Wed and Buried (8 page)

Sure enough, the photos that lined the walls of the FM station bore a stylistic resemblance to their AM affiliate's
portraits. As the cousins entered the reception area, Judith nudged Renie.

“Is that Harley?” she whispered, pointing to a photo that showed a bearded man in dark glasses.

Renie studied the photo. “I think so. To tell the truth, I haven't any idea what he looks—looked—like. But the dark glasses are a clue, right?”

Behind the curving mahogany desk, a piquant, spike-haired receptionist offered to help the cousins. Renie mentioned Kip Sherman's name, and was informed that Revolution Man was on the air. Except, the punk-rock receptionist went on, he was known as Rappin' Rip on KRAS.

“Rappin' Rip, huh?” Renie said in an aside to Judith. “Kerri must love that.” Renie turned back to the desk. “We're actually here to see Darrell Mims.”

“Darrell?” The bleached blond spikes quivered and a look of disapproval passed across the piquant face. “Oh, why not?” The receptionist pressed a button and requested Darrell Mims's presence up front.

The young man who came bounding out through the long, narrow hall was no more than twenty-two, and his appearance was a far cry from the rockin', rappin', jammin' image that KRAS presented to its listening public. Darrell Mims wore a pale blue dress shirt, neatly pressed gray slacks, and a muted, striped tie. His fair hair was cropped in a neat crewcut and his fine features were set in a face that looked as if it only had to be shaved twice a week. Patches of color stood out on his smooth cheeks.

Renie introduced herself as Kip Sherman's Aunt Serena, then offered up her cousin as Aunt Judith, which wasn't exactly true but served the purpose.

“Judith,” Renie explained with a bogus mournful air, “was one of the last people to see Harley Davidson alive.”

If Darrell saw through Renie's phony manner, he didn't
let it show. In fact, the color faded from his cheeks, and he staggered slightly.

“No! Really?” His blue eyes widened, then he blinked several times before steadying himself against the reception desk. “Maybe we'd better sit down somewhere,” he said in a weak voice.

Darrell's choice of a private spot was the employee coffee room, a cluttered, windowless area down the hall. The walls were adorned not with Morris Mitchell portraits, but posters and glossy photos of various bands and other performers. The room reeked of coffee grounds, cigarette smoke, and a tinge of marijuana.

“Excuse the mess,” Darrell said, indicating plastic molded chairs. “It's my job to keep this place tidy, but frankly, it's a losing battle. These people are animals.”

Noting that Darrell seemed to have recovered himself, Judith gingerly sat down in one of the chairs. “You identified the body?” she inquired in what she hoped was a pleasant, conversational tone.

Darrell jumped. “Is there some problem?”

Judith assured him there was not. “I'm just curious how you got stuck with such a repugnant duty,” she said.

“Well, I did.” Darrell looked pained. “The police came to the station yesterday and asked if someone could go to the morgue. Naturally, they sent me. I always get the jobs around here that nobody else wants.” The young man looked much put upon.

“That was tough, I'll bet,” Judith remarked with a sympathetic little smile.

“It sure was,” Darrell responded. “I was just stunned. I mean, I knew what to expect, but somehow, when I saw poor Harley lying there, I almost blacked out. It took me awhile before I could speak.”

Judith nodded solemnly. “That was very brave of you, Darrell. Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill Harley?”

Over time, Judith had come to expect a standard re
sponse to the question: The usual answer was a flat no. But Darrell Mims's face screwed up in an agonized expression. “Yes, I do. There must be at least a half-dozen people who would have loved to kill Harley. He was that kind of person. Despicable.”

Judith damped down her elation. “Did you tell this to the police?”

“You bet,” Darrell said earnestly, “but I don't know if they believed me. One of the detectives, an older guy with reddish hair, acted as if I were a head case. His partner, a younger black man with a big mustache, took notes. I couldn't tell much from his attitude, though. He was kind of…”

“Stoic?” Judith suggested, well aware of how Woody Price operated. Joe's partner always kept his own counsel.

“That's the word,” Darrell nodded. “Still, they've got to check the names I gave them, right?” Now Darrell was not only earnest, but eager. The spots of color had returned to his cheeks.

