Wed and Buried (14 page)

Judith was at the elevators, willing one of the two cars to hurry. Noiselessly, one set of gilded doors slid open. No one was inside. Judith swore under her breath. Tara must have taken the other elevator.

The lobby was empty, as Judith had feared. There was
no indicator to show at which floors the cars stopped. The elevators opened directly into each condo unit. Feeling forlorn, Judith spotted the mailboxes, two rows of five, set into the wall above a brocade-covered bench.

The only name she recognized was that of Bascombe de Tourville in Unit Ten. Mentally, she crossed off the retired military man and the two interior decorators. That left six other possibilities, not counting de Tourville.

Arlene came out of the elevator, wearing a frown. “Really, Judith, I can't think why you tore off in such a hurry! You hadn't seen the storage space.”

Judith started to explain, then thought better of it. Arlene would ask a million questions, which Judith didn't feel like answering. Instead, Judith asked one of her own:

“Do you know if any of these residents have a connection with the fashion or apparel business?” She waved a hand at the mailboxes.

Dutifully, Arlene scanned the names. Judith's long-time friend and neighbor's knowledge of Heraldsgate Hill was legendary. Arlene's grapevine was so all-encompassing and her manner of dispensing information so efficient that Judith referred to this carefully cultivated network as the ABS—or Arlene's Broadcasting System.

“The Blumes on four are both lawyers, Devlin and Keel on two have something to do with computers and may or may not be married, here's General and Mrs. Bid-well, the interior designers—oh, I didn't realize it was Kain with a K—and this Witherspoon on nine is a retired broker who supposedly was a bookie on the side.” Arlene grimaced. “I'm sorry, I don't know the other three. They may have moved here from somewhere else.”

“You left out de Tourville,” Judith noted. “I still don't understand. Did you say you knew how he made his money?”

Arlene ran an agitated hand through her red-gold curls. “Did I? Did I say—well. I'm not sure. Oh!” Her blue
eyes lighted up. “He travels! That was it!”

Judith was growing impatient. “That's not a career, it's an avocation. What do you mean?”

“He's gone a lot,” Arlene replied breezily. “Or so I hear. Does it matter as long as he keeps up the payments?”

“I guess not.” Judith went over to the phone which was installed in an alcove near the door. “I have to call Joe.”

Arlene looked at her watch. “Couldn't you do that at home? I really should run. I need to get the condo key back to Cathy before they close the real estate office. It's going on five now.”

Judith hesitated. “Okay, go ahead. I'll walk. It's downhill.”

Arlene's protests were feeble. A minute later, she was on her way, while Judith dialed Joe's number at work.

“I've found Tara,” she said excitedly into the phone.

“There's no Ivan Taro here,” the harsh voice said at the other end, and slammed down the receiver.

Judith made a face, then dialed Joe's number again. The same man answered. Judith asked if Joe was in. He wasn't. Judith decided to wait for Tara, and took up her watch on the brocade-covered bench. It was a quarter to five; she could spend a half-hour at Belgravia Gardens without detriment to her guests or the dinner hour. With any luck, Joe might get home early. She'd try to call him at Hillside Manor before she left the condos.

For the next thirty minutes, the only person Judith saw in the lobby was an older woman with a Dandie Dinmont on a leash. At five-twenty, Judith dialed her own number. The standard recording reached her ear. Apparently, Joe wasn't home yet. Torn between her household duties and abandoning her post in the lobby, Judith fretted. On a whim, she picked up the private condo line and dialed Unit Ten.

A man with a smooth, faintly accented voice answered.
Judith asked if Tara was available. The man hesitated, then said that there was no Tara at that number.

“Is this Mr. de Tourville?” Judith inquired.

“Yes,” the man responded with what Judith thought was a trace of wariness. “Who is this, please?”

“This is Mrs. Flynn,” Judith said in her friendliest manner. “I'm trying to reach my cleaning woman, Mrs. Rackley. I believe she also works for you. She accidentally left my house the other day with my address book. Is she there now by any chance?”

“No,” de Tourville replied, no longer wary but aloof. “She comes but once a week, on Thursday.”

“Oh!” Judith tried to sound both excited and pitiable. “She was there yesterday! I'm sure she must have left the address book then. That's when I missed it. Would you mind if I came up?”

