Wed and Buried (18 page)

Feeling a headache coming on, Judith rubbed at her temples. The phone company van had gone, but the city utility vehicle was still parked at the end of the block. Judith marched down the street and yelled at the driver who was eating a sandwich.

“Are you a cop?” she asked.

The driver looked startled, then wary. “Are you a nut?” he responded.

Judith went home.

 

After almost fifty nonproductive hours, the stakeout had been canceled Monday at 6
A
M
. Joe's superiors refused to authorize any more time and money to watch a private citizen who wasn't a suspect in the Davidson homicide investigation.

“What about Tara?” Judith asked after Joe had settled in with a beer and the evening paper.

Joe avoided his wife's gaze. “Tara's not a suspect, only a possible witness. She doesn't live at Belgravia Gardens. It's hearsay that she was ever there. Or so the chief says.”

Judith could imagine Joe's portly superior snorting in derision. “Your
wife
says she saw this Novotny woman? Where? How? Come on, Flynn—gimme a break.” No doubt the chief had burst into uproarious, mocking laughter.

But Judith knew it was pointless to argue with her husband. She had told him about seeing Tara again—by accident, of course—and that the supermodel was heading for San Francisco. The news had mildly perturbed Joe, but he had come home early from work, and was determined to put the case on the backburner until after the holiday. Judith decided she might as well do the same.

Unfortunately for Renie and Bill, the Fourth brought more rain. The twenty-plus guests were forced to remain inside the Jones house, stuffing themselves on hamburg
ers, Highcastle hot dogs, and Gertrude's legendary potato salad. Mike and Kristin had arrived in time for the festivities, though their flight had been predictably late. Both were deeply tanned and seemed very happy.

As Judith had foreseen, there was no time to talk to Mike alone Tuesday night. By the time Judith, Joe, Gertrude, and the newlyweds got home, the fireworks display was beginning out in the harbor. The family and some of the B&B guests gathered at the edge of the cul-de-sac, where they had an almost unobstructed view of the pyrotechnics. To the accompaniment of much oohing and aahing, they joined their neighbors in watching the spectacular show. When it concluded just before eleven, everyone agreed that it was the best ever—except Gertrude, who insisted that she preferred the old days when Uncle Cliff put cherry bombs in Aunt Deb's oven, and Uncle Al shot off Roman candles that set fire to the neighbor's garage.

The rain continued through Wednesday. Mike and Kristin chose their wedding pictures, then headed off to Morris Mitchell's studio. Phyliss showed up for work, though full of bodily complaints. For once, Judith didn't try to interrupt. She was stalling for time, trying to think of a plausible excuse for lying to Bascombe de Tourville about the cleaning woman's condition.

Finally, as Phyliss was about to cart a load of laundry to the basement, Judith blurted out the truth:

“I used that plastic key to get into Mr. de Tourville's condo. He was home, and I had to think up a reason for being there, Phyliss. I told him you were very ill.”

Phyliss blinked. “I was. I am. What was I just telling you?”

“I mean…” Judith began, then thought better of it. If de Tourville questioned Phyliss when she showed up for work on Thursday, the cleaning woman would be only too glad to recite the details of her current ailments. De Tourville would phase out at some point and wish he'd
never asked. “Just don't mention who I am,” Judith finally said. “I was operating sort of undercover…for Joe.”

“Did you find that cummerbund?” Phyllis inquired, hefting the laundry basket.

Judith gave a small start. “What? Oh—the contraband. No. I didn't get a chance to look, since de Tourville was there.”

“I'll look tomorrow.” Phyliss cocked an eye at Judith. “What am I looking for? I should know, I guess, so that I can act in a righteous manner.”

“Don't act,” Judith urged hastily. “But if you see anything unusual, tell me. The truth is, Phyllis, I don't know what we're looking for. It might be…cigars.”

“Cigars!” Phyliss's unruly white eyebrows shot up in horror. “Tobacco! Did you know why Satan is in the Hot Spot? It's because he
smoked
.”

“Really,” Judith said in a mild tone. “No, I didn't know that.” Making appropriate musing noises, she returned to scrubbing the kitchen sink.

