Wed and Buried Read online

  Abruptly, Judith pulled back. “Hey! I pegged somebody! You’re ticked off because I knew there was a dead person at that hotel. You thought I was hallucinating.”

  Joe’s grin was off-center. “You’re having one of your fantasies. Nobody was pushed off a roof. The dead man didn’t die from a fall. He was stabbed.”

  Judith gaped. “Stabbed? With a knife?”

  Joe was noncommittal. “‘With a sharp instrument’ is the way we put it. No weapon was found. Dr. Chinn says he’d been dead about forty-eight hours. He’ll know more after the formal autopsy.”

  “Stabbed,” Judith echoed. Then the rest of what Joe had said sank in. “What do you mean? ‘Whoever he is’?”

  Joe shrugged. “Just that. The guy had no ID. He looked to be about thirty, just under six feet, a hundred and forty pounds, not in the best of health, signs of poor nutrition. But you’re right about one thing—he was wearing a tuxedo.”

  Judith’s eyes sparkled. “So he was the man I saw on the roof.”

  Joe’s gaze narrowed. “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “I didn’t really see his face. I mean, he was several yards away. I doubt that I would recognize the woman, either. It all happened so fast, and there was so much distraction during the dinner. I hardly expected a crime to be committed.”

  Joe signaled to their server, a young man who looked like a college student. “No crime was committed—not then,” Joe said after he had given their orders. “This guy was found in a room on the top floor. There was quite a bit of blood, but it was confined to the room itself. We asked Pasqual if anybody could get into the hotel after they stopped work on Friday afternoon. He admitted they were kind of careless about locking up, despite the fact that some homeless folks had gotten in there to spend the night. A watchman was on duty but I gathered he was fairly lax. Everything in the hotel was old and crummy, so theft wasn’t a big problem. It was all going into the dumpster in the next few days anyway.”

  Resting her chin on her hand, Judith was thoughtful. “Do you mean the Belmont could have been full of transients?”

  But Joe shook his head. “Nothing as rampant as that. One or two or three, maybe. Or souvenir-seekers or just plain curious folks. I know, it seems half-assed, but Pasqual and his crew are in demolition, not security.”

  Judith was silent until their microbrews arrived. “And nobody knows who the dead man is?”

  “His pockets were empty,” Joe replied, moving his chair a bit to allow the group at the next table to leave. “The tux’s labels had been cut out. But eventually, we’ll be able to trace it. It’s just a matter of time.”

  The beer that Joe had chosen for them was deep amber, thick and fruity. Judith sipped slowly. “Now why,” she asked, more of herself than of her husband, “would a man and a woman who were wearing wedding attire show up on the roof of the Belmont?”

  To her surprise, Joe began ticking off reasons on his fingers: “They were getting married and wanted to have their wedding night at a really secluded place. They’re performers from some local production. They’re acting out a sexual fantasy. They’re…”

  Judith waved a hand in Joe’s face. “Okay, okay. People do all sorts of strange things for even stranger reasons, but they do not shove one another off of tall buildings just for the fun of it. That’s the part that I don’t get.”

  Joe didn’t either. “Something went wrong,” he finally said, raising his voice above the sudden din of crashing crockery that emanated from the vicinity of the kitchen. “They quarreled. They were drunk or on drugs. They…” The noise level subsided; so did Joe’s voice. “…didn’t know what they were doing.”

  Judith shook her head. “Whoever stabbed the man knew what he—or she—was doing. Was it a big knife?”

  Joe’s expression turned blank. “I didn’t say it was a knife.”

  “Oh, come on, Joe,” Judith said impatiently. “Your forensics experts can tell what kind of weapon was used. What did Dr. Chinn say?”

  Joe sighed. “Basically, that it was a penetrating puncture wound to the chest, made by a sharp instrument about an inch wide and at least six inches long. Yes, it sounds like a knife. But it could be a spear, a sword, a scissors, or a saber.”

  Judith looked up as her pot pie and Joe’s burger arrived. “She didn’t have a saber or a spear,” Judith said after their server had left.

  “Huh?” Joe paused in the act of piling onion, tomato, and lettuce on his burger. “Who, the bride?”

  Judith nodded, then frowned. “I hadn’t thought of her as ‘the bride’ until now. Only as the woman in the wedding dress. I wonder…”

  “What?” Joe’s expression was skeptical.