“Yes,” de Tourville answered. “I'm quite busy. Nor have I seen this lost address book. Tell me this—if you believed that the cleaning woman left this item, why did you ask for a person named Tara?”

“Tara?” Judith was flummoxed. “Well…Ah, did I say
Tara
? That was the name of my previous cleaning woman, Tara…” Judith glanced at her surroundings for inspiration. “Tara Brocade. Goodness, my mind must have been playing tricks on me!”

“It was playing tricks, yes,” de Tourville remarked dryly. “If, by some remote chance, this address book turns up, I shall have a messenger deliver it. Where do you live? And how did you get into the condominium lobby?”

Nervously, Judith glanced around, trying to find the security camera. Now subdued, she recited her address. “I came with a realtor,” Judith said, telling yet another lie. “My husband and I may buy the vacant condo on the sixth floor.”

There was a slight pause on the other end. Judith figured that Bascombe de Tourville was trying to decide
whether or not Judith was telling the truth—or if she was just plain wacko. “I see,” he finally said. “Good luck to you. And goodbye.” He clicked off.

Aware that she was probably still being observed on the security monitor, Judith forced herself to exit Belgravia Gardens at a leisurely pace. But as soon as she got out of range on the sidewalk, she half-ran to the corner, slowing only when she started the steep downhill descent. Turning onto her own street and then into the cul-de-sac, she saw no sign of Joe's MG. When she reached the kitchen, she tried to call him again at work. This time she was told that he had just left. Judith gritted her teeth in annoyance and faced the stove.

She was tossing a green salad when the front doorbell rang. Assuming it was some of her B&B guests, Judith put on her brightest smile. It dimmed when she recognized Esperanza Highcastle, dressed in an Argentinean gaucho costume.

“Where's my husband?” Esperanza demanded in an autocratic tone, barging into the entry hall.

Taken aback, Judith stammered, “You mean T-T-TNT?”

“I mean my husband,” Esperanza repeated, scrutinizing the Victorian hat rack, the maple stand with the B&B guest book, the staircase, the door that led to the downstairs bathroom. “I know he's here. He called from this number this morning.”

“He's gone,” Judith replied, recovering her aplomb. “He left fairly early. I haven't seen him since yesterday.”

Esperanza prowled the hallway, frowning under the brim of her hat. Black trousers billowed over black boots, and a brightly striped poncho swung from her shoulders. Judith guessed that the wide silver belt that flashed at her visitor's waist was made of real coins.

“Do you mean you don't know where he is now?” Esperanza wheeled on Judith. In her high-heeled boots, she stood close to six feet, a strapping, handsome woman
with hard gray eyes and prematurely gray hair.

“No, I don't know where he is,” Judith said firmly. “He spent the night and left, as I told you.”

“A bed and breakfast,” Esperanza said, not looking at Judith, but shaking her head. “He refused to stay in B&Bs while we were together. Too ‘femmy,' he called them. Why here? Why now?” She spoke as if Judith weren't present.

Judith kept quiet. Esperanza continued to roam around the entry hall, then went into the living room. “Books. A piano. A jigsaw puzzle. A bay window with floral cushions. All the things that Tino hates. Who would have thought it?”

The doorbell rang again. This time it was two of Judith's expected guests, a middle-aged couple from Oregon. Judith murmured her excuses to an unresponsive Esperanza and went through the ritual of welcome. Ten minutes later, after the Oregonians had been shown to their room, Judith rejoined Esperanza in the living room.

“Would you care for some punch?” Judith asked, indicating the glasses and bowl on the gate-leg table. “I'm serving hors d'oeuvres in ten minutes.”

“What?” Esperanza looked up sharply from the book cases she'd been inspecting. “Oh—no, certainly not. I must go.” She sailed past Judith, heading for the entry hall.

Seeing the guest book, Esperanza waved a gloved hand. “He didn't sign in. How like him! How were you paid? His credit cards have been canceled and he has no money.”

“Actually, he—” Judith began, but her visitor interrupted.

“Never mind.” Esperanza opened the front door with a sweeping gesture. She snapped her fingers, the effect almost lost because of the kidskin gloves. “The Belmont! Maybe he's there!”

With a flash of silver coins and a click of high-heeled leather boots, Esperanza was gone.

