Wed and Buried (7 page)

Renie was wrestling the navy dress over her head. “Wouldn't it be something if Harley is in fact the dead guy?” Her voice was muffled under the fabric.

“Do you know Harley's real name?” Judith asked, peeking out into the corridor to see if Portia was in sight.

Renie emerged through the neck of the dress. “Kerri told me it was John Smith. I'm not sure if she was kidding.”

Judith made a little face. “Let's hope so. But the station would have all his bona fides, wouldn't they?”

“Oh, sure.” Renie fastened several buttons, then posed in front of the long, three-sided mirror. “Some of the DJs may be nuts, but KRAS and KORN are owned by Esperanza Highcastle. She's all business.”

Judith gazed at Renie's reflection. “Highcastle? As in Highcastle Hot Dogs?”

“The very same. Also sausages and baloney. Old money, old family, old meat.” Renie twirled. “What do you think?”

The dress was well cut, but almost reached Renie's ankles. The collar came right up under her chin. To Judith, her rather short, small cousin looked as if she were wearing a tent.

“We-ll…if you had it shortened…”

Portia announced her presence with a discreet knock. Before she could begin gushing, Judith went straight to the point and asked who had been the models for Artemis Bohl's Friday fashion show.

Portia smoothed her already-perfect blond hair. “It was a benefit, so some local celebrities took part,” the saleswoman replied, “but Mr. Artemis also used his regular
model, Tara Novotny. I'm sure you'd recognize her. She's internationally known.”

Judith hadn't recognized the woman on the roof, but that wasn't surprising. Between running a B&B and playing the triple roles of wife, mother, and daughter, Judith didn't have much time to spare for high fashion magazines. Besides, the couple had been too far away to identify.

Renie, however, pointed to the cover of a designer catalogue that sat on a small side table. “That's her. Tall, dark, very handsome. Great cheekbones. No shape.”

Portia laughed, a throaty, yet musical sound. “Tara's shape isn't as important as the way she wears clothes. Mr. Artemis isn't one for curves, just wonderful fluid lines.”

Renie jiggled inside the dress. “I have curves. Lumps and the occasional bulge as well. Does this work for me?”

Judith gritted her teeth. “About the groom…”

Portia put a well-manicured index finger to her cheek and studied Renie closely. “It's very smart. Perhaps if we turned up the hem about two inches, and took a tuck under the arms…Yes, that would make it perfect, especially for travel.”

“You mean she'd look better in it out of town?” Judith snapped. “Who modeled the groom's tux?”

Portia looked startled. “What? Oh—it was some radio person. I don't recall his name.” She turned back to Renie. “If you need a dress that will carry you right into fall, we just got a new—”

“Who'd know?” Judith interjected.

Portia's professional patience was beginning to erode. “Ask the salon manager, Daphne DeVries. You'll find her at the desk by evening wear.”

Judith abandoned Portia, Renie, and the voluminous dress. If possible, Daphne was even more sleek than Portia. Her raven hair was pulled into a tight chignon, her ebony skin was flawless, and her bearing indicated that she had probably started in the business as a model. Judith
groveled and inquired after the man who had modeled the bridegroom's tuxedo.

Daphne did not take the question well. “He wasn't an agency person, nor is he under contract to Mr. Artemis. I'm sorry, I can't help you.”

“He was—I mean, he is—a radio personality. A disc jockey,” Judith clarified. “At least I'm sure he was.
Is
. I'm just trying to make sure he's the one I'm thinking of.” She gave Daphne her most engaging smile.

“We had several radio personalities modeling on Friday.” Daphne seemed bored as she fiddled with an armload of silver bangles.

Judith was momentarily stymied. Then her eye was caught by a diaphanous lavender evening gown floating around a mannequin in a recess just beyond Daphne's chair.

“Does that come in a size fourteen?” Judith asked, trying to achieve an expression of extreme desire.

Daphne swiveled slightly. “No, but the twelve is very generous.” Her dark eyes raked Judith's statuesque figure. “Very.”