  Judith frowned. “I don’t know. Something flitted through my brain, but now it’s gone. Tell me more about the wound.”

  There wasn’t much to tell. In any event, Joe was tired of talking shop. “Let it go, Jude-Girl. I’ll keep you up to speed. It’s my case, after all.”

  “I know.” Judith smiled at her husband.

  Joe smiled back. He knew that Judith knew the homicide investigation was his responsibility. He also knew that it didn’t faze Judith in the least.

  There were times when Joe understood why a man might want to push a woman off the roof of a ten-story hotel.

  FIVE

  PHYLISS RACKLEY WAS praising the Lord. As she dusted the living room, the cleaning woman turned up the volume on a religious radio station and chimed right in with her own hallelujah chorus. Judith was used to Phyliss’s fundamentalist programs, but on this muggy Tuesday morning in June, the hymns and the witnesses and the so-called miracles were too much.

  “Phyliss,” Judith called over the racket, “I have a terrible headache. Can you turn down God’s Army?”

  “A headache?” Phyliss popped up from under the glass-topped coffee table. “Pray on it. The Reverend Crump can make you whole again in no time. Ever seen him on TV?”

  “No.” Judith leaned against the archway between the dining room and the living room. “Just a notch, Phyliss. Turn it down. Please.”

  Phyliss trudged over to the radio that was embedded in the tall bookcases that flanked the big bay window. “I don’t know how,” she admitted. “I can turn it on, but that’s it. Which knob do I use?”

  Judith let out a sharp sigh of exasperation. “If you can turn it on, you can turn it off.” But before she could reach the radio controls, Phyliss had started pushing buttons and pounding on speakers. The radio squawked, squeaked, and squealed. Suddenly, a deep, rich, and somehow familiar voice filled the living room.

  “This is Revolution Man, filling in for Harley Davidson on KRAS-FM. Stay tuned for news, sports, and weather…”

  Phyliss hit something which plunged the entire system into silence. She glared at Judith. “Now see what you made me do. How do you expect to get healed?”

  “I know that voice,” Judith murmured. “It’s Bill Jones’s nephew, Kip Sherman.”

  With an angry shake of the dustcloth, Phyliss snorted. “I don’t expect this Kip person has healing powers. Just last week my lumbago was acting up something fierce, and I put my hand on the radio when Reverend Crump said…”

  Judith, however, had hurried over to the telephone, which sat on a small round pedestal table near the grandfather clock. “Coz?” said Judith when Renie answered as the clock chimed ten. “Are you awake?”

  “Sort of,” Renie replied with a yawn. “What’s up? Besides me, though I don’t know why.”

  Judith explained about hearing Kip’s voice on KRAS-FM. “I thought he was a country and western DJ.”

  “He is.” Renie yawned again. “He’s been working for KRAS-FM’s affiliate, KORN-AM. But after seven years he wanted a change, so he quit a couple of weeks ago. I don’t think he’s made up his mind about a new job yet. I suppose he’s filling in for somebody who’s sick.”

  “Oh. Yes,” Judith added quickly. “He said he was subbing for that loud-mouthed Harley Davidson.”

&nb
sp; Renie chuckled. “I’ve accidentally heard Harley Davidson a couple of times. The kids love him, but he gets on my nerves. Kip’s a lot more mellow. I should tune him in—if I can stand the music he’s playing. Maybe I’ll give Bill’s niece, Kerri, a call about doing lunch. She actually sits down with me when we eat together.” Renie’s implication was clear.

  “Sorry, coz,” Judith said in an abject tone. “I thought you’d understand. You know how distracted I get around dead bodies.”

  “Right, sure, I guess.” Renie had stopped yawning, but she seemed tired of Judith’s excuses. Or perhaps she, too, was distracted: Judith could hear a voice in the background.

  “Have you got a man there?” Judith inquired.

  “My husband,” Renie answered dryly. “He doesn’t teach summer quarter, as you know perfectly well.” She paused; the masculine voice was still speaking. “But that wasn’t Bill,” Renie finally said. “That was the news on KRAS-FM. I turned the radio on while we were talking. They just mentioned your favorite stiff. No ID yet—but you must know that.”

  “I knew it as of seven-thirty when Joe left for work. Did they say anything else?” Judith asked, moving out of Phyliss’s way as the cleaning woman dusted the grandfather clock.

