Wed and Buried (2 page)

Such circumstances had changed her life when Dan's four-hundred-pound body gave out at the age of forty-nine. Or, as Judith sometimes put it less delicately, Dan had blown up. However his demise could be described, it had spelled freedom for Judith, at least of a sort. She and Mike had moved home to the old Edwardian house on Heraldsgate Hill. There Gertrude had held sway, giving grudging consent to the reinvention of the Grover house as a bed and breakfast establishment.

Judith spared a fond look for the old, solid three-story structure that had been home to four generations of Grovers. Nine years had passed since Judith had begun the major renovation. Hillside Manor's green-on-green exterior had faded in the rain and damp of those gray Pacific Northwest seasons. Maybe it was time for a paint job come the fall. It wasn't a smart idea to take on any big projects during the height of the tourist season.

Fleetingly, Judith glanced in the direction of the bay where the water sparkled like diamonds and the mountains to the west stood out against an almost flawless sky. The vista never palled: Even in a downpour of autumn rain or thick winter fog or what sometimes seemed like perpetual drizzle, Judith found something that caught her eye. Perhaps it was a ship riding at anchor in the harbor or the sleek glass and steel structures of downtown or merely the changing play of light and shadow. She had grown up with that view, and while many things had changed including herself, certain elements remained constant. Judith smiled as she hurried into the house.

Mike and Kristin were foraging in the refrigerator. “Hey, Mom,” Mike asked, “is Grams making her killer potato salad for the reception?”

Gertrude's potato salad was famous. “She'll supervise Arlene,” Judith replied. “It's too big a job for Grams to
do alone. I need the car keys. I've got to run up to the store.”

Holding a twenty-pound ham in one hand, Kristin closed the refrigerator door with her hip. She was a big girl, a tall girl, a Valkyrie of a girl. Her long blond hair was more or less tamed into a single braid, and her flawless skin was almost as tanned as Mike's. She wasn't exactly pretty, but neither was she plain. Judith usually settled for “striking” when describing her daughter-in-law to-be.

“Aunt Leah and Uncle Tank had a little trouble checking in at the Naples Hotel,” Kristin said in her low, calm voice. “There was some confusion about their reservation, but they got it straightened out after Uncle Tank threatened to shoot the desk clerk.”

Startled, Judith glanced at Mike. Her son, however, showed no unusual reaction as he opened a loaf of rye bread. Kristin placidly began carving ham.

“You're kidding?” Judith sounded dubious.

“In a way,” Kristin replied matter-of-factly. “The airlines don't allow guns in the passenger cabin. Uncle Tank left his at home where they live in Deep Denial.”

Judith's dark eyebrows arched. “Deep denial? Of what?”

With only the faintest hint of a smile, Kristin shook her head. “They live in Deep Denial, Idaho. It's a place, not a state of mind.”

I wonder
, thought Judith. She knew little about Kristin's extended family. Maybe that was just as well. Mr. and Mrs. Rundberg seemed like sensible people, but that didn't mean that their shirttail relations were. Judith knew that too well from her own sometimes peculiar relatives.

But there was no time to discuss family eccentricities. Judith was off to Falstaff's Market. As she turned on the ignition of her Subaru, the radio also came on. Judith winced. Mike and Kristin had been listening to a young adult music station.

“Ya-a-a-h!” the DJ shouted. “Turn up the volume and tear off the knob! It's rockin'-sockin'-slammin'-jammin'-rappin'-slappin' tunes right here on KRAS-FM, with your freedom-lovin'-gun-totin'-butt-kickin' Harley Davidson, bringing you all the…”