“I'd like to try it on,” Judith declared, her voice breaking only slightly. “Now about the bridegroom…”

Daphne had opened a drawer in the small Louis XIV desk. “One moment. I'll find out for you.” She looked up as another saleswoman glided into view. “Clemence, could you take this customer back to a fitting room and get her Mr. Artemis's Lavender Dreams in a twelve?”

Clemence could and did. By the time that Judith rejoined Renie thirty minutes later, she had verified that Harley Davidson had indeed modeled the tux. The bride had been Tara Novotny. The lavender Artemis gown cost twenty-five hundred dollars, which was the price that Judith had paid for her information.

It was way too much.

 

“I'll take it back in a couple of days,” Judith vowed as the cousins marched off to Ron's Bar and Grill, just around the corner from I. Magnifique. “Even if I could afford it, where would I wear a dress like that?”

“It's stunning, though,” Renie allowed. “I saw it when I got off the elevator. That color is good on you.”

“Stop it,” Judith ordered tersely. “I absolutely cannot go around buying Mr. Artemis dresses.”

The cousins went through the revolving door which led to one of the city's most legendary watering holes. “I did,” Renie said in a small voice as they emerged into the bar.

“What?” Judith gaped at her cousin. “You spent twenty-five hundred dollars on a dress? Are you nuts?”

“It wasn't twenty-five hundred dollars,” Renie replied hurriedly. “It was only a grand. I have to admit, it wasn't on sale. It just came in. They featured it in the fashion show.”

“They also featured a murder victim,” Judith said grimly, sitting down at a table for two in the middle of the big bar. On a late Tuesday afternoon, Ron's was already filling up with workers who apparently had sneaked out of the office early. “I used Daphne's phone to call Joe and tell him to talk to Tara Novotny. She was the bride.”

“Ah!” Renie looked relieved, though Judith didn't know if it was caused by the confirmation of Tara's presence on the hotel roof or the change of subject. “What did Joe say?”

“He wasn't in,” Judith answered, one hand on the black- and white-striped I. Magnifique box. She felt a need to guard it as if it were the family jewels. Which, she thought fleetingly, it was. Judith owned no gems that cost as much. “Joe and Woody were both out. Where is that radio station, anyway?”

Renie tried to get the attention of a nearby server, failed, and fingered her short chin. “KRAS and KORN
are in one of those new office buildings at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. I've never been in their offices, but I've worked with an ad agency on the floor above them.”

Judith glanced at her watch. “It's not quite four. Why don't we skip drinks and call on KRAS?”

Renie made a face. “To what point? This is Joe's case. Let him at it. My mouth's all set for the biggest vodka martini in town.”

“But Joe doesn't even know who got killed,” Judith pointed out. “He and Woody are stumbling around, trying to identify the victim through that tux.”

“So maybe they've done it by now,” Renie shrugged, finally making eye contact with their server. She ordered with a hand signal, two fingers for two martinis, two more fingers for one of vodka, one finger for gin. Had the cousins wanted something other than the bartender's special, Renie would have had to speak out loud. Anything that wasn't a martini was considered exotic at Ron's.

Judith was on her feet, the big dress box clutched to her bosom. “I'm going to try to call Joe again.”

Renie started to argue, then threw up her hands. “Okay, but leave the damned box. I've got my own to guard.” She gulped. “I bought three of the sale items, too. I don't think I'll show all of them to Bill right away. I'll tuck them away in the closet and wait until he's in a really good mood.”

Heading for the hallway where the pay phones were located, Judith's attention was diverted by a group of customers who were coming through the revolving doors. There was much animated conversation emanating from the half-dozen men and women, though their leader was stony-faced. Judith looked more closely. It was Mr. Artemis.

The designer was greeted by an effusive maitre d' who ushered the party into the bar. Judith abandoned her quest for the phone and hurried back to rejoin Renie.

“That's Mr. Artemis,” Judith whispered as the tall,
thin bald man in the exquisitely cut suit slipped onto a chair at the head of a table in the rear. “I met him when Kristin was choosing her wedding gown.”

