Wed and Buried (19 page)

Renie's eyes roved around the dining room's gesso ceiling. “Could be. So who's in on this scam beside Tara and Mr. Artemis?”

“We can't be sure about him, but Tara has to know if she's tearing up designer outfits.” Judith was making notes on her cocktail napkin. “Then there's TNT. Esperanza thought she could find him at the Belmont. Why else would he go there?”

“Because,” Renie offered, “she'd thrown him out and it was a place to flop?”

Judith's sanguine manner faded. “It's possible. But why did he come home with me? He said he had no place to stay. Admittedly, he was drunk. That's all the more reason why—if he associated the Belmont with something else—like smuggling—he wouldn't have thought of it as a home away from home. He was muddled.”

The waiter came to take away their dessert dishes and inquire about after-dinner drinks. Judith chose Galliano on the rocks; Renie opted for Drambuie, straight up. Though there were empty tables on this Wednesday night, the hotel dining room's simulated English hunting lodge hummed with the sound of contented customers. Judith consulted her cocktail napkin.

“I doubt if anyone at the radio station was in on this,” she said. “I see it emanating from de Tourville, Tara, TNT, and maybe Mr. Artemis.”

“What about Harley?” Renie asked, placing her free coupon next to her water glass.

“You said it.” Judith gave Renie a knowing look. “Remember, just before I…ran afoul of Clarence? Harley was killed to keep him quiet. He must have found out about the smuggling ring that night at the Belmont. It was dangerous knowledge, and the gang couldn't afford to let him live.”

A slight nod, the parting of lips, and then a peal of laughter erupted from Renie. “How, coz?”

Judith frowned. “What do you mean, how? If Tara had brought the drugs with her that night she'd have to take them out and put them…” A horrified expression crossed Judith's face. “Oh! I see what you mean!”

Renie nodded sagely. “Of course you do. You see that Harley couldn't see. Return to go, coz. Excuse the pun, but I just blindsided your theory.”

J
UDITH WASN'T WILLING
to quite let go of the premise she'd built out of a Caribbean workshop, Cuban cigars, and a dead disc jockey. “He may have heard something,” she argued as the cousins waited for Kobe to fetch their car. “If Tara didn't kill him, somebody else was there. They talked. Harley listened. And that's why he's dead.”

“Uh-huh.” Renie yawned. “So why don't you let Joe figure it out?”

Judith didn't answer because Kobe appeared just then with the big Chev. The cousins both tipped him. “Thank you for being so helpful,” Judith said as she slipped a ten-dollar bill into the parking valet's hand along with her phone number. “If Billy Big Horn shows up here, call me. Please.”

As they circled the fountain and turned into the street, Judith craned her neck for a look at the Belmont. It loomed large and dark behind the Naples.

“I don't think they've started tearing it down yet,” she said.

“The holiday probably interfered,” Renie replied without much interest. “Once you screw with schedules, things get put on the back burner.”

“Maybe it's just as well,” Judith mused. “That
place could still be evidence. Want to visit Red Fog recording studios tomorrow?”

“Not particularly,” Renie responded as they skirted the downtown area where the city's commerce melded into the hospital and apartment district.

Coming off the hill of high-rises, Judith glimpsed I. Magnifique a block away. “I wonder…what if there's some kind of…I'm not sure what…residue, or whatever from the drugs left in the garments that are being sold? Maybe Joe and Woody should check out Mr. Artemis's inventory there and at his studio.”

“Maybe they have,” Renie said absently. “Their job, you know.”

“I suppose that drugs are carefully packaged. At least they are on TV, in heavy plastic.” Judith stroked her chin. “Still, you could tell if the seams had been altered. I wonder if…Ohmigod!” She gave such a start that the seatbelt cut into her midsection.

“What now?” Renie asked without turning to look at her cousin.

“Lavender Dreams! I didn't lose it, it was stolen!” Despite the fact that Renie was negotiating a corner, Judith grabbed her cousin's arm. “I'll bet that dress was worth a lot more than twenty-five hundred dollars! I'll bet somebody thought it was loaded with cocaine!”

Renie disengaged her arm and tugged at the steering wheel to keep the car from hitting the curb. “Do that again and I'll smack you.”

“Smack!” Judith exclaimed. “Isn't that a drug term?”

At the next stop light, Renie smacked her anyway.

 

Judith had kept her cocktail napkin. On Thursday morning, she studied the scribbled names once more. Bascombe de Tourville. Tara Novotny. TNT Tenino. Mr. Artemis, with a question mark. Then she reproached herself for not asking TNT more questions while he was under her roof. What did he actually do as a boxing coach
and scout? Did he travel? Who were his friends? It was one thing not to be able to quiz the suspects; it was quite another to neglect questioning them when she had the opportunity. Judith felt that she was slipping.

“Hey, Mom, you're slipping,” Mike said as he breezed into the kitchen. Judith jumped. “What?”

