Wed and Buried (9 page)

“True,” Judith replied, blanching as her cousin whipped around a corner, narrowly missed hitting an old man in the crosswalk, and just barely got through an amber light before roaring up Heraldsgate Hill. “The fact is, you only need one.”

Renie turned to look at Judith. “One what?”

Judith wished Renie would keep her eyes on the road. “One killer. That's all it took to stab Harley Davidson.”

Renie took the corner to the cul-de-sac on two wheels.

Judith went home and took two aspirin.

It was turning out to be another one of those days.

D
ESPITE
R
ENIE'S DISMISSAL
of Darrell's suspect list, Judith made notes. When Joe got off work, she'd ask if he and Woody had followed up on any of the young gofer's leads. It had occurred to her that alibis would be hard to fix in this particular case: The time of death could not be pinpointed, therefore, the suspects had some leeway in accounting for their whereabouts.

It also dawned on Judith that there were at least two suspects whose names hadn't been mentioned during the session in the coffee room at KRAS: One was Tara Novotny, the other was Darrell Mims himself. Judith sat at the kitchen table and wished she had been able to talk to Esperanza and Chuck Rawls Jr. and even TNT Tenino.

But that wasn't her job. Joe would handle the interrogation. Judith tried to console herself. Her husband and Woody were veteran detectives. Between them, they had solved many cases. However, Judith believed that her chatty, personal method of talking to suspects could sometimes elicit more revealing information than the professional techniques employed by even the most assiduous policemen.

There was, of course, more to Judith's life than murder. As was usually the case during the summer
months, the B&B would be full on Wednesday night. Phyliss had finished her housecleaning duties by one o'clock, and was getting ready to leave for her next client.

“It's somebody new,” Phyliss said as she yanked her housedress down to cover a row of slightly bedraggled lace on her slip. “You know those fancy new condos above the cul-de-sac?”

Judith knew them well. Above her shrubbery and between the trees on the hillside, she could catch a glimpse of their balconies. The architecture conveyed a European air, and it was rumored that each unit took up an entire floor and cost close to a million dollars. Judith and Joe had jokingly told each other that some day they'd retire to one of the condos and spend the rest of their lives admiring the spectacular view.

“Have you been inside yet?” Judith asked eagerly. “I've heard that some of them are decorated in the most fabulous styles.”

This was Phyliss's first foray into what was known as Belgravia Gardens. “I'll give you a full report tomorrow morning,” she promised. “I'll even let you know what color undies Mr. Deetooleyville wears.”

“Mr. Deetooleyville?” Judith echoed as she escorted Phyliss to the door. “What kind of a name is that?”

Phyliss rummaged in her worn imitation leather purse. “Here, this is his business card. Does it say Mr. Deetooleyville or doesn't it?”

It didn't. The tasteful if exotic gold printing read “Bascombe de Tourville.” His address, telephone, fax, and cable numbers appeared in smaller letters.

“I think it's pronounced de Tourville,” Judith said, giving the name a French twist. “What does he do for a living? It doesn't say here.”

“I don't know,” Phyliss admitted, tucking the card back into her purse. “I've never met the man. He moved in a while back and needs somebody to do for him. I got the referral through that fancy-pants dress designer who
did your daughter-in-law's wedding gown.”

Judith's eyes widened. “You did? How? I didn't know you knew Artemis Bohl.”

“Is that his name?” Phyliss sniffed. “Peculiar thing to call yourself, if you ask me. Mr. Bowl, Mr. Plate, Mr. Soup Tureen—what next? All I did was answer the phone one day when he called a couple of weeks ago about the wedding dress. One thing led to another, and I could tell he was a soul in torment. Anybody who talks that snooty isn't talking to the Lord. The Lord wouldn't stand for it. So I told him what he needed was to be washed in the Blood of the Lamb. He said he needed to hang up. Imagine! Then I got filled with the Holy Spirit, and kept right on evangelizing, telling him about our church cruise on the
Good Fellowship
, and how we have all this fine food, like vegetable dip and Velveeta cheese in two colors and three kinds of potato chips and my favorite raspberry-lemon punch. But the Evil One's got a tight hold on that poor lost soul. Finally, I kind of ran out of steam. But after he swore he didn't want to be saved for about the tenth time, he asked if I knew of a cleaning woman. Praise the Lord, I said, I am one. Who wants me? And then he gave me this Deetooleyville's phone number. The Almighty works in mysterious ways, I said, and this Mr. Bowl hung up. Did I ever tell you he called?”