By late afternoon, the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to lift. Judith went outside to check the hedge. Uncle Gurd had been gone now for almost five days. Undoubtedly, he had headed back to Idaho or Montana or wherever he lived with the rest of his oddball clan.

But the Austrian canvas military pack in which he carried his possessions was still under the laurel leaves. It contained underwear, a fatigue jacket, socks, and road maps of the western states. The bedroll was still on the ground, as were some of Judith's eating utensils. Perplexed, Judith retrieved the kitchenware and went back into the house.

She caught the phone just before it trunked over to the answering machine. “Guess what!” exclaimed Renie. “Bill and I won a free dinner at the Naples Hotel. Except Bill can't go. Want to come?”

Judith started to say yes, then reconsidered. “Can't you wait until Bill can make it?”

Renie explained that they'd actually been awarded the freebie a month ago, but that she'd forgotten about it until she was cleaning out a drawer. “It expires July fifth, which is today. Bill is attending a lecture by some weirdo psychiatrist from Bulgaria. I refuse to offer a free dinner to any of our kids, because it's for two and they'd fight over it. What do you say?”

Joe was working late to make up for the holiday. Still, Judith had to take care of her guests—and Gertrude. She hemmed and hawed while Renie coaxed and cajoled.

“Since it's the Naples,” Judith finally relented, “I won't beg off. If we didn't go until seven-thirty, maybe Arlene could fill in here at the B&B.”

Arlene could—at first. Then she called back and said she couldn't after all. Judith was about to dial Renie's number when the phone rang again in her hand. Arlene would be glad to help out. Judith asked if she was certain; what about her previous refusal? Had her plans changed?

“What plans?” Arlene asked in a dumbfounded voice. “Why would I have plans?”

As was often the case in dealing with Arlene, Judith's brain felt as if it were on the spin cycle. Then, in a typical gesture of generosity, Arlene invited Gertrude to dinner. “It's always such fun to entertain your mother,” Arlene enthused. “She keeps Carl and me in stitches.”

Mystified as ever by Gertrude's ability to amuse the neighbors, Judith thanked Arlene. Then she called Joe at work to tell him of her plans. He was out, so she left a note on the bulletin board that a baked potato was in the oven, green beans were on the stove, and a T-bone steak was in the fridge.

After preparing the guests' punch and hors d'oeuvres, Judith brought in the evening paper. The previous day's edition had contained a four-inch story on the bombing at the Heraldsgate 400 building. Though Judith carefully
scanned both the front page and the local section, she could find nothing more on the incident. It was the first thing she mentioned to Renie as the cousins set out for the Naples Hotel shortly after seven.

“Sometimes,” Renie responded thoughtfully, “the media bands together to protect their own. The local newspapers might feel that by publicizing the explosion they'd be inviting more of the same, only next time it might be directed at them, instead of a radio or TV station.”

“I'll have to ask Joe about it,” Judith said. “He must have heard something at work. After all, there is a connection with the homicide case. I mean, Harley Davidson worked for the station that was targeted by the bomb.”

In the Naples's circular drive, Judith and Renie were met by Kobe. Renie gave him a jaunty wave, but Judith practically backed him up against the Italian fountain.

“Kobe, you're just the man I want to see,” she said, employing a big, friendly smile. “Have you got a minute?”

Anxiously, Kobe looked at the drive and the street beyond. No other cars were approaching. “I guess. The night after a holiday is usually kind of slow.”

“Okay.” Judith kept smiling. “I'm Detective Flynn's wife, remember? The rehearsal dinner, the body in the Belmont, the cigar?”

Kobe's earnest young face grew puzzled. “I remember most of that, sure. What about the cigar?”

“You gave one to Mr. Flynn the night we were here for dinner,” Judith explained as Renie stood by the entrance, tapping her foot. “You know, when he came down to ask if you'd heard or seen anything odd?”

“Oh!” Kobe grinned and put a hand to his head. “Right, I don't smoke, so I gave it to Mr. Flynn.”

The smile deserted Judith's eyes and tightened on her lips. “Where did you get it?”

