.

“I don't care if he didn't thank me,” Judith said. “I'm just glad he's gone. Now to get rid of Uncle Gurd.”

“Send the Rundbergs a bill for his keep,” Renie proposed. “That will put them on the defensive. You
are
in the hostelry business, after all.”

“I suppose I could,” Judith admitted. “It seems kind of crass, though. I mean, it isn't even our hedge.”

“Don't get soft,” Renie warned. “Knowing you, you'll let those Rundbergs walk all over your ever-so-willing carcass. Stick it to them, every chance you get. I marvel you stay in business, coz, I really do.”

Judith marveled at her cousin's toughness. Judith could always find excuses, and thus, reasons, for bad behavior. Renie's rules were more rigid: one strike, and you were out. Both attitudes got them into trouble.

“So what's our gig?” Judith asked, anxious to change the subject, and, as Renie would have put it, bury her head in the sand. “Something to do with a DOA promotion?”

“No. I went for the truth,” Renie said with a little sigh. “I couldn't put Kip on the spot. I told him to tell Chuck Rawls Jr. that you were assisting your husband in the homicide investigation.”

Judith was dismayed. “But that's not the truth. I'm just trying to…”

“Solve it on your own?” Renie shot Judith a swift glance, then cut the corner perilously close on a right-hand turn. “I'd like to think otherwise.”

“Well…” Judith chewed on her index finger. “I guess you're right. But Joe doesn't want my help.”

“Surprise,” Renie said dryly, honking at a car that was taking its time pulling out of a parking space. “By the way, we're not meeting Chuck at the station. We're going across the street to Foozle's.”

Foozle's was a local watering hole with stiff drinks and mediocre food. Despite the establishment's proximity to Hillside Manor, Judith had been in the place only once,
to rescue a guest who had passed out in the bar.

“Is Foozle's a hangout for the radio people?” Judith asked as Renie maneuvered the big Chev into the parking spot.

“I guess,” Renie answered. “We're supposed to meet Rawls in the bar.”

“Oh.” Judith was growing leery of bars. In her two recent visits to Ron's, she had lost a designer dress and found a homeless boxer. “I'm drinking pop,” she declared.

“I'm eating lunch,” said Renie as the cousins waited for the traffic signal to change. “I got so busy on that blasted church council project that I didn't get to eat much this morning.”

“Wow,” Judith murmured, as always awed not so much by her cousin's prodigious appetite as by Renie's metabolism, which kept off the extra pounds. “I'm going to have a look at Belgravia Gardens later this afternoon. Arlene's taking me. Want to come?”

The cousins hurried across the busy intersection. “No, thanks,” Renie replied. “I told you, I'm really under the gun. I have to turn in my design first thing Monday morning, and I hate working weekends.”

Foozle's was old, evincing not charm but neglect. The red and black carpeting was worn, the walls needed paint, the booths sagged, and the waitresses looked as if they were counting not tips, but the days until they became eligible for Social Security. In the bar, the lights were dim and the tables were tiny. Renie gazed around the tawdry room, trying to pick out Chuck Rawls Jr.

Rawls picked out the cousins instead. “You must be Mrs. Jones,” he said, rising from one of the tiny tables. “Kip described you. Chuck Rawls here.” He shook hands, while Renie introduced Judith.

The producer was a short, burly man with a deep voice that at one time had probably been heard over the airways. At close to fifty, he was balding and looked as if he
needed a shave. When he sat back down at the table, there wasn't much room left over for Judith and Renie.

“Explain this to me,” Rawls said, gripping the table edges with his beefy hands. “You're a cop, Mrs. Flynn? Or some sort of consultant?”

Judith's smile felt like a grimace. “A…consultant. That is, I sometimes interview witnesses. The woman's touch, you know. And the city is so short-handed with all the budget cuts. It's helpful to my husband to…have someone he can trust. I'm not…official.” Aware that she was babbling, Judith shut up.

But her explanation seemed to satisfy Rawls, who was nursing a beer. “I don't know much, so I can't tell you much. Your husband and his partner already asked all the serious questions.”

“Yes, Joe and Woody are very good at their jobs,” Judith said with enthusiasm. “I'm sure they inquired into Harley's background, and how he got in trouble in L.A. for selling drugs.”

“Oh, that.” Rawls tugged at his ear. “Those kind of stories always follow radio people whenever they make a move. Dope, alcohol, sex with groupies, stalker fans, law suits, whatever. If Harley'd had a record, we wouldn't have hired him. Ms. Highcastle's strict about our employees. It's okay to be outrageous, but you can't be illegal.”