“Maybe,” Judith said faintly. “It doesn't matter now.”

“Good,” said Phyliss as she trotted off down the walk.

Judith was still standing on the porch when Arlene Rankers appeared from around the end of the laurel hedge. “We have to talk,” she whispered in a dark tone and went straight inside the house. “Uncle Gurd is causing some problems. I think Carl and I have been too nice to him. Somebody has got to tell him that the hedge is
not
a bathroom.”

Judith looked horrified. “You mean…?”

Arlene nodded, her red-gold curls in uncharacteristic disarray. “Yes, that's what I mean. I offered to let him
use one of ours, preferably the one in the basement, but he said he was afraid of toilets. Apparently, he had an unfortunate experience in the Korean War, something to do with a hand grenade in a latrine. Really, Judith, something must be done about him. Carl is losing patience.”

“I don't blame him.” Judith said, feeling a need to sit down at the kitchen table. “We have to get him out of here. He's a real nuisance.”

Arlene also sat down. “I do feel sorry for him, but there are limits.”

Judith, whose kind heart rivaled Arlene's, nodded slowly. “Yes, I do, too, but I'm not sure why. He has a home and family. I don't understand why he insists on staying here. He hates cities.”

“It's that woman,” Arlene said in a conspiratorial tone. “You know who.” The red-gold eyebrows lifted.

“Vivian?” Judith sighed. “I hope she's not leading him on. I'll have Joe talk to her. If anybody can convince Uncle Gurd to leave, it'd be Herself.”

“Good.” Arlene stood up, but Judith put out a hand.

“Say, what do you know about those lavish new condos on the next street up?” Judith asked. Arlene's network of news, gossip, and rumor was legendary on Heraldsgate Hill.

“I went through them before they started selling,” Arlene said, very serious. With a daughter in real estate, Arlene had a lock on who was buying what property on the hill. “I've only seen two units since the new owners moved in. One was very modern, all white and gold, a retired air force general and his third wife. I didn't much care for it. The other was too fussy—lots of chintz, flounces, frills. A couple of interior decorators, and I'd certainly never hire them. Busy, busy, busy. Would you like a peek? There's one still on the market.”

Judith hedged. “Maybe. The building is certainly handsome. But I was mainly interested in Phyliss's new client, Bascombe de Tourville.”

“Ah!” Arlene snapped her fingers. “Now there's an interesting personality. Our Cathy didn't handle that sale, but she knows who did. Bascombe is a very mysterious fellow. His life is an open book.”

Accustomed to Arlene's contradictions, Judith was only mildly fazed. “You mean…?”

Arlene nodded. “Exactly. Rumors galore. International intrigue.”

Now Judith was becoming confused. “De Tourville's a spy?”

“No, no.” Arlene shook her red-gold girls. “He looks mysterious. Cathy was fascinated.”

“Oh.” Judith's head was swimming. “Well, you can't always tell by looks.”

“It depends on what you see.” Arlene's expression was very knowing.

“I…guess,” said Judith. There were times when it wasn't possible to follow Arlene's convoluted thought processes. “I hope Phyliss finds him easy to work for.”

“Phyliss,” Arlene asserted as she rose from the kitchen chair, “can take care of herself. She's virtually helpless.”

“Yes,” Judith said vaguely; then, not to be outdone, she added, “and no.”

“Maybe,” said Arlene, and was gone.

 

Joe merely glanced at the suspect list Judith had made. “Right, young Mr. Stoolie,” he said, referring to Darrell Mims. “There's one in every office.” Joe headed outside with a pair of hedge-clippers.

“What are you doing with those?” Judith asked, hurrying after her husband. It was late Wednesday, another warm evening with virtually no breeze.

“You wanted me to prune some of those bushes up against the fence,” Joe answered reasonably. “You said you almost couldn't see Dooleys' house any more.”

“True,” Judith allowed. “I thought you were going
after Uncle Gurd and the Rankers's hedge. Somebody should. He's become a pest.”

Joe positioned himself in the flower bed and began whacking away at a Japanese quince. “Do you want me to talk to him?” Joe called over his shoulder.

Judith stirred the dying barbecue coals which she'd used to cook hamburgers for dinner. “I was thinking that Vivian might have better luck. Gurd seems quite taken with her.”