Renie exhibited mild interest. “I've seen pictures. That's Tara Novotny on his left.”

Judith reached into her purse, took out her glasses, and patted the I. Magnifique box in reassurance. “He's very temperamental.”

“He's very rich.” Renie grimaced. “Richer now than he was an hour ago. We just paid for his next three trips to Europe.”

“You did,” Judith retorted. “I'm getting my money back. Besides, he doesn't work out of Europe. His clothes are made somewhere in the Caribbean.” Trying to be discreet, Judith focused on Tara Novotny. “That
could
be the woman I saw. She was dark-haired, but with the big veil, I couldn't see her face. And it happened so fast.”

“If she landed on that balcony, she didn't get hurt,” Renie noted as their server arrived with the drinks. “She didn't walk in here, she floated.”

Judith turned to her martini. “Maybe she'll have to go to the rest room.” Judith wiggled her eyebrows at Renie.

Renie sighed. “You're not going to…? Yes, of course you are.” Renie drank deeply.

“Maybe they were in love,” Judith speculated. “Maybe they quarreled. I don't really know what Harley looked like, but she's obviously spectacularly beautiful. I'll bet Harley was bowled over, only she wasn't interested in a mere rock 'n' roll DJ, so his heart was broken and…”

“He couldn't see her.” Renie took another, smaller sip.

Judith's eyes widened. “He couldn't see her
what
?”

“Her anything.” Renie's voice was calm though raised slightly as the bar began to fill up and the noise level grew. “Didn't I tell you? Kerri said that Harley Davidson is blind.”

 

Judith wanted to punch Renie in the stomach again, but she couldn't reach her cousin under the table. “
Blind
?” she repeated. “As in, ‘as a bat'?”

Renie nodded. “Nobody knew. Outside of the station, I mean. Teenagers and young adults who listen to KRAS might be turned off by a blind DJ. Oh, it sounds kind of callous, but we're talking commercial radio here. Handicaps scare the young. It makes them stop and think about their own mortality.”

“But…” Judith rubbed at her temples. “That means that Harley couldn't have seen what he was doing on that hotel roof.”

Now it was Renie whose brown eyes grew wide. “You're right. I didn't think of that. How very strange.”

Judith darted a quick look over her shoulder. Artemis Bohl's party was being served, and everyone, with the possible exception of Tara Novotny, seemed to be acting in a most deferential manner toward the great designer.

“I wonder,” Judith said, chewing thoughtfully on her olive, “if an autopsy shows that a person's blind. If whoever is doing it has no reason to wonder, would they know?”

Again, Renie shrugged. “He wasn't stabbed through the eye. But aren't medical examiners pretty thorough?”

“Yes,” Judith replied. “Joe did mention that the victim wasn't in very good health. But that could have meant almost anything. I gather Harley had poor eating habits. That's not surprising with a show biz type.” Once more, she was on her feet. “I'm still going to give Joe another ring.”

This time, Joe was in. Upon hearing her husband's voice, Judith made a swift decision regarding her demeanor: She didn't want to admit that she had been actively sleuthing. Joe would resent his wife's intrusion on his case. Thus, she tried to walk a fine line between girlish amazement and wifely duty:

“Joe! Guess what—Renie and I've just come from I.
Magnifique's spring clearance, and we made the most astonishing discovery! I wanted to pass it on to you and Woody as soon as…”

“You mean about Harley Davidson and the Novotny woman?” Joe's tone was flat. “Right, Woody and I are checking that out now. In fact, I may be late getting home tonight. We've already called on the radio station, but we have to interview the model and a few other people. Don't hold dinner. See you.” Joe hung up.

Judith went back into the bar and ordered a second martini.

“I
T MUST HAVE
been the tux,” Judith muttered. “Joe and Woody must have traced it to the fashion show.”

“If you drink that second double,” Renie warned, “you're not driving. You'll have to let me take you home and come back to get your car later.”

Judith gave her cousin a bleak look. “I've been through a lot these past few days.”