Kobe frowned briefly, then wagged a finger toward the sidewalk. “From that guy who panhandles around here
sometimes. Billy Something-or-other. He's not supposed to hang out by the hotel, but he doesn't cause any trouble and I don't hassle him. I guess that's why he gave me the cigar.”

Judith glanced at the empty corner where she had last seen Billy Big Horn. “Where did he get it?”

Kobe shrugged. “Somebody gave it to him, I suppose. You'd be surprised at what people give a panhandler besides money. Of course Billy uses a cigar box for his donations, which may be why he ends up with cigars sometimes. But he doesn't smoke, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings which is why I took the cigar from him.”

“Have you seen Billy lately?” Judith asked.

Kobe shook his head. “Not since that night, now that you mention it, but he isn't a regular fixture. Once a week, maybe.”

Judith grew silent while Renie loudly cleared her throat. “Kobe,” Judith began at last, “do you recall anything—anything at all—unusual about the Friday that we were here for the rehearsal dinner?”

Kobe took the question seriously. “I didn't at the time,” he said slowly, “but since then, when I heard that the body they found in the Belmont was that disc jockey I listen to sometimes, I remembered that he'd come here for lunch that day.”

Judith stared at Kobe. Even Renie took a step forward. “Harley Davidson was
here
?” Judith asked in a breathless voice.

“Right,” Kobe answered. “He comes pretty often. But that day, one of the other valets got sick, so I had to fill in. I got here just before one, Davidson came a few minutes later with some recording types. I've seen them around before, but not with Davidson. They own a studio downtown.”

Judith could barely control her eagerness to encourage more information from Kobe. “Do you know them? What are their names? Which studio?”

Kobe seemed a trifle overwhelmed by Judith's enthusiasm. “I…yes, I've seen them here several times, including with one of the rock groups they have under contract. But I don't know their names. The rock group was Mud Bath, which I think records for the Red Fog label. I've got a couple of their CDs.”

Judith turned to Renie, who appeared sufficiently interested to remain patient. “Do you know them, coz?”

Renie scrunched up her face in the effort of recollection. “They sound vaguely familiar. Yes, I think they're local.”

Judith started to pump Kobe's hand in gratitude, then thought of something else: “How did you recognize Harley Davidson the first time you saw him?”

“He came with some other radio types in a car that had the KRAS logo plastered all over it,” Kobe answered. “Besides, I'd seen his picture around town.” The parking valet's tone accelerated as a sleek white Cadillac pulled into the drive. “Mr. Davidson seemed like a nice guy—he gave Billy Big Horn a twenty that Friday. Excuse me, I've got to get back to work.”

Renie had saved her consternation until dessert. Throughout the meal, she'd let Judith meander through theories, ideas, and conjecture concerning Harley Davidson's demise and the possibility that someone was involved in contraband. When Judith seemed to run down just as the crème brûlée was presented, Renie took over the conversation.

“Okay, you were going to back off the last I heard, and let Joe and Woody do their jobs. Now you're…”

“I wouldn't have gotten involved again if you hadn't offered me a free dinner at…”

“Shut up.” Renie knew Judith was lying. “You haven't been idle these past two days or you wouldn't have gone to de Tourville's condo. And where on earth did this stupid contraband idea come from? A bunch of Cuban cigars?”

“It's not just the cigars,” Judith said in defense of her theory. “It's the Belmont itself. It looks as if it were being used for some sort of rendezvous. The cigars may be just a peripheral item being brought in. I suspect that drugs are the real contraband.”

Renie had paused to taste her crème brûlée, and it had pleased her greatly. “I'm sick of drugs,” she declared. “Why can't it be something more glamorous, like Russian sables or Canadian fisher?”

Judith started to make a flippant retort, but suddenly stopped, one hand poised over her ramekin. “That may be it, coz,” she said excitedly. “Not furs, but clothes. Mr. Artemis has his clothes made on an island in the Caribbean—Santa Teresa del Fiore. He'd received a shipment the day before the fashion show at I. Magnifique. What if parts of that shipment were filled with illegal drugs? Tara often brought the garments into this country and took them straight to her apartment. I remember Deirdre, one of Mr. Artemis's other models, accusing Tara of ripping out hems and seams in some of the latest shipment. What if she did that to get at the drugs?”