“No, you aren't,” Judith said quietly but firmly, and tuned the dial to a station that featured hits from the fifties and sixties. Andy Williams and “Moon River” caressed her ears as she drove up the steep hill to the neighborhood's main shopping area. Judith smiled and relaxed behind the wheel. The song had been one of her favorites when she was dating Joe over thirty years ago. They had danced to it, hummed to it, made love to it. And then Joe had eloped with another woman. Judith had never wanted to hear “Moon River” again, refused to watch
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, despised Andy Williams, and had secretly admired his ex-wife, Claudine Longet, for shooting her lover, Spider Sabich, in a fit of jealous rage. She would have liked to have done the same thing to Joe. Judith hadn't known then that Joe had gotten drunk after his rookie encounter with teenaged OD fatalities, and been lured onto a Las Vegas-bound plane by the woman known as Herself. Nor had Judith realized that while she suffered in her rebound union with Dan McMonigle, Joe had done penance of his own as the husband of a dedicated alcoholic. It was only when one of Judith's guests was murdered at the B&B that the erstwhile lovers were reunited. Joe had been assigned to break the case; his marriage was already broken. After all was explained, much was forgiven. Judith and Joe had taken up more or less where they had left off, and five years later, life was usually good. There were minor problems, of course. Gertrude had loathed Dan, but she'd never liked Joe much, either. After Judith and Joe had gotten married, Gertrude had steadfastly refused to share a roof with her new son-in-law. The move to the converted toolshed ensued, though Judith's mother never ceased to complain about
being thrown out of her own house. There was some truth to the charge, but Judith had been forced into a corner. Gertrude had to go, if only about twenty yards.

Then, just as Judith foolishly thought life was moving on a fairly smooth course, Herself—or Vivian, as was her real name—returned from Florida. To Judith's horror and Joe's dismay, she purchased a house in the cul-de-sac just two doors down from Hillside Manor. While Herself hadn't quit drinking, she apparently had stopped making passes at her former husband. Judith did her best to accept the other Mrs. Flynn as nothing more than a slightly eccentric neighbor. Most of the time, the approach worked.

“Moon River” ended as Judith pulled into the grocery store parking lot. She had ordered a very large pork roast, since at least two dozen guests would be on hand for dinner. Maybe, she reflected as she waited for Harold, the butcher, to bring her order, she should get a second, smaller roast. It wouldn't go to waste; she could always use the meat for sandwiches. Gertrude loved pork sandwiches.

“I'm not cooking,” said a voice at Judith's ear. She turned to see Renie, looking resolute. “It's too hot. We're getting a couple of pizzas.”

“So why are you here if you're not making dinner?” Judith inquired.

Renie made a face. “It turned out that my mother also needed a few things at the grocery store.” She waved a lengthy list in front of Judith. “I've got coupons, too. She can save twenty cents on toilet paper, thirty on flour, fifty on coffee, and a whole dollar off an oilskin tablecloth. Why does my mother need an oilskin tablecloth? She's been using plastic table covers for twenty years.”

Judith made sympathetic noises. “She probably wants to save it for good. My mother has eight slips that have never been out of their gift boxes.”

“So what?” Renie snorted. “My mother has ten old
girdles in her closet. The last time she wore one of them, a stay popped up and cut her chin.”

Harold presented the pork roast with a flourish. Judith gaped at the price, recovered herself, and thanked the butcher. A second roast was beyond her budget. The cousins continued down the aisle, toward dairy.

“At least you won't have to cook tomorrow night,” Renie pointed out. “The food at the Naples Hotel should be quite good. They've had an outstanding restaurant ever since they remodeled a few years back.”

“I wish you and Bill were coming,” Judith said with fervor. “I really don't know any of these people. It's going to be dull.”

Renie, who drove a grocery cart almost as erratically as she handled a car, knocked over a papier-mâché pineapple that was part of Falstaff's “Hawaii Days” display. “You do very well with strangers. That's why you're such a success as a B&B hostess. Besides, you'll get to know most of the in-laws tonight. By the rehearsal dinner, they'll all be your new best friends.”

“I don't know,” Judith said in an uncertain voice as they passed into housewares. “They sound kind of…odd.”

Renie got tangled up in an orchid lei. “Ooops! Hey, they can't be any odder than some of our shirttail relations.” The lei came apart, spilling purple petals all over Aisle B.

“I don't think they're used to the city,” Judith remarked as she paused to pick up a box of laundry detergent. “They're basically small-town folks.”

“Then they're probably thrilled to be in a big city,” Renie asserted. “I'll bet the ones who have already arrived are having a great time sightseeing.”

“Mmm, maybe.” Judith waited for Renie to choose an oilskin tablecloth. “I'll be relieved when this weekend is over.”

Renie smiled at her cousin. “I don't blame you—wed
dings are stressful. Not that I'd know,” she added archly, mowing down a plastic pig. “But when you think about it, what can really go wrong?”

Judith admitted she didn't know. Indeed, she couldn't begin to guess.