“Who hasn't?” Renie shot back. “That's life. I'm canceling your order.” With a snap of her fingers and a thumbs-down signal, Renie conveyed the message to their server. “What about your guests? Do you really want them to see you crawling through the entry hall on your hands and knees?”

Judith scowled at Renie. “Two doubles wouldn't do that to me.”

Renie didn't respond directly. “You're just miffed because Joe and Woody are way ahead of you on this one. Face it, coz, they get paid to be detectives. You don't.”

“He's been to the radio station,” Judith said, pawing at her empty glass. “I suppose somebody from there IDed the body. Or maybe Joe and Woody will have Tara do it.” Turning in her chair, Judith gazed at the rear of the bar. Artemis Bohl's party was gone.

“They left while you were on the phone,” Renie said calmly. “They drank fast. Maybe Tara knows the cops are on her trail.”

Judith was on her feet. “Let's go. We should follow them.”

“Oh, for…” Though annoyed, Renie also stood up. “Hold it, I have to get my packages.”

Judith was already at the revolving door. Indeed, she had exited so hurriedly that one of the doors smacked Renie right in the face. Renie was still swearing when she joined her cousin on the sidewalk.

“I don't see them,” Judith said vexedly, her eyes raking the street in all directions. “Do you suppose they went to Artemis Bohl's salon? It's only a half-block from I. Magnifique.”

“Could be,” Renie allowed, juggling black- and white-striped packages and trying to rub her forehead with her arm. “Which way?”

“In the building next to I. Magnifique, where they're putting in the new celebrity café and the sportswear store,” Judith replied, now moving smartly down the sidewalk.

Renie scooted along behind, then yelled at Judith in alarm: “Hey! You forgot your dress!”

Judith stopped at the corner and whirled around to face her cousin. “Oh, my God! How could I?” She began galloping back towards Ron's Bar and Grill. Renie waited by a row of newspaper boxes.

The table that the cousins had occupied had been commandeered by a couple in their thirties who looked as if they were in love. It took Judith a few moments to catch their attention. She explained her small dilemma, then reached under the table to retrieve the twenty-five-hundred-dollar evening gown.

The box was gone.

The couple hadn't noticed it when they sat down. Panicking, Judith approached their server. He had no knowledge of an I. Magnifique parcel. Nor did the maitre d' at
the front of the restaurant. Judith was beginning to feel sick. She checked the pay phones to see if she might have taken the package with her, but there was no sign of the black- and white-striped box. Then she wandered up and down the bar to see if someone might have moved it, or picked it up by accident—or by design. At last, she wandered back out onto the sidewalk. Renie was still at the corner, leaning on a
Wall Street Journal
box. Disconsolately, Judith approached her cousin.

“It's gone,” she said in a hollow voice. “I've lost the most expensive dress I never intended to buy. What'll I do?”

“You can't have lost it,” Renie insisted. “It'll turn up. Somebody probably gave it to a different server. Call when you get home, after the cocktail hour is over and they're not so rushed. By then, whoever is in charge of lost items will have it.”

The advice was of minor consolation, but Judith didn't see what else she could do. Halfway up the block stood a large, ornate pedestal clock. It was going on four-thirty. For once, Judith's investigative thirst was quenched.

“I'm going home,” she announced morosely. “I'll call you after I've committed suicide.”

“You do that,” Renie said, reorganizing her packages and giving Judith an encouraging smile. To cheer her cousin, Renie offered a small sacrifice: “If you want to snoop around KRAS tomorrow, I'll see if Kip can get us an entree.”

Judith brightened only fractionally. It was very hot under the late afternoon sun, and traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, had intensified in the last hour. “Okay. That sounds nice,” Judith said weakly.

Having parked in separate garages, the cousins parted company. The drive home was aggravating. Like Judith, her fellow Pacific Northwesterners didn't take kindly to the heat. Most of them seemed determined to work out their frustrations with their cars. Judith used her horn four
times and mouthed a shocking obscenity twice on the short drive from downtown to Heraldsgate Hill.

