Wed and Buried (17 page)

Folding back the bedclothes, Judith smiled to herself.
It sounded as if Joe was beginning to take her theory seriously. On Saturday night, she had carefully backed off from discussing the case, not even bringing up the cigars on the Belmont roof. Joe had been tired and out of sorts by the time he got home. But tonight, with the search apparently concluded, he was in a much better mood, and had willingly talked about the two-day canvass of the Belmont.

“A love nest,” Judith suggested as she slipped between the sheets. “Esperanza and her latest conquest. TNT and whoever. Harley and Tara?”

But Joe, who was putting on his pajama bottoms, chuckled and shook his head. “I've seen plenty of so-called love nests,” he asserted. “This wasn't one of them. I'd say this was strictly business. Or politics.”

“Politics?” Judith was startled.

“Sure. Some secret organization.” Joe came around to his side of the bed. It was still drizzling, and the soft splatter could be heard through the partially open window. “Far left, far right, religious cranks, a cult, whatever. There are a lot of wackos out there, Jude-Girl.”

Judith turned off the bedside lamp. “I suppose. Like the Rundberg relations, and their survivalist mentality.”

“Like that,” Joe agreed, gathering Judith in his arms. “But no love nest. Not like this.” He kissed her temple.

“You don't seem too disappointed in not finding out what went on at the hotel,” Judith noted, snuggling closer.

“It'll come together,” Joe replied carelessly as his hands began their magic exploration. “We need to start questioning possible suspects all over again, with this new line of inquiry.”

Judith gently bit Joe's earlobe. “Good. I was afraid you'd be upset because you came away empty-handed.”

Joe buried his face in Judith's hair. “I didn't quite,” he said in a muffled voice. “I found a Cuban cigar.”

Judith stiffened in her husband's arms. Then she re
laxed. The cigar could wait. There was a time and a place for everything. The room grew quiet, except for the patter of gentle rain and the sighs of marital bliss.

 

Back in May, Renie had volunteered to host the family Fourth of July celebration. Judith had known then that not only would she be worn out from the wedding preparations and festivities, but the honeymooners were due home on the day itself. It would be a zoo at the airport, the flight would be late, and Judith didn't need the added aggravation of putting on a picnic.

“So,” Renie said as she and Judith pushed their huge carts in tandem through the wide aisles of the local BulkBusters warehouse, “you'll have Mike and Kristin staying with you for a couple of days, huh?”

“Til Friday,” Judith replied, distracted by a vast display of dill pickles in two-gallon jars. “Then they'll head for the Rundbergs, and stay overnight. After that, they'll go on to Idaho, and Mike'll return to work. Kristin's new posting isn't expected to come through until late July.”

While Mike had worked in the Idaho Panhandle's Nez Perce National Park, Kristin had served as a ranger at Craters of the Moon National Monument two hundred miles away in the southern part of the state. But upon her marriage, Kristin had asked for a transfer. There was no assurance that she, too, would receive an assignment at the Nez Perce site. Still, the newlyweds were young and optimistic.

Renie paused at a relish display, then put a half-gallon jug in her cart. “Mike and Kristin won't be here long. You won't have much time to talk to him,” she said in a musing tone. “Assuming you plan to.”

“Yes, well I…” Judith interrupted herself to pick up a quart of mustard. “Maybe I can make the time. That is, if…um…” She gathered a gallon of ketchup to her bosom. “We'll see.”

The cousins turned the corner, gazing up into the rafters
at the tall shelves ladened with huge cartons and packing crates. “You're not going to tell Mike,” Renie stated flatly. “Chicken, cluck, cluck.”

Judith turned to glare at Renie. “I didn't say that. But it's hard. Real hard. How do you tell your son, who has always believed he knew who his father was, that he'd been wrong? How do you admit that you made a mistake—if a well-intentioned one, given the fact that Joe and I were engaged at the time? How do you say, ‘Hey, Mike, meet Dad. He isn't dead after all, he's been here all along. Ha-ha.'”

Small worry lines crimped Renie's forehead. “Yeah, right, it's tough. And for all his faults, Dan was a good father. Or so you've said. The rest of the family never saw much of the interaction, because Dan wouldn't come near us except for major events like funerals and food fights.”