J
UDITH HAD CHASED
after Esperanza, but the other woman refused to turn around and had driven off in a sleek pearl-colored Lexus. Standing at the edge of the cul-de-sac, Judith was still panting a bit when Joe pulled into the driveway.

“Esperanza Highcastle was here looking for TNT and she says he's gone to the Belmont and I saw Tara Novotny come into Belgravia Gardens where I think she's staying with Bascombe de Tourville.” The words tumbled out so fast that Joe drew back and put up his hands.

“Jude-girl! Is this a riddle? What's a Bascombe Etc.? How many times do I have to tell you to let me get inside the house and unwind before you hit me with a bunch of crazy stuff?” Shaking his head, he turned towards the back porch just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

“It's not crazy,” Judith called after her husband. “Don't you want to find Tara?”

“At six o'clock after a long, hard day?” Joe was now inside the house with Judith on his heels. He got as far as the shelf that held the liquor before he spoke again. “Damn. Yes, I do.” Carefully, he closed the cupboard door. “Okay. Where is she?”

“At Belgravia Gardens. At least she was there less than an hour ago.” Judith tried to look apologetic. “I went there with Arlene to see the vacant condo, and by chance, I…”

Joe put a finger against Judith's lips. “I'm going.”

“Can I come?” Judith tried not to sound too eager.

“No.” Joe was emphatic. “What about your guests?”

“Oh!” Judith winced. “I forgot. The hors d'oeuvres.”

During the next twenty minutes, Judith served her guests their appetizers and delivered Gertrude's dinner. Gertrude declared that green salad and tacos weren't dinner, but animal fodder. What next, Judith's mother demanded? Frozen borscht on a stick? Judith tried to be patient, then made an obligatory pass by the hedge, but saw no sign of Uncle Gurd. Maybe Arlene was feeding him. Over the weekend, a solution would have to be found for the unwelcome guest.

When Joe returned just before six-thirty, Judith had poured him a Scotch on the rocks. Joe needed it. He hadn't made contact with Bascombe de Tourville nor had he found Tara Novotny.

“So who's this Bascombe guy?” Joe asked, hanging his holster on the back of the kitchen chair. “I never heard of him.”

Judith made herself a small drink while she explained the connection with Phyliss and the tour by Arlene. “It was pure chance. Arlene says de Tourville travels a lot. Maybe he's involved with the fashion industry.”

Joe looked thoughtful. “That might make sense. Now Tara's holed up with this guy instead of living in her own place up by the hospitals. Maybe they're lovers, maybe they're in business, maybe…who knows? I've contacted the squad, and they'll stake out the condos.”

“So you are interested in Tara as a witness,” Judith remarked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

Joe grimaced. “It could be that she was the last person to see Harley alive—besides the murderer.”

Judith kept her expression impassive. It wouldn't do to let Joe know that she felt a sense of victory. Her husband appeared to be acknowledging that she had actually seen Harley and Tara on the roof of the Belmont.

“At least she hasn't left town,” Judith said encouragingly. She waited a few moments while Joe sipped his drink. “Let me tell you what Esperanza said about where she thought TNT had gone.”

Joe held his head as Judith recited the part about the possibility that the ex-boxer had gone to the Belmont. “Why?” Joe moaned. “Why the Belmont?”

“There must be something…that was overlooked,” Judith gulped, not wanting to suggest that her husband and his partner had been derelict in their duty. “It seems that the hotel is a magnet.”

“The hotel is history, as of Monday,” Joe sighed. “We gave the go-ahead for them to use the wrecking ball. Damn!”

“Can't you rescind it?” Judith asked quietly.

“I suppose.” Joe drummed his nails on the table. “The last thing the city needs is a lawsuit because we held up a big bucks construction project.”

“You have tomorrow and Sunday,” Judith pointed out.

“Great. There goes the weekend.” Joe took a big swallow of Scotch.

“We had no plans.” Judith smiled thinly. “It's raining.”

“It's raining all over my investigation.” Wearily, Joe stood up. “I'll call Woody.
He
planned to take Sondra and the kids to the zoo.”

“The zoo's not much fun in the rain,” Judith said with what she hoped was a note of consolation.

Joe was at the phone. “This case is a zoo.”