Mike grinned and sat down on the counter where Judith had been cogitating. “Never mind,” he consoled his mother. “What's up?”

Judith glanced toward the backstairs where Mike had just descended. “Where's Kristin?”

“In the shower. We've opened all the wedding presents, and we're getting the bigger ones ready to ship to Idaho. We'll take the rest in my Wrangler.”

Judith barely heard the last of her son's words. Kristin was in the shower. Phyllis was upstairs cleaning the guest rooms. Gertrude was out in the toolshed. Judith was alone at last with Mike.

“Mike,” she said, clearing her throat, “we're overdue for a talk.”

Mike's grin grew even wider. “Isn't it kind of late for that, Mom? I mean, Kristin and I are married. You should've talked to me about fifteen years ago.”

“I don't mean that.” Judith moved around nervously in her chair. “Besides,” she added, stalling to find the right words, “I
did
talk to you about that sort of thing. You were in sixth grade.”

“It was Dad,” Mike said. “And I was in fourth grade. Sometimes I think you forget how much time I spent with Dad while you were working.”

Sometimes Judith did forget. It was easy to do in the blur of years. While she'd held both a day and an evening job, Dan had stayed home with Mike. Dan would have stayed home if there'd been no Mike, but the truth was that father and son had forged a close, if sometimes uneasy, bond. Dan had been there for Mike, and Judith hadn't. It wasn't her fault, but it was a fact.

“Yes…well…of course.” Judith stumbled over the words. “What I'm trying to say is that sometimes people do things that seem right at the time, but in the long run they may regret them. Do you know what I mean?”

Mike turned serious. “Oh. So you did notice. I should have guessed.”

Mystified, Judith frowned at her son. Then he held out his left arm. “So what do you really think? I had it done in Mexico. I like it.” Mike's tone was proud and defensive.

Tattooed inside his upper arm in discreet but easily read letters was “Daniel Neal McMonigle, 1937–1986.”

Judith bit her lip. “I didn't notice.” She felt her eyes fill with tears. “That's…very moving, Mike. What does Kristin think?”

Mike rubbed at the tattoo, as if it were a talisman. “She thinks it's nice. She's always said she wished she'd known my dad. This makes him a little more real to her.”

And keeps him real for you
, Judith thought with a pang. Judith might not have loved Dan, at least not the way a wife should love a husband, but Mike had loved him like a son loves his father. Judith reached up and hugged Mike.

“Your…dad would be proud,” she murmured.

“I think so,” Mike said quietly. Then giving Judith a tight squeeze, he drew back. “Hey, I thought you were talking about the tattoo a minute ago. What did you want to tell me?”

“Oh.” Judith stepped back, falling over the chair. She caught herself and giggled. “Just that…ah…I never really got to wish you and Kristin all the happiness in the world. Things got so hectic around here before the wedding, and I know I must have said something, maybe often, but not one-on-one, when everything was calm.” The heartfelt words finally came tumbling out, though they were not what Judith originally had intended. “I hope that the two of you will be as happy as…”

The phone rang, cutting Judith off. But as she picked up the receiver, Mike grinned and finished for her:

“As you and Dad were. Thanks, Mom. I'm going to the basement to get some cartons.”

It wasn't, Judith thought fleetingly as she answered the phone, what she was going to say. She wanted to wish Mike and Kristin to be as happy as she and Joe were. But if her son thought that she and Dan had been happy, why spoil his illusion? Why spoil anything and everything? Judith would never bring up the subject of Mike's parentage again.

“Coz,” Judith said, relieved that it was Renie on the other end of the line. “I've got something to tell you.”

“My turn first, I called,” Renie said. “What did Kobe say last night about Billy Big Horn? I need to find him for Morris Mitchell. We want to use him in the homeless photographs. He's very picturesque, especially with that harmonica.”

Judith explained that Billy hadn't been around the Naples since the night of the rehearsal dinner. “I told him to call me if he does show up. Did you check the corner by Donner & Blitzen?”

“Morris did,” Renie replied. “Nobody's seen Billy there for the last two weeks. One of the other panhandlers told Morris that he might be in jail. Sometimes the cops make a sweep of the bums, especially during tourist season. Could you check with Joe?”

The request seemed harmless enough. Agreeing, Judith started to tell Renie about Mike's tattoo, but Phyliss had come down from the second floor. “I'll talk to you later,” Judith said, and hung up.

“I'll put in a load of laundry and then I'm off to de Tooleyville's,” Phyliss called from the hallway.

“Look for drugs,” Judith told the cleaning woman.

“Drugs?” The sausage curls danced on Phyliss's head. “Think he's got something I can take for my sciatica?”

Judith tried to explain the difference between medicinal
and recreational drugs. Phyliss thought that cocaine sounded just fine.

“If it's that powerful,” she said, heading down to the basement, “it might cure bunions, too.”