“I know.” Judith spoke quietly, her shadowy gaze traveling down the row of gigantic cereal boxes. “Crazy as it sounds, I get kind of nostalgic when I come to BulkBusters. Dan really loved it here. Once he bought a ham that was the size of Oregon. We could hardly push it around the store. My, but he was happy that day.”

“I'm sure it stands out,” Renie said with sarcasm. “Dan was happy about four times in the eighteen years you guys were married.”

“Oh, coz…” Judith's voice trailed away, and in what appeared to be a rebellious gesture, she scooped up mammoth boxes of Cheerios, Wheaties, Corn Flakes, and Grape Nuts.

Aware that her cousin was upset, Renie changed topics. “So what about this cigar that Joe found at the Belmont?”

The shadows began to lift from Judith's face as the cousins trundled toward soda pop and juice. “It was Cuban, just like the one Kobe gave him. Of course they're still illegal in this country.”

Renie was struggling with a forty-eight-can case of
Pepsi. “So maybe whoever used the room was smuggling cigars?”

Judith hauled down a four-gallon plastic container of orange juice. “Joe and Woody considered the idea. But Joe says that in recent years, Cuban cigars aren't as great as they used to be. The Jamaicans and at least one other country import much better quality.”

“Good cigars are terribly expensive,” Renie pointed out. “Bill's practically quit smoking them.”

Now in the household section, Judith and Renie stared at the hundred-pound boxes of laundry detergent. Between them, they each managed to load a carton onto the bottom of their carts. However, they gasped for breath as soon as they began to shove off towards wine and beer.

“Just…a…couple…more items,” Judith panted. “Batteries, film.”

“Okay. Kleenex…napkins…toilet paper,” Renie groaned. “They aren't…so…heavy. Oh, and the hot dogs and buns for tomorrow.”

Ten minutes later, the cousins stood in line at the checkout stands. Their purchases were piled so high that neither could see the other. Judith leaned against the cart, still out of breath.

The tab came to two hundred and forty dollars for Renie, and almost three hundred for Judith.

“Good grief!” Judith cried after they reached Renie's Chev. “That's my household budget for the month! I always forget that while I come here to save, I spend a bundle. Drat!”

“But you did save,” Renie pointed out, unloading the twenty-pound pack of hot dogs and the six dozen buns. Hey, look at these hot dogs—they're the Highcastle brand, but underneath the regular label it says ‘Manufactured and distributed by Pork Barrel Meats, Chicago, Illinois.'”

Judith also stared at the label. “You're right. Esperanza must have sold out. I suppose I missed reading about it
in the business section. Let's face it, I usually skip that part of the paper.”

“I don't,” Renie said. “In my business, I have to keep up. Of course,” she went on in a thoughtful voice, “I might have seen the article and not paid attention. It wouldn't have meant anything to me until now.”

“We need to talk to the radio station people again,” Judith murmured after she and Renie had finally finished loading the car. “Let's turn on KRAS. Darrell Mims is making his debut today. He should still be on. It's not yet noon.”

The music that came out of the speakers was mild compared to what Harley Davidson had offered. At the commercial break, Darrell merely announced the time and gave the station identification. A second song, equally tame, played through. Then Darrell spoke again.

“This is Blip Man, the D. J. with a conscience. Teenagers, if you're listening to me, you should be in school, so turn off that dial and get back to class. Dropouts have no future.”

The Beatles sang “Yellow Submarine.” Judith and Renie exchanged curious glances.

“He won't last,” Renie declared.

“I suppose not.” Judith sighed. “Why did they let him go on the air?”

In the vicinity of the downtown ferry docks, Renie braked for a red light. “I don't know. I wonder what's going on with Esperanza. Maybe the real question is, will KRAS last?”

Judith gave Renie a sidelong glance. “As I was saying…We should call on KRAS.”

“Call Kip,” Renie responded. “He'll know something.”

“First-hand information is better.” Judith's jaw had set in a stubborn line.

“Look, just because I'm almost done with that homeless project doesn't mean I don't have work to do,” Renie
argued as they cruised along the waterfront. “I've got to get in touch with Morris Mitchell this afternoon about the photos.”

“We're heading right for KRAS,” Judith pointed out. “We go by their building on the way to Hillside Manor.”

“Then that's what we'll do,” Renie countered. “We'll go right by it.”