Judith kept mum, arranging the taco condiments in small bowls. Even if she had tried, she couldn't help but overhear her husband's half of the telephone conversation.

“I'll check out de Tourville…You finish up with the
banks? What? I'll be damned…How much? I wonder…Yeah, I went through his apartment again this afternoon…Nothing of interest in today's mail…No, definitely no dog. That Mims kid said Harley refused to use a seeing-eye dog…No, nothing. So much nothing that it makes me suspicious…Okay, see you tomorrow around nine. Yeah, tell Sondra I'm sorry, too.”

“Banks?” Judith said innocently. “Harley's banks?”

“Two of them.” With a slight groan, Joe sat down at the kitchen table and rescued his Scotch. “Both accounts were cleaned out Thursday. That's odd in and of itself, but what's really strange is that Harley had only a total of four grand in the two accounts.” Joe seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Judith.

“That's not odd by
my
standards,” Judith noted. “We don't have four grand in the bank right now, not after paying the June income tax quarterly.”

Joe's response was to bury his nose in the evening paper. Judith served dinner, and refrained from discussing the case until the end of the meal.

“Were you planning to go on the stakeout at Belgravia Gardens this evening?” she asked in the same tone of voice she would have used to inquire if her husband intended to watch TV.

“No.” Joe handed his empty plate to Judith. “We can ID Tara, but not this de Tourville. You haven't seen him, I take it?”

Judith admitted that she had not. “But,” she added hopefully, “Phyliss has. Shall I call her and get a description?”

Reluctantly, Joe admitted it was probably a good idea. Phyliss, however, proved a dubious witness:

“He's kind of tall, but not as tall as my cousin, Klepto. He's not really fat, in fact, he's sort of skinny, except on top. His hair is dark—well, not dark, maybe, so much as gray streaks. I didn't notice his eyes. He wore sunglasses.”

Judith rubbed at her temple. “In other words…” If there were other words, they failed her. “There's nothing unusual about him? Nothing…noticeable?”

“He's spiffy,” Phyliss replied. “I mean, I
guess
he's spiffy. I'm not one for these big, baggy suits. But he wears a tie, one of them big wide kinds with all the flowers. Oh, he has a mustache and a funny little beard.”

“A goatee?” Judith suggested.

“That's it. I think.”

Judith relayed the scanty information to Joe, who winced. “I'll pass it along to the stakeout crew. The goatee helps, if it is a goatee.”

Twenty minutes later, Judith had finished clearing away the dinner things as well as the remnants of her guests' appetizer hour. Joe, who again had been in contact with the officers at Belgravia Gardens, remained at the kitchen table reading the paper.

Judith put an affectionate hand on her husband's shoulder. “Let's go for a walk. I could use some fresh air.”

Joe twisted around to regard his wife with suspicion. “We never go for a walk. There're too many hills in this neighborhood.”

“That's why it'd be fun.” Judith gave Joe's shoulder a little squeeze. “Not the hilly part, but just looking around our own neighborhood and…”

“We're not going to Belgravia Gardens.” Joe resumed reading the paper.

Judith put both hands on Joe's shoulders. “Uncle Gurd is missing. We should look for him.”

“He's not our responsibility.” Joe didn't move.

Judith gently massaged Joe's neck and shoulders. “We could take Sweetums for a run. He needs the exercise.”

“Sweetums is a cat. He prowls all over the place.” Joe sighed and put the paper down. “I'm going to watch the baseball game. I'm tired and I have to work tomorrow. Lay off, Jude-Girl.”

During the top of the second inning, Judith quietly ex
ited the cozy family retreat on the third floor, descended the backstairs, and went outside. The rain was soft yet steady, typical Pacific Northwest weather that made “damp” not merely a description, but an element. Judith, as a typical native, didn't bother with a jacket or an umbrella. It was warm, perhaps in the high sixties, and she wouldn't really get wet. Thus, she stood on the small patio, gazing up at the face of Heraldsgate Hill and Belgravia Gardens.

There were no lights in the penthouse, but at seven-thirty in late June, the sun wouldn't set for another two hours. Judith was about to head down the drive when her mother appeared in the doorway of the converted toolshed.

“Where's my ice cream?” Gertrude demanded.

“Oh!” Judith put a hand to her mouth. “We're out. I forgot to get more at the store.” She had given the last of the blackberry ribbon to her mother the previous evening.