“I see,” Judith said, somehow disappointed. “But he wasn't well-liked among his colleagues, was he?”

A waitress with frizzy gray hair and wing-tipped glasses trudged to the table. Renie asked for a beef dip, rare, fries, a salad with Roquefort dressing, and a large Pepsi. Judith ordered a bowl of clam chowder and a diet 7-UP. Rawls declined another beer.

“Harley was a pain in the ass, excuse my French,” Rawls said with a sigh. “He had this huge ego, and because his ratings were so good, he thought he was God. You couldn't tell him anything, even when he was going off the deep end. He knew it all.”

Judith wore a politely curious expression. “You mean Harley took risks on the radio?”

“God yes!” Rawls uttered an exasperated laugh. “Talk about pushing the envelope! I kept warning him we'd get our FCC license yanked if he didn't watch his mouth. But he'd just jeer at me, and say that kids these days talk exactly the same way, so why the big sweat? And his ratings would go up another notch. He was getting a strong following among listeners in their twenties, because he played their kind of music, too.”

“What about sponsors?” Renie inquired, keeping an eye out for the return of the waitress with her food.

“They were in a bind,” Rawls responded, lighting a cigarette. “His morning share was huge and it crossed over from the teenage to the young adult market. They couldn't afford not to advertise, even if they privately deplored his radio persona.” The producer waggled his cigarette. “Do you mind?”

Judith shook her head. “I quit several years ago, but I still spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

“If the waitress doesn't hurry with my order, I'll eat that cigarette,” Renie vowed, sounding cross.

Judith sniffed at the smoke-tainted air, then posed another question: “Who, in your opinion, benefits from Harley's death?”

Rawls examined his square-cut fingernails. “Nobody. He's literally irreplaceable. We're going on a talent search to find somebody, but whoever we hire will automatically lose half the audience. Good-bye listeners, good-bye sponsors, good-bye promotional opportunities, good-bye big profits.”

“Does that mean the station is going to find itself in financial trouble?” Judith asked.

Rawls considered. “Red ink by the end of the year, maybe. Ms. Highcastle won't want to pour money into a leaky boat. KORN's ratings have slipped this past year, because country and western isn't as big as it was.” Rawls
glanced at Renie. “Losing your nephew didn't help. He had a loyal following in KORN's morning drive-to slot. Lots of radio and TV stations are being taken over by conglomerates. That's what I see happening to KRAS and KORN down the road.”

“So,” Judith mused, “from a business point of view, it was in everybody's best interests to keep Harley alive.”

Rawls nodded. “Alive and on the air. Instead, we've got a memorial service for his fans this weekend. A lot of the ghouls wanted an open casket, but I put a stop to that. Harley might not have had or wanted much dignity in life, but he's going to have some in death, dammit.”

The waitress delivered the cousins' orders. Renie pounced. Judith toyed with her soup spoon and waited for the chowder to cool. “So you don't have any idea who might have killed Harley?” Judith finally asked.

“Not a glimmer,” Rawls answered, stubbing out his cigarette. “That's what I told your husband and his partner.”

“Did Harley act afraid or nervous the last few days before he died?” Judith's question was rushed; she was afraid that Chuck Rawls was preparing to leave.

“Hell no,” Rawls replied. “He was always antsy, you know, on a perpetual high. That's the way it is in radio, at least on the rock stations. But he was the same old Harley, maybe more so.”

“More so?” Judith paused with the spoon at her mouth.

“Well…” The producer grew thoughtful, fingering the stubble on his chin. “I sort of threw that out, and yet there was something different about him. I really hadn't considered it until now. He was always excited and excitable. But last week, he…how can I put it?” Rawls frowned. “Harley acted as if he was anticipating something. In retrospect, it might have been a job offer from a bigger market, like Chicago or New York.”

Renie dribbled Roquefort dressing on her sleeveless top. “Was it?”

Rawls shrugged his brawny shoulders. “I couldn't tell you. Though if that had been the case, there should have been some followup. As far as I know, nobody's called from out of town to see what happened to him.”

“Do you have any idea why Harley and Tara went to the Belmont Hotel after the fashion show?” Judith asked.

Rawls shook his head. “Maybe Harley thought he'd get laid. Look, I told you—and your husband—I've no idea why Harley did what he did or why he got killed. A deranged fan is my best guess. It happens.”

The clam chowder was mediocre. Judith ate it anyway. “I understand Harley didn't want his listeners to know that he was blind. Yet he took part in special promotions. How did he disguise his lack of sight?”