“I'm sure they will,” Judith said. Even if Joe and Woody might be skeptical, they'd never default on a lead. “Just who in particular would have wanted to get rid of Mr. Davidson?”

Darrell folded his hands on the marred tabletop. “First, there's his producer, Chuck Rawls, Jr. Mr. Rawls and Harley never got along. I'm not sure why, but I think it was something personal. Sometimes they came to blows and had to be pulled apart. It was amazing to see how a sight-impaired person could engage in hand-to-hand combat. He usually went for Mr. Rawls's nose. Once, Mr. Rawls knocked Harley right off the air.” Darrell blanched at the violent memory.

“What did they fight about?” asked Judith.

“Mostly Harley's pro-drug attitude,” Darrell answered with an expression of deep dismay. “Even he couldn't come right out and say that it was okay to do drugs. But he sure didn't speak out against them. It was more subtle,
like always taking a stand on personal freedom. In fact, one time that he and Mr. Rawls came to blows was over that Ruby Ridge incident, with the survivalists. Harley supported Randy Weaver, and Mr. Rawls said that people couldn't twist the law to suit themselves.”

Judith recalled the high-profile standoff which had held the nation spellbound a few years earlier. “There were terrible mistakes on both sides,” she allowed, then tried to put Darrell back on track: “What about the rest of the people at KRAS?”

“Well, there's Ms. Highcastle, who owns the station,” Darrell replied in his earnest manner. “She'd had to warn him about his language a million times. I don't blame her—he gets really raw in his broadcasts. There's no place for that kind of talk on radio. You can get your FCC license pulled if you go too far. Besides, KRAS is aimed at young people, and it's wrong to present a crude image. Oh, some of the music is pretty gross, but a lot of it is wonderful. Why not cater to our listeners' better natures instead of all this dirty talk? It makes me mad.”

Noting that Darrell was now completely red in the face, Judith put out a restraining hand. “Your attitude is commendable,” she murmured. “But you were saying about…suspects?”

Adjusting his tie and taking a deep breath, Darrell gave Judith an apologetic look. “Sorry. I jumped on my favorite soapbox there for a minute. You see, I'd like to be a DJ myself some day. I'd call myself Blip Man, the DJ with a conscience. What do you think?”

“That's good. I think that's good,” Judith said hastily. “Now about those suspects…”

Darrell held up a hand. “Sorry, I got sidetracked again.” He paused as two young women in very short skirts and very tall boots came into the coffee room. Chatting and giggling, they paid no attention to Darrell or the cousins. When they sat down at the far end of the table, Darrell lowered his voice:

“Ms. Highcastle's husband couldn't stand Harley, either,” Darrell said almost in a whisper. “That may be the one thing they agreed on.”

“They don't agree on other things?” Judith queried.

Darrell shook his head. “They're getting a divorce. But they both hated Harley.”

“Does Mr. Highcastle work at the station?” Judith asked, noting that Renie was staring off into space.

Darrell shook his head some more. “It's not Mr. Highcastle. It's Tino Tenino. You know, TNT Tenino, the boxer. He's Ms. Highcastle's fourth husband. She's had bad luck with men. Like Nero and Ethelred the Unready and Karl Marx.”

“What?” Judith thought she'd misunderstood.

Darrell smiled weakly. “I know, it sounds weird, but Ms. Highcastle believes she's lived several lives before this one.”

“Goodness,” Judith breathed, kicking Renie under the table. “What do you think of that, Coz?”

Renie jumped. “Huh? Esperanza married a Marx brother? Which one?”

Judith's face tightened. “Never mind. She also married TNT Tenino. Did you know that, coz?”

“The boxer?” Renie's expression was still vague. “Middleweight, decent record, coulda been a contendah. Broke his hand on some lummox's head.” She shrugged. “Bill follows boxing. I don't, but I follow Bill.” She turned away and again stared at the wall.

“And?” Judith coaxed Darrell.

“Who's Bill?” The young man's forehead furrowed in puzzlement.

“Never mind,” said Judith. “He's not a suspect, he's a husband. Who else hated Harley?”

“Oh. Well, just about everybody here at the station. The manager, the other DJs, the advertising salespeople, the engineers, the support staff—you name it. Harley wasn't very popular. Except on the air. His fans were
loyal, I'll say that. If they hadn't been, he'd have been gone a long time ago. Harley's share was huge, and he got paid accordingly.” A bitter note crept into Darrell's soft voice.