“
What
?” Gertrude shrieked. “
No ice cream?
First I get grass clippings and a bunch of junk piled in a big cracker, and now there's
no ice cream
? Why don't you just put me in a home and throw away the key?”

“I'll drive up to Falstaff's right now,” Judith promised. “What kind would you like?”

“Tutti-frutti,” Gertrude answered promptly, her outrage evaporating. “Sometimes it makes me more tutti than frutti, but what the hey? Say,” she said, her small eyes narrowing, “you didn't feed my ice cream to that goofy old coot in the hedge, did you?”

“Ahhh…” Judith could tell all sorts of fibs to other people, her husband included, but she often stalled when confronted by her mother. “There wasn't much left yesterday. I saved the blackberry ribbon for you.”

“Hunh.” Gertrude tapped a carpet-slippered foot. “You better get that nut case out of here. I saw him run
ning around in his underwear the other day, and it wasn't a pretty sight, I can tell you.”

“I'd like to get rid of him,” Judith admitted. “Have you seen him this afternoon?”

Gertrude shook her head. “Not since yesterday. In fact, I could sit here in this piano crate of an apartment all day and never see anybody, now that Vivian's out of town.”

Judith always marveled at the friendship that had developed between her mother and Joe's ex-wife. Perhaps it was perversity on Gertrude's part, perhaps it was genuine affection—either way, Herself provided occasional companionship for the older woman, and Judith was grudgingly grateful.

“She's in Florida,” Judith said absently, scanning the hedge anew for any sign of Uncle Gurd. “I don't think she'll be gone too long.”

“Florida!” harumphed Gertrude. “Why would she go there with all the alligators and crocodiles and dope smugglers? I know, I watch TV.”

“It's something to do with her condo,” Judith responded, starting for the garage. “I'll be back in a few minutes. Is there anything else you need at the store?”

“Can you buy me a new gizzard? Or some good legs or better ears or eyes that can see farther than my bazooms?” Gertrude gave a sad shake of her head. “Never mind, kiddo. Ice cream and maybe some of those chocolate-covered peanuts. I'm not fussing over
my
figure. Who'd want to look like that bean pole who was here this morning?”

Pivoting on her heel, Judith stared at her mother. “What bean pole?”

Gertrude shrugged the hunched shoulders that were covered by a blue and orange cardigan. “One of your guests, who else? She and that knothead who was sleeping in your car took off at the crack of dawn. Didn't you see 'em leave?”

“No,” Judith said in wonder as she took a quick mental
inventory of the visitors who had stayed at Hillside Manor Thursday night. None of the women could be described as a bean pole. “I must have been upstairs on the second floor. Did this woman have short black hair?”

“What?” Gertrude had turned vague. “What woman?”

“The bean pole.” Judith exuded patience. “The woman who left with Mr. Tenino.”

“Mr. Tenino?” Gertrude looked genuinely puzzled. “Is he the weirdo who runs around in his imagination?”

“No,” Judith said, hanging onto her now-ebbing patience. “That's Uncle Gurd. Mr. Tenino is the man who was resting in my car. Now tell me about the bean pole.”

“What bean pole?” Gertrude scowled at her daughter. “I don't know siccum about any bean poles. Where's my ice cream?”

Judith emitted a big sigh. “Okay, I'm off to the store.” Maybe Gertrude would remember more by the time Judith got back.

After pulling onto the main thoroughfare, Judith took a short detour past Belgravia Gardens. To the right of the main entrance, she saw the grillwork of the basement garage. Across the street and almost at the corner, she noticed a man and a woman in an unmarked city car. After going around the next block, she again drove slowly by the elegant condos. As far as she could tell, there were only two ways to get out of the building, through the main entrance or from the basement garage. Tara Novotny and Bascombe de Tourville couldn't possibly come or go without being seen by the stakeout duo. Judith felt reassured, but she couldn't resist pulling into a loading zone across from Belgravia Gardens.

Through the rain that spattered the windshield, she peered upwards to the condos' top floor. All seemed quiet. Had Tara and de Tourville left during the hour interval after she had gone home and before the plainclothes officers had arrived? It was possible, of course. Or perhaps
they weren't answering either the phone or the intercom.