B
Y THE TIME
the pork roast had been reduced to cat scraps, the dinner party seemed somewhat awkward to Judith. Sig and Merle Rundberg provided pleasant conversation, but the other relatives tended to retreat into themselves. Judith thought they wore an air of suspicion. She said as much to Joe when they were in the kitchen, readying the strawberry parfaits.

“You bet they're suspicious,” Joe replied in a low voice. “I'm guessing they're a bunch of survivalists. Did you look up Deep Denial, Idaho and Trenchant, Montana on a map?”

Judith shook her head. “I didn't have time.”

“You'd have wasted it. Neither one shows up. I figure they're up north, in the Idaho panhandle, or near the Montana-British Columbia border. These people have a real isolationist mentality. Did you hear them say one word about going outside their motels or hotels?”

“No,” Judith admitted. The Rundbergs had driven four hundred miles from the eastern part of the state and had been understandably tired. Still, Sig and Merle were more outgoing, and seemingly at ease in a social situation. They were staying at the B&B, along with Kristin's brother, Norm, and his wife, Jewel, Merle's brother and his wife, Sig's two widowed sisters, and a
curmudgeon called Uncle Gurd. While various other relatives camped out in their RVs and holed up in nearby motels, only Aunt Leah and Uncle Tank had joined the Hillside Manor contingent for dinner. Since Judith had expected to feed another half-dozen, she had urged her mother to join them at table. Joe had invited Herself. To Judith's surprise, her husband's ex had dressed decorously, imbibed moderately, and conversed minimally.

As Judith carried in the dessert tray, there appeared to be a lull in the conversation. Gertrude abhorred a vacuum, and proceeded to fill it: “I'm a lifelong Democrat. Voted for FDR four times—all in the same election.” She chuckled at her own wit. “What about you folks?”

Glances were exchanged around the table, most of them hostile. “The eastern part of the state is more conservative,” Merle Rundberg said in her quiet, yet forthright manner. She was a raw-boned woman who looked as if she could sit a tractor or a horse with the same ease. “We tend to cast our ballots on farm issues.”

“Democrats!” Uncle Gurd, who had not spoken until now, practically spat into his parfait. “Crackpot do-good Commies!”

“Hey, Buster,” rasped Gertrude, “you some kind of nut case?”

Uncle Gurd glared, but said nothing more.

“There's coffee,” Judith put in hastily. “Or tea. Would anyone prefer tea?”

“Politicians are all crooks,” declared Uncle Tank, whose graying brown hair was cut very short and whose tattoos evoked the Third Reich. Judith found the heart surrounding the SS runes particularly offensive. “Just today I heard this guy on the radio, Harley Davidson, he called himself, who said we got too many politicians and too many damn fools and they were one and the same. Why can't the government leave us alone?”

“Kyle died too young,” lamented Aunt Tilda, one of the widows. “Why'd he have to do that?”

“I'll have coffee,” Sig Rundberg said with a tight little smile for Judith. “The wife here kind of likes tea. Don't you, Merle honey?” He put a big paw on his spouse's shoulder.

“Marv was younger,” declared Aunt Leota, the other widow. “Kyle was no good anyway.”

“Tea's fine,” Merle agreed. “What about you, Kristin?”

“Marv was shot by the sheriff,” Aunt Tilda said, making a gesture that looked like pulling a trigger. “Gunned down while trying to get away during a bank robbery. There were so many bullet holes, he looked like Swiss cheese.”

Kristin was sitting between Mike and her brother, Norm. “Tea's great,” she said, sounding strained. “Are any of you going to the center tomorrow? There's so much to do. I think you'd all enjoy the exhibits.”

“Kyle's best friend was a goat,” Aunt Leota said, making a face at her sister. “Goats stink. So did Kyle. You're better off without him.”

“What're they exhibiting, political prisoners?” growled Uncle Tank. “It's probably put on by the frigging FBI. Do you know what FBI really stands for? Well, I'll tell you…”

“I'm a lifelong Democrat,” said Gertrude in a chipper voice. “I voted for FDR…”

“I could make lattes,” Judith put in. “Would anyone like a latte?”

“Too many breeds,” Uncle Gurd muttered. “That's why I hate cities. Yep, everybody's all mixed up, just like mongrel dogs. Shoot 'em.”