“Vivian left for Florida this morning,” Joe replied. “She still has some business to wind up there. Her condo has been leased this past year and a half, but now she wants to sell it.”

“Oh.” Sometimes it bothered Judith that there was a lingering intimacy between Joe and his first wife. It especially bothered her when he neglected to share details concerning Herself. “So she's no help,” Judith murmured. “Big surprise.”

“What?” Joe was tossing branches out onto the grass. As far as Judith could tell, there was no method to his pruning. The quince was beginning to look as if it had been butchered, rather than trimmed.

“Joe—could you make the shrub more symmetrical?” Judith asked in what she hoped was a humble wifely tone.

“Symmetrical?” Joe chopped a big piece right out of the middle. “I'm not a tree surgeon, I'm a cop.” He cut off another chunk, at the bottom. The quince definitely looked skewed.

“Then maybe you should do it. Talk to Uncle Gurd, I mean.” Judith tried not to wince as the gap in the shrub grew to alarming proportions.

“I'll try,” Joe agreed, now plundering the honeysuckle. “What time does he curl up into a ball and go to sleep with the slugs?”

“I've no idea. Joe, could you be careful with that honeysuckle vine? If you cut it near the bottom, the whole thing will…”

It was too late. Joe had already chopped off the entire clump of sturdy, twisting growth that anchored the honeysuckle. “What?” He turned to look over his shoulder at Judith.

“Dammit, you've killed it! Honeysuckle almost never comes back after you whack it like that! We've had that vine since I was a girl!” Judith was close to tears.

“Hey,” Joe yelled back, his face now a deep crimson from exertion, “you wanted me to prune, so I'm pruning. What does it matter how I do it as long as it gets done?”

Judith knew it was useless to explain that pruning wasn't the same as slashing. In her experience, husbands didn't understand the subtleties of gardening. Clippers, shears, pruners—whatever the implement, it wasn't a tool in a man's hand, it was a weapon. That was bad enough, but what really irked Judith was that from year to year, she didn't remember the carnage that Joe—or Bill or Carl or whichever other husband came to mind—could wreak on shrubs and bushes. This summer, she'd put a reminder in her computer to hire a professional. Cost be damned, Judith didn't want to lose the landscaping that she and other Grovers had tended for three generations.

She was still angry when Joe finally joined her in the kitchen. “So you and Renie went sleuthing at KRAS,” he remarked as he washed his hands. “You never give up, do you?”

“I didn't even know who was dead until today,” Judith replied in annoyance. “
You
hadn't told me anything.”

“I didn't know anything,” Joe replied reasonably.

“You must have known he was blind,” Judith asserted. “Why didn't you say so?”

Joe made a face. “I thought I did.”

“You did not. You mentioned that he wasn't in very good health, but not that he was blind. What,” Judith pressed, as relentless as Joe himself inside the interrogation box, “did you mean by that?”

“By what?” Joe ruffled his thinning red hair. “How do you feel about a combover?”

“Repulsed. Come on, Joseph, tell me about Harley's health.”

Joe sighed. “The ME said the guy suffered from some form of malnutrition. I gather that's not uncommon among radio personalities. They don't eat right, they chug down uppers and downers, they generally abuse themselves. Their idea of two major food groups are coffee and cigarettes. Worse, in many cases. Did you meet Esperanza Highcastle?”

Judith started to balk at the change of subject, then decided not to further aggravate her husband. “No, not exactly,” she answered, recalling the collision with the station owner. “We talked only to Darrell Mims. I suppose you know all about Esperanza's marital breakup with TNT Tenino.”

“Woody and I'll question them tomorrow,” Joe said, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. “We'll zero in on Chuck Rawls Jr. and the rest of the crew, too. We tried to see Tara Novotny again, but she was unreachable. Or so that hoity-toity dress designer told us.”

“Artemis Bohl?” Judith's anger began to fade, replaced by apprehension. The designer's name evoked more than curiosity; Judith still hadn't heard any word of her missing dress.

“Right,” Joe replied as Judith fidgeted by the stove. “What a pain in the butt. He acted as if Woody and I were vermin.”

“You went to his studio?” Judith asked in an unusually meek voice.

Joe cast his eyes to furthest reaches of the kitchen's high ceiling. “You bet. What a place! All white and steel chrome and those damned floating draperies—but you've seen it. Didn't you go there when Kristin was picking out her wedding dress?”