“Coz…”

“Damn…”

“Thanks.”

The cousins arrived at KRAS just behind the fire department.

A
T EXACTLY ELEVEN-FIFTY
, a small explosive device had been thrown into the lobby of the Heraldsgate 400 building. Luckily, no one had been injured, though damage was considerable. Passersby had seen four teenagers race away, shouting, “Blip Man sucks!”

The cousins heard the news from Chuck Rawls, who was standing out on the sidewalk, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Damned kids,” he muttered. “Can't they give Mims a chance? He's never been on the air before.”

Near the entrance, the firefighters were debating the necessity of evacuating the building while they waited for the bomb squad. At least two dozen spectators now congregated nearby, some of them in the street where they were blocking traffic. Horns began to honk, and motorists shouted. Judith, Renie, and Rawls moved toward the corner.

“Where were you when it happened?” Judith asked Rawls.

The producer gestured across the street. “At Foozle's. I had an early lunch today.” His gaze didn't quite meet Judith's.

“That bad, huh?” Renie murmured.

Rawls apparently didn't hear her, which was no
wonder, with all the commotion going on around the Heraldsgate 400 building. Police cars were arriving, complete with wailing sirens.

“Did anyone get a good look at the kids who did this?” Judith asked as she waved in the direction of the smoke-filled entrance.

Rawls's high forehead puckered. “I don't know. Somebody said the car was an older model, dark green, maybe a GM make.” He looked back across the street toward Foozle's. “I'd better call Ms. Highcastle from there. Access to the building is cut off for now. Excuse me.”

Renie was sniggering. “So much for questioning the radio people today. I wonder if Darrell Mims is still broadcasting.”

Judith glanced at her watch; it was two minutes before noon. “He's probably winding up his show. At least he's got a hot news flash.”

“Literally.” Renie started for the Chev. “Let's go.”

Judith started to protest, but despite the urging of the firefighters to disperse, the area around the building was getting crowded. With an aura of defeat, Judith followed Renie to the car.

“I'm frustrated,” Judith declared, fastening her seatbelt. “I pride myself on getting people to open up and talk to me. But I can't even meet with Tara or de Tourville, Esperanza was a washout, Chuck Rawls hasn't been much help, and TNT Tenino was drunk.”

“So give it up,” Renie said as the Chev roared up the steep hill that led away from the lower Heraldsgate business district. “I told you that earlier. It isn't worth all the effort and energy you're putting into this case.”

Judith didn't respond. Maybe Renie was right. What was she trying to prove? That she wasn't delusional or drunk or as daffy as her mother? It really wasn't important to show Joe that she had seen a couple in wedding attire on the Belmont roof. And it certainly wasn't necessary to get involved in Joe's investigation.

Renie pulled into the cul-de-sac. “Okay, here you go,” she said, giving Judith a little nudge. “Hey, coz! Wake up! You're zoned out.”

Judith gave a start. “Huh? Oh! Right, we're here. It's stopped raining. I didn't notice that at the bottom of the hill.”

“Maybe it'll clear up for the Fourth,” Renie said. “I don't want to cram all the relatives and friends of relatives inside the house.”

“I don't blame you.” Judith opened the passenger door, then turned back to Renie. “You're right. I've been very foolish. Harley's death has nothing to do with me. I'd never even heard of him until a week or so ago. It's just that…well, I guess it's the proximity of Tara and de Tourville and the fact that Kip works for the radio stations and that I actually saw Harley and Tara on the hotel roof and that…”

“Which way are you arguing?” Renie demanded with a wry expression.

Judith bit her lip. “I don't know. Against, I think.”

“I hope so. Go inside. Have lunch. Forget it.” Renie gave Judith another nudge.

“I will.” Judith got out of the car, took five minutes to unload the trunk, then returned to wave her cousin off. Halfway up the drive, she saw Phyliss Rackley coming around the corner from the back porch.

“All done,” Phyliss announced. “And a good thing—my sciatica's giving me fits. It's this unseasonable damp weather. If the pain keeps up, I may not be able to come tomorrow.”

“You weren't coming anyway,” Judith pointed out. “It's a holiday.”