“What's a latte?” asked Aunt Leah.

“Sounds foreign,” Uncle Tank muttered.

Joe had reentered the dining room. “Let's go outside,” he suggested. “It's kind of warm in here tonight. We can sit in the backyard and cool off.”

Judith noticed the veiled threat in her husband's voice
but she doubted that anyone else did. “What a good idea,” she enthused. “Maybe our neighbors, the Rankerses, will be outside, too. I'd love to have you meet them. Arlene is putting on the reception.”

Nobody budged. To Judith's surprise and relief, Herself finally stood up. She gazed down at Uncle Gurd, giving him a flutter of false eyelashes. “You look like the outdoor type to me, Gourd. Let's slip out beneath the trees and let the wind play through our…” She paused, apparently noting that Uncle Gurd was completely bald, “…fingers.”

“It's Gurd, not Gourd,” the curmudgeon insisted. But he rose, and followed Herself like a gnarled lamb.

The rest joined them. Judith watched Mike help Gertrude make her way through the kitchen to the back door. “Say, Mike,” Gertrude was saying as they headed into the narrow hallway, “did I ever tell you about Harry Truman coming through here back in…”

Judith sighed and slipped her arm through Joe's. “You're right, I think this bunch is extremely right-wing. Mike says they've asked him all sorts of questions about his background. Being Catholic is definitely strange. I wonder how Kristin turned out so well?”

Joe shrugged. “Her parents seem okay. But I don't think we should talk about politics any more.” He held back, stopping by the sink. “I also don't think we should let them know I'm a cop.”

That, Judith decided, was good thinking.

 

The evening had wound down without further mishap, though Uncle Gurd had insisted on sleeping under the Rankers's hedge. Small rooms confined him, he asserted. He preferred the open air, the stars above, the bugs in his pants.

That was fine with Judith. Friday was going to be a busy day, with last-minute details and final preparations for the rehearsal dinner. Judith's cleaning woman, Phyliss
Rackley, arrived promptly at nine. As usual, she first headed upstairs to strip the guest beds. Judith stopped her on the landing.

“I'm afraid the guests are still in their rooms,” Judith said apologetically. “They've had breakfast, but they don't seem inclined to leave.”

Phyliss's fluffy white eyebrows lifted. “These are the in-laws? Can't your roust 'em?”

Judith grimaced. “I don't think so. Kristin's parents are going off with her and Mike to check on the hotel dining room in a little while, but the rest of them seem to enjoy just sitting up there.” Judith gestured towards the second floor. “They're from rural areas. They don't care for cities.”

Phyliss snorted. “Didn't the good Lord preach in cities? He wasn't put off by people. Maybe I should have a little chin-wag with them.” The cleaning woman patted the small Bible she kept in her apron pocket. “I'll bet they don't know Scripture. Let me give ‘em a few good words.”

“I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Judith said, recalling from recent news items that survivalists were often knee-deep in Old Testament references. Indeed, Phyliss's fundamentalist credo might be right up the in-laws' alley. “Do what you like, Phyliss. Just try to get them out of the way so we can clean this place.”

Fired with missionary zeal, Phyliss's squat figure thudded up the stairs. Judith retreated into the kitchen where she began wading through her list of phone calls. The one she dreaded most was to Artemis Bohl, the local fashion designer who had created Kristin's gown. Bohl was brilliant, expensive, and temperamental. Kristin's choice had struck Judith as uncharacteristic. But Bohl sold his exclusive designs through I. Magnifique, the city's most prestigious apparel store. Sig and Merle Rundberg wanted the best for their baby girl, and as wheat ranchers, they could
afford it. Kristin's gown was simple, almost austere, but it suited her perfectly.

“Mr. Bohl,” Judith began nervously when the designer finally came on the line, “this is Mrs. Flynn. We were wondering what time we could pick up…”

“Mr.
Artemis
,” the faintly accented nasal voice cut in. “To my public, I am always Mr. Artemis.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, Mr. Artemis, I know there were some final alterations on…”

“Not alterations! Never alterations!
Enhancements!
Mr. Artemis does not alter, he
enhances
! One cannot alter—or change—perfection. One can only
enhance
it.”