  “Not that I could tell,” Renie replied. “The announcer—Kip goes on break during the news—said that the body found stabbed to death in the condemned Belmont Hotel hadn’t yet been officially identified, but police were investigating. No mention of the woman, no mention of the body being attired in a tux. Your husband is playing this one close to his chest.”

  “He usually does,” Judith sighed, then went on in a more obsequious tone. “Do you want to go to lunch today? I could spare some time.”

  Renie, however, could not. She had more page proofs to check at the Belle Epoch. “I should be done around three, though,” Renie added. “I Magnifique is having a big sale of spring clothes. Do you want to meet me there and have a drink afterwards?”

  Judith drummed her nails on the cherrywood tabletop. “Well…if I could get home before five so I have time to do the hors d’oeuvres…”

  “We could skip the drinks—if we find anything worth trying on,” Renie noted. “See you at three, third-floor salon?”

  Judith gulped. The salon fashions were out of her price range. They were out of Renie’s, too, but she somehow managed to scrimp on her everyday ragamuffin wardrobe which allowed her an occasional extravagance. “Okay,” Judith finally agreed. “But I may go down to sportswear on two.”

  After hanging up, Judith heard the mailman arrive on the front porch. His name was Cecil, and he hadn’t been on the route very long. By the time Judith stepped outside, Cecil was being accosted by Uncle Gurd.

  “You oughtta be ashamed, wearing a uniform that represents a no-good government like that passel of crooks in Washington, D.C.!” Gurd raged. “What kinda trash are you delivering here anyways? Commie crap, I’ll bet, and propaganda from big business!”

  Cecil, who was young, black, and burly, eyed Uncle Gurd with disdain. “I just deliver the mail,” he said quietly.

  “Government tool! Political stooge! Bureaucratic lackey! Pshaw!” Uncle Gurd hopped up and down. Fortunately, Judith noted, he was clothed this morning.

  “Excuse me,” Cecil said with considerable patience, “I’ve got to go to the Rankers’s house…”

  “Good morning!” Judith called with forced cheer. “How are you, Cecil? Say, Uncle Gurd, have you had breakfast?”

  Gurd stopped hopping, which allowed Cecil to cross the cul-de-sac. “I already ate,” the old man replied. “Vivian cooked me breakfast. We had French toast.”

  According to Joe, Vivian Flynn wasn’t much of a cook. But maybe Uncle Gurd didn’t know the difference. “How nice,” Judith said, still cheerful. “Say,” she continued, coming off the porch onto the walkway, “wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a motel?”

  Uncle Gurd looked at Judith as if she were ranting. “Now why would I want to stay in one of them phony places? What’s wrong with this hedge?”

  “Well…” Judith’s gaze traveled to the Rankers’s house. “It’s just that my neighbors might…ah…um…feel uncomfortable after awhile with somebody staying on what’s actually their property.”

  Gurd hitched up his pants and eyed Judith with something akin to pity. “A lot you know. The missus over here likes me. Yep, she’s making me lunch today.”

  “Oh.” Judith’s smile tightened and died. It appeared that the neighbors in the cul-de-sac were conspiring against her. It was bad enough that Herself had befriended Uncle Gurd, but now it seemed that Arlene, in her typical good-hearted manner, was also encouraging the old man to remain on the premises. “Okay,” Judith sighed, “but it’s going to rain. Eventually.”

  Uncle Gurd seemed unintimidated by the prediction. With a small chuckle, he wandered back to the hedge. Judith returned indoors, sorting the mail as she headed for the kitchen.

  There were three deposits from upcoming guests, several advertising circulars, a thank-you note from a grateful couple who had spent a full week at Hillside Manor, and five more bills. One was from I. Magnifique, for Kristin’s wedding dress. Judith was preparing it for forwarding to the Rundbergs when she thought of something that had been eluding her: Hurriedly, she picked up the phone and dialed Renie’s number.

  Renie’s machine played a message recorded by one of the Jones boys. Judith would have to save her little idea until she saw her cousin at I. Magnifique. Meanwhile, she finished going through the rest of the mail. The last piece was addressed not to her or Joe or Gertrude, but Phyliss. It was postmarked Deep Denial, Idaho.