Phyliss's pale blue eyes widened. “Oh. That's so. Well, then maybe I can't make it Wednesday. Though I'd hate to put you out. I wouldn't mind standing up that snooty Mrs. Rumplemeyer over on the bluff, though. I'll have to
pray for a cure by Thursday. It's too soon to miss a session with that de Tooleyville fella.”

On impulse, Judith put a hand on Phyliss's shoulder. “Do you have a key to the condo?”

Phyliss's eyes now narrowed. “Yep, I sure do. Why do you want to know?”

Torn between candor and deception, Judith walked the fence. “He's a witness in Joe's current case. Access to the condo would be very helpful. It would save the trouble of getting a search warrant.” Wincing, Judith avoided Phyliss's curious gaze, and hoped that the cleaning woman was ignorant of police procedure. When it came to Bascombe de Tourville, Joe had no probable cause to ask for a search warrant.

“I don't know,” Phyliss said slowly. “It's not something I ever do, handing out keys like peppermint sticks. How soon would I get it back?”

“Tomorrow,” Judith replied quickly. “I mean Wednesday. If you feel like coming to work.”

Phyliss considered. “A witness, huh? To what?”

“Ah…to contraband.” It seemed safer than murder. “Smuggling of illegal goods.”

“Hmmm.” Phyliss's gaze darted along the driveway and through the flower beds, as if she expected to see drugs, guns, and any manner of illicit items spring up around Hillside Manor. “Sinful stuff, huh? Dirty pictures, maybe?” Phyliss seemed hopeful, but Judith shook her head. “Okay,” Phyliss agreed, “I won't stand in the way of righteousness.” Digging into her faux leather purse, she removed not a key but a slim plastic card. “Here you go. But don't let Mr. Flynn tell where he got it.”

“I won't, Phyliss,” Judith promised with a straight face. “It's as safe a secret as if Joe never knew.”

Half an hour later, Judith was on the phone to Renie, begging her to join the search of de Tourville's condo. Renie refused. She was busy and Judith was nuts. What if de Tourville was there?

“He can't be.” Judith said. “The place is still under surveillance.”

“Are you sure?” Renie countered.

“Well, no. I mean, I haven't checked today,” Judith admitted.

“So how do you know the place is empty?” Renie asked in a vexed voice. “It's not as if this de Tourville is a homicide suspect. It costs money to maintain a stakeout.”

“He may not be, but Tara is directly involved,” Judith reasoned. “She's the one Joe and Woody want to question.”

“And all they have is your word for it that she was ever there.” Renie sounded skeptical.

“Well, she was,” Judith said in annoyance. Then she reshuffled her options. “Never mind, go back to work.”

“Thanks, I will,” said Renie and hung up.

Ten minutes later, Judith was at Belgravia Gardens. She couldn't spot the stakeout car and wondered if the officers had been pulled from duty. It was possible, of course, that the personnel had been changed, and so had their mode of operations. They might be in the phone company or city utility trucks that were parked along the street. They could even be in a vacant apartment in the big old handsome brick building across from the elegant condos.

The plastic card let Judith into the building without a hitch. The elevator glided up to the top floor, and again the card-key provided easy access. Judith stepped into the condo's entry hall and came face-to-face with Bascombe de Tourville.

Judith let out a small shriek. “Mr. de Bascombe!” she cried. “I mean, Mr. de Tourville! I didn't expect you to be at home.”

“I am,” de Tourville replied smoothly, though one dark eyebrow was slightly raised. “Please—tell me who you are or I shall have to call the police.”

“The police?” Judith's eyes grew large. The police were probably within shouting distance. In which case, why hadn't they spotted de Tourville? Judith's brain
moved at a frenetic pace. “No, you don't need to do that. I'm…the cleaning woman.”

“No, you are not,” de Tourville replied calmly. He vaguely resembled Phyliss's description, with a graying mustache, a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, and a thick head of hair. “The cleaning woman is older, uglier, and comes on Thursday. This is Monday.” He turned to pick up the gold- and ivory-encased telephone.

“She's sick,” Judith said hurriedly. “Mrs. Rackley is very ill, and may have to have an operation. She's in the hospital. That's why she can't come Thursday, and I only had this afternoon available. I'm booked.”
I'm cooked
, Judith thought, watching de Tourville's narrowed gray eyes to see if he believed her.

“You are somehow familiar. Your name?” he inquired, now arching the other eyebrow.