Judith glanced at the two young women. They were utterly self-absorbed, as young women often are. She turned back to Darrell. “He made good money, then?”

Darrell put a hand to his close-cropped head. “You bet!” Realizing that he'd raised his voice, he moved the hand to his mouth. “Tons,” he whispered between his fingers. “And not all of it in a KRAS check.”

“You mean…?” Judith tried to resurrect the term. “Payola?”

The quaint reference to what had amounted to bribery in days of radio yore caused Darrell to smile. “Yes, I guess that's what they used to call it. Whatever it is, it's not honest. You know, under the table stuff. It's usually the raunchiest promoters and distributors who pay off unprincipled people like Harley. He asked for trouble. No wonder he had premonitions.”

“Really?” Judith edged closer in her chair. “What kind?”

“Oh,” Darrell replied, fingering the collar of his crisp blue shirt, “like telling me lately how he might not be around much longer. I didn't take it seriously, because I thought he was hinting about job offers to sweeten the pot when his next contract came up. I sure didn't think he was talking about getting killed.” The young man shook his head in an incredulous manner.

“Interesting,” Judith said thoughtfully, then gave Darrell a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help. My cousin and I appreciate your candor.” Another kick was aimed at Renie.

For the first time since arriving in the coffee room, Darrell looked at the woman who had introduced herself as Kip Sherman's aunt. “Excuse me,” he said in an embarrassed manner. “A few minutes ago I told you that
everybody at KRAS would have liked to kill Harley Davidson, but I didn't mean your nephew. You see, he's really with KORN. That is, he was. Right now, he's helping us by filling in for…”

Renie waved a dismissive hand. “I know, skip it. Kip's not a homicidal maniac, even when he has a motive. Which he sometimes has. After all, I see him at family parties. Who doesn't have a motive for murder with fifty relatives trying to outshout and outeat each other?”

“But…?” Darrell was now looking bewildered. “I thought you came here because of Kip.”

“Kip?” Renie laughed. “No. We came here because of Drip.” She nodded at Judith. “My cousin is sleuthing. Thanks for all the suspects. See you, Darrell.” Renie started out of the coffee room.

Judith's smile was now fixed on her face. “It's a long story,” she said hastily as she, too, made for the door. “I'll tell you about it some time. Thanks again, Darrell. ‘Bye.”

The cousins were half-running down the hall when they crashed into Esperanza Highcastle. The heiress to Highcastle Hot Dogs and owner of KRAS and KORN didn't take kindly to the collision. She righted herself quickly, stood her ground, and summoned security. Before Judith and Renie could explain themselves, they were out on the sidewalk.

“Are you sure that was Esperanza?” Judith asked as she tried to catch her breath.

Renie nodded. “I met her once at some charity bash. You couldn't forget her easily, could you?”

Judith recalled the brief encounter with the fortyish woman who looked more like a gypsy queen and less like a hot dog heiress. Long curly black hair, bangles at ears, throat, and wrists, a flowing dress and several scarves proclaimed a penchant for flamboyance. The bare feet, one of which Renie had stepped on, were evidence of a free spirit. Or so Judith assumed.

“Does she always dress like that?” Judith asked as the cousins trudged off down the street to Renie's big blue Chevrolet.

“No. The time I met her she was an Indian princess. India Indian, complete with gold sari and red caste mark. She's also been an African warrior queen, an Egyptian sphinx, and a rather unconvincing Christian martyr.” Renie sighed as she unlocked the car. “Esperanza believes in living all sorts of lives, in all kinds of eras. I'm waiting for her to go into outer space.”

“A good place for her,” Judith murmured, still smarting from their precipitous exit. “What did you think of Darrell Mims?”

Renie waited to answer until after the cousins were both in the car. “He's ambitious, sincere, and a young man on a mission, part of which may be to discredit Harley Davidson.”

Judith couldn't help but grin at Renie. “So you were listening? I thought you'd zoned out.”

“I did, a little.” Renie revved up the big engine and hurtled into traffic. “Frankly, I think he was exaggerating. There may be a lot of people who didn't like Harley, but I doubt most of them would want to kill him.”