Wed and Buried (28 page)

“Good. Fine.” Judith gave Joe a lame little smile.

“How about a drink?” Joe said, scrutinizing Judith more closely. “You're beginning to turn some funny colors. Black and blue don't become you as well as bright red.”

“Hot tea is fine,” Judith said. “I'll be fine. Honest.”

“You sure?” Joe had grown serious, and Judith realized that the change in mood wasn't only due to his concern for her well-being. She knew that his professional euphoria never lasted long: Even when he'd closed one
case, there were always loose ends and dead ends.

“I know where to find the killer.” Judith spoke so matter-of-factly that at first her words didn't seem to register with Joe. She read the incomprehension on his face and dug into her shoulder bag. “Here. The Rundbergs sent this to Phyliss.” As Joe studied the snapshot, Judith pointed to one of the open windows. “There he is. It's Harley Davidson, alive and well, and living in Deep Denial.”

 

The standoff between the survivalists and the FBI and local law enforcement officials made headlines everywhere for over a week. When Harley was finally surrendered by his newfound friends, it was Aunt Leota who gave him up. She and Aunt Tilda had gotten into an argument over which one of their late husbands Harley most resembled, and when Leota put it to a vote, Tilda won. In a fit of pique, Leota hauled Harley outside the compound and turned him over to the feds. Because he was blind, Harley thought she was taking him into the bedroom, to what purpose he couldn't imagine. At that point, the feds seemed preferable to Aunt Leota.

On the last Saturday of July, Judith and Joe went downtown to have lunch at Ron's Bar and Grill. Judith wanted to celebrate the successful conclusion of the case, but Joe felt a sense of failure.

“I don't know if we've got enough real evidence,” Joe told Judith for the dozenth time as they sat in the bar and sipped martinis. “Oh, Harley'll go to prison for income tax evasion and smuggling, but Woody and I aren't sure we can pin the murder rap on him.”

“There's got to be a way,” Judith said with fervor.

Joe gave a small shake of his head. “If Harley had stabbed Esperanza Highcastle or Tara Novotny or even Chuck Rawls, there'd be more urgency from my superiors. But a poor homeless bum like Billy Big Horn—nobody really cares. It's wrong, but it's true.”

Judith and Joe had gone over the case so many times that they could recite it by heart: How Harley had run the smuggling ring with Tara, how they'd used TNT's connection with Esperanza to get into the Belmont, how they'd transferred the cigars from Mr. Artemis's designs to Billy Big Horn's cigar box. And then, when the IRS had come after Harley on suspicion of unreported income from his broadcasting career, the DJ had decided to cut his losses. Between his radio payoffs and the emerald profits, he apparently had millions stashed away. Joe and Woody had found the IRS letters in Harley's apartment, which Judith realized, had accounted for her husband's immediate recognition of their own audit notice. The only way Harley could avoid prosecution by the government was to become legally dead. Death and taxes were not merely inevitable, it seemed, but also linked in Harley's plan.

His attempt to kill Tara and thus eliminate one of his two potentially talkative partners had failed: Harley hadn't been able to see the balcony which had broken her fall. Nor had he realized that he'd dropped the emerald that Judith had later found on the balcony. But the encounter with Billy had gone off as planned. It was much easier for one blind man to kill a similarly handicapped victim. And Billy had to die not only because he was part of the smuggling ring, but because he could be mistaken for Harley.

There had been risks, of course: Harley had planted the idea of his disappearance in Darrell Mims's suggestible mind. Harley knew that Darrell would get stuck with the task of identifying the body. Even if Darrell hadn't seized the opportunity, Harley could still make a getaway. Getting himself arrested as Billy had given the wily DJ the means to hear what was going on with the police. After all, he couldn't read about it in the newspapers.

“You found Billy's cigar box and Harley's ID in the Naples fountain,” Judith reminded Joe. “That's got to
help finger Harley as the murderer. You know he impersonated Billy and deliberately got himself thrown in jail as the safest place to hide until he could make arrangements to get out of town.”

“Right, sure,” Joe agreed, signaling the bartender for a second round. “Customs can probably nail him on the smuggling, too. Now that Tara knows Harley's still alive, she's given him up. But everything else is circumstantial, which doesn't always go down in court.”

“Tara must be very angry about almost getting killed,” Judith pointed out, then, because the first martini had made her rather bold, added, “like I was with you when I found out Billy hadn't been cremated.”

“You should have known,” Joe replied matter-of-factly. “We always have to wait for next of kin, even when there aren't any. So far, no takers. Billy's still on ice.” Judith grew temporarily silent. “Well, there's one bright note on the personal side. The stand-off with their relatives scared—or maybe embarrassed—the Rundbergs so much that they're finally paying the wedding bills.”

“I'll drink to that,” Joe said, raising his almost-empty glass.

“Me, too. What a relief!” Judith smiled at her husband. “By the way, I want to stop at I. Magnifique's after lunch.” She nudged the big box under the table with her knee. “I have something to return.”

“I was wondering what was in that box,” Joe said with mild interest. “Doesn't it fit?”

“It fits.” Judith laughed feebly. “But it's way too expensive. It's a Mr. Artemis evening dress.”

“Really?” Joe's interest increased. “Why didn't you show it to me?”