“Mrs…McMonigle,” Judith fibbed. “Do you mind if I get started? I really am pressed for time. Of course if it's not convenient, I can come back later…”

De Tourville brushed a long finger against his mustache. He was tall, well over six feet, and trim of build. Judith figured him to be in his forties, and he would have been handsome if there wasn't something sinister in his manner.

“No, I think not today,” he finally said in his faintly accented voice. “I have been away since Friday, returning only this morning. My home is in good order. The cleaning may wait until next Monday. I shall not be entertaining for awhile.”

Judith's gaze took in the living room with its elaborate Louis XV decor. One wall was mirrored, making the space look vast, endless—and almost overwhelming. Marble, pillars, draperies, and decorated paneling set off reproductions of chairs, tables, couches, cabinets, and a huge armoire. Or, Judith thought fleetingly, maybe the furniture was original. Certainly the sense of wealth and luxury was real.

“Then I guess I'll be running along,” Judith said in a meek voice. She turned towards the elevators, but suddenly snapped her fingers. “Oh! Do you mind? Mrs. Rackley mentioned an address book she may have left here. It belongs to one of her other clients, a Mrs. Flynn.”

“I have no such address book,” de Tourville replied flatly. “There has already been an inquiry, by Mrs….”

“Oh, well!” Judith didn't want de Tourville conjuring up her voice on the phone. “Mrs. Rackley must not have known. She was partially sedated when I last spoke with her. I'll be going now.”

At the elevator, Judith pressed the button. Her back was turned to de Tourville, who made no sound as she waited. Had he remembered what was familiar about her? Did he believe her flimsy story? Would he let her out of the condo without mishap? Judith felt her nerves grow taut as she listened for the hum of the elevator cables.

But the car arrived and the doors slid open. Judith was inside and poking the button for the main floor when Tara Novotny raced into the living room.

“Stop! My taxi must be here by now! Wait!” She ran past de Tourville as if he were part of the decor.

Fumbling around the control panel, Judith found the “open door” button just in time. Tara, who was carrying a small suitcase, rushed inside and leaned against the elegant gilded paneling.

“Thank you! I'm so hurried today. Everything goes bing-bang, zip-zap. Now I must catch an airplane. Life is very hard.”

The supermodel seemed unfazed to find a stranger in the elevator. Perhaps her calling in life caused her to be self-absorbed, Judith thought, to show interest only in a mirror's reflection or the camera's eye. For the first time, Judith had a chance to observe Tara Novotny up close: nearing thirty with dark brown hair, green eyes that matched the emeralds in her ears, and a classic profile. She was tall, maybe six feet, and too thin, but beautiful.
The brown silk pantsuit was perfectly cut, the low-heeled alligator shoes looked new, and the matching purse was slung over one slim shoulder. Tara reached into the bag and removed a pair of huge sunglasses.

“You're going away?” Judith asked as they reached the main floor.

Tara nodded. “Here, there, everywhere.” Like de Tourville, she also had a slight accent. “Yesterday, New York. Today, San Francisco. It is a hard life, this super-modeling.”

Judith wondered if Tara assumed that everyone would know who she was and what she did. Or perhaps it was merely a passing comment. The classic profile was thrust upwards, as if Tara could read her itinerary on the elevator ceiling.

“Where do you stay in San Francisco?” Judith inquired as they stepped out into the foyer.

“The St. Francis,” Tara replied, as if on cue. Though her movements were graceful, there was something of the automaton in her manner. “Always the St. Francis. So old, so chic, so San Francisco. Taxi!” The supermodel breezed through the double doors towards the waiting Yellow Cab.

“Hold it!” Judith was at Tara's heels, frantically searching for a means to detain her. “You're wanted by the police.”

Tara turned, but because she had now put on the big sunglasses, Judith couldn't read her expression. “Certainly not. I have done nothing wrong, not in my whole life.”

“That's not the point,” Judith countered, trying to scan the street to see if she could pick out a surveillance vehicle. “It's about Harley Davidson. The police want to ask you some questions.”

“They already did.” Tara got into the cab. “Stupid questions, such as ‘Was he my lover?' Bah! I take only the richest, most handsome men as my lovers. Harley Da
vidson was a blind man, a vulgar person,
a disc jockey
!” She slammed the door and the cab took off.