  “Phyliss,” she called from the top of the basement stairs. “You’ve got a letter here. I’ll put it on the counter by the computer.”

  Phyliss bobbed up like a cork, sausage curls bouncing. “Lord be praised! Them good Christian people kept their word! I told ’em to write me once they got home.”

  Judith fingered the plain white envelope. “Then this is from Kristin’s relatives? Why did they send the letter here?”

  “’Cause I forgot to give ’em my home address,” Phyliss replied, snatching the envelope from Judith. “But that’s okay—they knew how to find me.” Eagerly, she ripped the letter open. “Now let’s see what they have to say for themselves about following the righteous pathways of the Lord.”

  Judith left Phyliss to her letter. If she never heard from any of the Rundbergs again—except Kristin’s parents—it would be too soon. But of course one of them was still in the hedge. Judith fervently wished Uncle Gurd would leave.

  Three hours later, Judith left for downtown. She had plenty of time to spare, and couldn’t resist a short side trip past the Belmont Hotel. The street was still blocked off by the demolition crew, but the crime scene tape was gone. Joe and Woody must have finished their on-site investigation.

  Judith was tempted to talk to Hector Pasqual, but she couldn’t find any on-street parking. Disappointed, she headed down the steep hill to the business district and I. Magnifique. The thought that had been triggered by the store’s bill had been festering for three hours, and Judith was anxious to try out her theory on Renie.

  Renie was already deep into the sale racks when Judith arrived in the third-floor salon. The designer room exuded an aura of elegance, wealth, and the subtlest of French perfumes. Plush beige carpets, flowing beige draperies, pristine beige walls, and muted sounds encouraged a leisurely pace. Customers spoke in hushed tones, behaving with a reverence more suited to a church. Then again, Judith realized, for some, shopping was a religion, and an act of faith.

  “Look,” Renie said excitedly, not quite as low key as the other dozen would-be buyers who calmly sorted through two long racks of sale garments, “half price! I can save three hundred dollars on this green silk and two-fifty on that…”

  “Coz,” Judith interrupted, “do you have a regular sales clerk here?” Renie blinked. “Right, Portia, the platinum blond over there with the
fat French roll.” Renie nodded towards a sleek saleswoman who was engaged in very serious conversation with a large middle-aged woman whose hands glittered with diamonds.

  Swiftly, Judith flipped through the size fourteen models and pulled out a lime-colored pantsuit. “I’ll try this on. Can you get her for me?”

  But Renie hesitated, tipping her head to one side and studying the pantsuit critically. “I don’t know—that color’s not you, coz. Plus, the jacket’s too short. It’ll cut you off at…”

  Judith shook her head impatiently. “I don’t want to buy the thing, I just want to try it on.”

  Renie reached for an off-white jacket and matching skirt in Judith’s size. “This is much more suitable. Look, you can save a hundred and…”

  Judith grabbed Renie’s wrist. “Skip it. I know what I’m doing,” Judith declared, black eyes boring into her cousin’s puzzled face. “I’m not buying, I’m sleuthing. I think I know how the bride and groom got on the Belmont Roof. Go get Portia, and we’ll find out who got killed in the old hotel.”

  To Judith’s shock, Renie laughed. “Oh, that! I know who it was. I meant to tell you, but I got so excited over all these sale items.” She held up a sleeveless navy dress with buttons from collar to hem. “What do you think of this?”

  In reply, Judith punched Renie in the stomach.

  “That was mean,” Renie said in annoyance as two of the other would-be bargain-hunters turned to stare. “Besides, I don’t know for sure.”

  “We’re going into a dressing room right now,” Judith asserted between taut lips. “You’re going to unload. And then I’ll talk to Portia. I think you’re full of it.”

  Renie made one last grab for another garment. “Okay, okay, I’m going.” She half-stumbled between the racks, then led the way into the dressing room area off the main salon. “Kerri, our niece, Kip’s wife, told me about that disc jockey,” Renie began, speaking quickly as she noted that the fire was still banked in Judith’s eyes. “I called her right after I talked to you. She said Kip was filling in for Harley Davidson—which of course isn’t his real name. It wasn’t because he—Harley—was sick, but because he was missing. Which, frankly, isn’t all that unusual in radio. Some of the on-air personalities are sort of unreliable. On Monday, they were caught short when Harley didn’t show, so they ran a tape, and interspersed it with commercials.”