“It's a long story.” Judith accepted a second martini from their server. She didn't want to admit that she had ended up with the dress as the result of her amateur sleuthing. Nor did she want to confess that it had gone missing for an unnerving length of time.

Joe didn't press Judith to explain. His mind was clearly still fixated on the homicide investigation.

“I guess you were right about coincidences,” he finally said. “Who would have figured Harley would end up in Deep Denial?”

“Actually,” Judith responded slowly, “we should have. I didn't remember until after the fact that Darrell Mims told me how Harley and Chuck Rawls got into a big fight over the Ruby Ridge debacle. Harley had strong feelings for survivalists. Maybe it was then that he got the idea to head for one of their refuges. The irony is that I'll bet he didn't realize he was having his picture taken. He couldn't have seen the camera.”

After their server had jotted down their luncheon orders, Joe gave Judith a cockeyed grin. “I suppose Phyliss is taking credit for all this.”

“Not really. She says the Lord works in mysterious ways. She's merely His instrument. But of course she knew nothing about how the Rundbergs had heard Harley on the radio while they were here, and had admired his political views.”

“Harley didn't know that,” Joe pointed out.

“No, but it made it much easier for him to talk them into taking him under their wing,” Judith noted. “It was perfectly safe to call himself Harley Davidson. Didn't you say the IRS was looking for him under his real name?”

Joe nodded. “John Smith. Which complicated matters for the feds. He sold the emeralds as Harley Davidson when he rendezvoused with the buyers at concerts he MC'ed. Who'd bother looking for jewel smugglers during an event with whacked-out kids trying to trample each other to death? And that's just the performers. Thank God I never worked crowd control.”

When their entrees arrived, Judith and Joe eventually spoke of other things. They were almost finished eating when Judith raised the topic she'd been reluctant to mention for weeks.

“You know, I think the reason I got so wrapped up in this case was because I didn't want to deal with talking to Mike about…you and Dan.” She paused, waiting for Joe's reaction. But his expression was noncommittal, and Judith continued: “Then, after I did talk to him and got nowhere, you seemed upset. I didn't want to think about that, either. So I just kept slogging ahead, and it was very stupid of me, because you and Woody knew exactly where the case was going.”

“It's what we do,” Joe said simply.

“But I kept annoying you by meddling, and it didn't do me much good, because you must be still upset about Mike.”

“I'm living with it,” Joe said, fingering his coffee cup. “I always will.”

“Yes.” Judith stared at her empty plate. “And I'll always live with you living with it. That's okay, isn't it?”

“That's marriage.” Joe put his hand on Judith's. “There are no easy answers. Not on the job, not in real life.”

“That's true,” Judith said softly. “That's the way it is.”

“That's
us
,” said Joe, and squeezed her hand.

 

The designer room at I. Magnifique conveyed an almost sepulchral air on a Saturday afternoon in mid-summer. Everything seemed hushed, as if the impeccably groomed saleswomen were waiting to view the body—or the fall collections.

Judith immediately spotted Portia, the sleek blond who had waited on Renie during the sale. “I'd like to return something,” Judith said in a small voice. Carefully, she opened the box.

Portia recoiled slightly, as if Judith had let a snake out of a basket. “You want to return Lavender Dreams? Oh, my!”

“Yes,” Judith replied, trying to sound firm. “It's…not me.”

Joe had sidled over to the mahogany desk which served as a counter. “Hey—purple! You look good in purple, Jude-girl. Doesn't it fit?”

“It's not purple,” Judith countered. “It's lavender. And it…”

“Let's see you in it,” Joe said.

“But…” Judith tried to protest.

“The gentleman has exquisite taste,” Portia purred. “Surely you'll let him be the judge.” She simpered at Joe and patted her perfect French roll.

“Oooh…” Judith picked up the dress and trooped off in the direction of the fitting rooms. As before, the gown fit, and the lighter shade in the purple spectrum wasn't unflattering. But of course that was all beside the point. The price tag was still attached, and Judith would flash it at Joe. At twenty-five hundred dollars, he'd get the message.

Arranging the folds and slipping back into her shoes, Judith gazed out of the small, grilled window that looked out onto the hill above downtown. She could just catch the outline of the Naples Hotel. The Belmont was gone, having been finally pulled down the previous week. Judith paused, recalling what the old building had looked like, not only in its heyday, but on the night of the rehearsal dinner. Her eyes widened, and she practically ran out of the fitting room and into the salon where Joe was waiting in a plush armchair with a glass of champagne at his side.

“Joe!” she exclaimed, ignoring the fawning Portia. “I just realized something! I saw Harley try to kill Tara! That's attempted murder! I can be a witness! Surely she'll corroborate my statement! Between that and the evidence you already have, you can get Harley!”

Joe's high forehead creased. “You mean I finally have to believe what you saw on the Belmont roof?”

Judith nodded eagerly. “You bet! You know I saw it! Come on, it'll work.”

“It might.” Joe's brow cleared. “Yes, it might at that. Maybe Billy Big Horn will be avenged after all. And Woody and I can close this case.”

“Great!” Judith couldn't help but twirl around in the lavender dress. Then she remembered the price tag, and leaned close to her husband. “What do you think?”

Joe didn't bat an eye. He looked at Portia and raised his champagne glass. “We'll take it,” he said.