 

Judith had some trouble finding Red Fog recording studios. Although she had gotten the address out of the phone book, the site was unmarked by any kind of sign. After going around the block four times in search of a parking place, she ended up leaving the Subaru in a loading zone and taking her chances with the meter maids.

While the exterior was unadorned and painted an institutional brown, the reception area was ablaze with colorful photographs and posters of various recording artists. The furnishings were less obtrusive, however, with soft mauve predominating.

Judith's excuse for calling on the record executives was flimsy at best. Without Renie's graphic design cachet, the only guise she could assume was that of Renie herself.

“I'm Serena Jones,” Judith announced, hoisting a worn briefcase onto the reception desk. The leather case had belonged to her father, and was presently filled with old income tax statements. “I'm a graphic designer. I had an appointment for one-thirty today.”

The pert African-American woman with the head full of cornrows consulted the day book. “Ms. Jones? I don't have you down. Who were you seeing?”

“Mr.…” Judith feigned a coughing fit. “Sorry. Is he in?”

“Mr. Kerr? Is that what you said?” The receptionist, whose nameplate read Aisha Barnes, looked puzzled.

Judith nodded. “That's right, Mr. Kerr.”

“He's in, but he's busy.” Aisha Barnes glanced at a paneled door next to the desk. “Maybe you should reschedule.” She flipped through the day book. “Next Tuesday at ten?”

Judith let out a vexed sigh. “I can't. I'll be in Boston
then. In fact, I leave tomorrow, and won't return until the end of the month.”

Aisha looked perturbed. “My, my—I don't know what I can do. Mr. Kerr had other unexpected visitors this afternoon, and I've no idea how long they'll take. If you'd like to wait, I'll check with him when the others leave.”

Judith smiled broadly. “That would be wonderful, Ms. Barnes. I appreciate…”

The paneled door opened, and a short leather-clad man in his mid-thirties ushered out his visitors. “Sorry I can't be more help, fellas,” said the man whom Judith assumed was Mr. Kerr. “As far is Red Fog is concerned, Harley Davidson was just another DJ on the make. Or take, depending on how you look at it.”

Judith barely heard the words. She was fixated on Mr. Kerr's departing guests. Joe Flynn and Woody Price entered the reception area and stopped in their tracks.

“Hi,” said Judith in a small voice.

Woody offered a small, if startled, smile from under his walrus mustache. Joe simply stared.

“I was just leaving,” Judith finally gulped.

“That part's right,” Joe said under his breath, taking Judith's elbow and marching her to the door.

“But Ms. Jones,” Aisha called after the trio, “Mr. Kerr can see you now for about fifteen minutes.”

Judith flinched as Joe turned to look at the receptionist. “Ms. Jones is having an identity crisis. Apparently, when I changed her name, it didn't take. She insists on trying out new ones. So long.”

“Joe,” Judith said miserably as they reached the sidewalk. “I can explain. I didn't realize you knew about the recording executives lunching with Harley at…”

Joe was very red in the face, but he took a deep breath and reined in his temper. “Look, Woody and I actually know our jobs. We follow procedures, we work as a team, within a team. We've got assistance from the M.E., the forensic pathologist, the crime lab, a whole battery of
skilled professionals. We don't go by appearances or assumptions or hunches. We dig and interview and dig and interrogate and dig some more. Maybe we don't jump from Point A to Point D like amateurs do. But we get there eventually. Our success rate is damned good, so we don't need outside help. By the way, your car is being towed. See you around, Jude-girl. Let's go, Woody.”

Swerving on her heel, Judith saw a green and white towtruck putting the hook onto her Subaru. “Wait!” she cried, turning back to Joe who was calmly walking away with Woody. “Joe! You can stop this! Tell them I'm your wife!”

Joe kept walking, though Judith could hear him as he spoke to Woody. “Now how can I say she's my wife when she thinks she's Ms. Jones?”

 

Somehow, Judith managed to talk the towtruck driver out of taking her car. She was still stuck with the sixty-five-dollar parking ticket, however. Chastened, mortified, and incensed, though not necessarily in that order, Judith went home.

“Do you know what I've done besides make a fool of myself?” Judith asked of Renie as the cousins sat on the Jones's deck that Thursday afternoon. “The reason I got so involved trying to solve the murder case was because I didn't want to think about Mike and Dan and Joe. It's always been hard for me to look back at my first marriage.”

“Painful,” Renie said between quaffs of pink lemonade. The skies were clearing, and the temperature was rising again. Beyond the ornamental cherry trees, the silver spruce, and the hawthorns that enclosed the Jones's backyard, the mountain range to the east was emerging from the clouds. The aroma of charcoal burning in the barbecue melded with the rose bushes that grew around the deck. Here on the north slope of Heraldsgate Hill, the atmosphere was pleasant, quiet, and, for Judith, soothing.