After serving her guests their punch and hors d'oeuvres, Judith called Ron's Bar and Grill. The staff still hadn't seen her package. Perhaps she'd care to call back tomorrow? She would, but hope was fading. Nursing a too-tart lemonade, she wondered whether or not her homeowners' insurance covered lost designer dresses.

It was after eight when Joe got home. It had been a long, hot, tiring day for him, too. He was on his second beer before he deigned to discuss what had now become the Harley Davidson case.

“I told you that tux would be easy to trace,” Joe said as he and Judith sat outside in the long summer evening. “It was some high-priced brand that's only carried in I. Magnifique's men's department. From there, it was easy. Davidson had worn one for the fashion show Friday. The model who wore the wedding dress was Tara Novotny. Woody and I checked with the radio station first, and found out that Davidson hadn't shown up for his Monday morning gig. We got a gofer at KRAS, name of Darrell Mims, to ID the body. He went to pieces, but he did it. Then, after you called this afternoon, we tracked down Tara who was at that designer's shop—you know, the one who made Kristin's dress.” Joe's gaze slid in Judith's direction. “I'm sure you accidentally heard about that connection, too.”

“Well, yes,” Judith answered vaguely. She might as well admit it, but she certainly wasn't going to tell Joe about her extravagant purchase—and subsequent loss.

“Tara went into shock,” Joe recounted, batting with his hand at a flurry of gnats. “She wasn't much help. That Bohl guy was a real pain. He swore that Tara didn't really know Davidson, and demanded that we leave until she recovered. We'll get back to her tomorrow.”

Judith had long ago traded her sour lemonade for a diet soda. Taking a big sip, she tried to focus on Joe's recital.
It wasn't easy, not with Lavender Dreams giving her nightmares.

“Did Harley Davidson have family?” Judith asked.

“Not around here,” Joe replied as Sweetums trotted across the patio. “He's from the Midwest. Indiana, I think. Thirty-three, unmarried, worked all over the country, been here two years. Blind. But I suppose you unwittingly discovered that, too.”

Judith avoided Joe's gaze. “Renie told me. Bill's nephew, Kip, works for…”

Joe nodded. “Yes, Kip Sherman. He wasn't around when Woody and I were there, but somebody said he was filling in for Davidson. I remember Kip from some of the Jones family get-togethers.”

A few feet away from the patio, Gertrude appeared at the door to the toolshed. She leaned on her walker and peered at Joe. “Judith Anne!” Gertrude called sharply. “Who's that man you're entertaining?”

Judith tensed. “What?”

“I said,” Gertrude repeated, banging her walker for emphasis, “who's your gentleman caller?”

Judith glanced at Joe, but he had lowered his head and was staring at the birdbath. “It's Joe, Mother,” Judith finally answered.

“Joe who? I don't know any Joe. Tell him he's got to go home by ten o'clock. We keep proper hours around here.” Gertrude slammed her walker one more time, then laboriously turned around and went back indoors.

“Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Is she kidding? Is she gaga? Or is she going to drive me as crazy as she may or may not be?”

“No comment,” Joe murmured. “My mother died young. It was my father who was impossible. Luckily, in his later years, he didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see him.”

Sweetums was weaving in and out between Judith's feet. He paused just long enough to brush up against her
leg in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. Then, as she reached down to pet him, he threw up a hairball on her hand.

Repulsed, Judith jumped out of the lawn chair and went into the house to wash. It had been that kind of day. Standing at the kitchen sink, she stared out into the hedge. Uncle Gurd's home away from home was undetectable in the laurel's thick branches and glossy leaves. There had to be a way to get the old man back to Deep Denial, Idaho or Trenchant, Montana, or whichever isolated dot on the map he claimed as his legal address. Maybe Herself could coax him into leaving.

Maybe the I. Magnifique box would turn up tomorrow. Maybe Gertrude's apparent memory loss would stop bothering Judith so much. Maybe, after the wedding and the reception and the out-of-town company, life would settle down at Hillside Manor.