“Okay, enhancements.” Judith muffled a sigh as an unusually listless Sweetums entered the kitchen. “Are the
enhancements
done yet? The bride would like to pick up the gown and veil this morning while she's in the downtown…”

“I must go. I have a fashion show to mount. All is chaos. All is confusion.” Artemis Bohl hung up.

Annoyed, Judith clicked off. Kristin would have to take her chances. Sweetums laid down at Judith's feet. Puzzled, Judith reached out a hand to pet the cat. To her surprise, he didn't balk at the affectionate gesture. Perhaps Sweetums wasn't feeling well. Judith tried to put the cat out of her mind as she dialed Nottingham Florists. The table arrangements for the rehearsal dinner would be delivered at five. The wedding flowers would be at the church by ten, the reception bouquets would arrive at Hillside Manor before noon. Judith said thank you and hung up just as tramping feet resounded overhead and the strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers” floated down the backstairs.

“What the hell is that?” demanded Joe Flynn who was coming in the back door.

“Phyliss,” Judith replied weakly. “She's bonding with the in-laws.”

“Great,” Joe groaned. “It sounds like they're all being tortured.”

“I don't think so,” Judith said, now forced to shout as the din grew louder. “Joe, would you take the summer wreath down from the front door and pull the planters over to the far side of the porch? Nottingham's is going to bring a theme wreath and some wedding trees tomorrow.”

“Nottingham's is going to get rich,” Joe retorted, but he headed for the front entrance. Phyliss descended into the kitchen hallway, still singing her head off.

“Now there's some fine Christian folks,” she declared, her gray sausage curls bobbing. “Not a queer one in the bunch. They don't mind me cleaning their rooms with them in it. It's not like regular guests, after all. They aren't paying.”

“Don't remind me,” Judith said as the stamping and the singing died away. “Go ahead, I've already put in a load from the third-floor family quarters. It should be ready for the dryer by now.”

As Phyliss would have put it, she was happy as a pig in slop as she marched off on her rounds. Sweetums still lay on the kitchen floor, chin on paws. His yellow eyes blinked with effort. Maybe a call to the vet was in order. Judith leaned against the counter, trying to tell herself it was too early to have a headache. She was losing the argument even as she heard shouts from the front of the house. Hurrying outside, she saw the neighborhood patrol car with the familiar faces of Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. Between them, they held onto a frantic, struggling, doubled-over figure. Joe had gone to the curb of the cul-de-sac and was waving his arms.

“Goon squad! Pigs! Stooges!” cried the flailing figure. “Shoot me! Why not? You'll whitewash it, like everything else!”

“Hold it!” Joe shouted. “That's Uncle Gurd!”

Corazon Perez's limpid brown eyes widened as she
loosened her hold on the suspect. “You know this guy? Somebody called about a bum sleeping in the Rankers's hedge.”

Ted Doyle also slackened his grip. “Are you sure? He seems kind of loco to me.”

“That doesn't mean he isn't Uncle Gurd,” Joe said dryly, making enigmatic hand gestures at the officers. “I know
you police personnel
have to do your duty, but I assure you, he's just an average citizen
like me
.”

Perez and Doyle both blinked at Joe, then exchanged swift glances. “Oh,” said Perez, finally letting go of Uncle Gurd who fell onto the pavement and rolled up in a ball, “I understand. We're sorry to have bothered you. But further trouble could be avoided if you told the other neighbors that you've got a guest sleeping in the hedge.”

“We'll do that,” Joe said, motioning vigorously for Perez and Doyle to take off. “Trust us. We don't want any trouble around here.”

Silently, Judith agreed. On the day before her son's wedding, she certainly wasn't looking for trouble.

But trouble had already found her. Phyliss erupted from the house, screaming. “Pestilence! Boils! A plague of locusts! It's Armageddon!”

Joe and the patrol officers turned, but Uncle Gurd remained on the ground in a fetal position. Judith staggered as Phyliss fell into her arms.

“Death everywhere!” shrieked the cleaning woman. “Entrails! Decay! Stench! Save me from the fiery furnace!”

Now Perez and Doyle looked alarmed. It wouldn't be the first time that a corpse had turned up in the cul-de-sac. Murder might be Joe Flynn's profession, but sometimes it seemed like it was also Judith's middle name. Over the years, she had often found herself involved in homicide investigations, most of which had nothing to do with her husband's job.