Maybe Judith was kidding herself.

 

The morning mail brought more wedding-related bills, but also the contact prints from Morris Mitchell's photographs. Judith excitedly opened the thick package and began perusing the dozens of proofs that Morris had clicked off over the two-day period. As ever, her heart sang when she saw her son's wide, infectious smile; she was enveloped by a sense of completion when the camera captured her husband's magic eyes. There they were together, Mike and Joe, shoulder-to-shoulder. Except for their coloring, there wasn't much of a resemblance. That was good, Judith thought. And yet…she really should have talked to Mike before he went off on his honeymoon.

She was studying the pictures inside Our Lady, Star of the Sea when Phyliss came to stand at her elbow.

“Gaudy,” the cleaning woman remarked, pointing to the altar with its life-sized crucified Christ and statues of the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph. “Idolatry. Don't you Catholics feel like pagans in such an ungodly place? And
that Lutheran fellow—he didn't seem the least put out by all the flim-flam. I'd hope for better from one of his kind.”

“We don't worship statues,” Judith said firmly. “I've told you that before, Phyliss. The images are reminders—like these photographs.”

Phyliss snorted. “Did you ever see Our Savior taking snapshots? 'Course not. He didn't make sketches, either. It's blasphemy, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask,” Judith said dryly, moving on to the reception photos. “You were at the wedding. Didn't you think it was a lovely ceremony?”

“It was all right, as such things go,” Phyliss allowed. “But where were the hymns? Why didn't you have joyful voices raised to the Lord? All that slow stuff on the organ didn't move me one bit.”

Judith knew it was useless to argue religion with Phyliss—or anybody else, for that matter. Fortunately, she was spared by the telephone. It was Renie, asking when her cousin wanted to call on KRAS. Judith said any time was fine, but would Renie like to stop in first and see the wedding proofs? Renie said she would.

Half an hour later the cousins were sitting in the living room, poring over the pictures. Judith now had fixated on the first set, taken at the rehearsal dinner.

“I know these aren't very big,” she said, “but when they're blown up, some of them will show the roof of the Naples Hotel. Do you suppose we'll be able to see Harley and Tara?”

Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “And if we did?”

“Well…” Judith fidgeted a bit on the sofa. “We might be able to tell something from their facial expressions. You know, if they were angry or happy or…whatever.”

Renie wagged a finger at Judith. “Look, you'd have to get those things blown up about three hundred percent to see anything that far away. Morris wasn't using a tele
photo lens, he was shooting subjects in the same room. I'm perfectly willing to go along with this gag and take you to the radio station, but that's it. Joe and Woody seem to be doing just fine with the investigation. After today, let it ride, coz. You'll only get in the way.”

It was useless trying to defend herself. Indeed, if Judith had to be honest, she didn't have a leg to stand on. Unlike other situations where she had had some personal involvement with either the victim or the suspects, Judith had been witness to a nonevent. Or so it appeared. Joe, she realized, hadn't yet quizzed her closely about what she had seen on the hotel roof. It was obvious that he didn't believe she had seen anything, at least not anything of importance.

“Nobody at Ron's has seen my dress box,” Judith finally said, evading the issue at hand. “I called just a few minutes ago.”

“It's got to show up,” Renie said with conviction. “If somebody had taken it, the server or the maitre d' would have noticed. Besides, we hadn't been away from the table more than a minute or two when I saw that you didn't have the box.”

Judith tried to take comfort from Renie's words. On the way down the hill to KRAS-FM, Judith also tried to put the lavender dress out of her mind. There was no point in worrying over something she couldn't do anything about; or so she kept telling herself.

The offices of KRAS and KORN were divided by a long, carpeted corridor on the main floor of an almost new six-story office building. Through the glass entrance to KORN, Judith could glimpse large photos of the station's radio personalities. She recognized the laughing, freckled face of Kip Sherman.

Renie nodded. “Morris Mitchell took those pictures. I think he also did the ones for KRAS.”