Wed and Buried by Mary Daheim Page B

Belmont. The workmen had been dispersed, and the path to the ambulance was clear. Judith grabbed her shoes and ran, heedless of the havoc she was wreaking on her good pantyhose.
    â€œJoe!” Judith cried, no longer able to conceal her presence. “Is it her? Is she wearing a wedding dress?”
    Startled, Joe stared at Judith from behind dark glasses. “What the…? Jude-girl!” He didn’t sound pleased to see his wife.
    Woody, however, nodded pleasantly. Joe’s partner was in his mid-thirties, with brown skin the color of polished mahogany, a walrus mustache, and deep brown eyes that could convey both heart-wrenching melancholy and anunexpected puckish humor. He said nothing, however; nor did Joe. The ambulance attendants started to roll the gurney into their emergency vehicle.
    It was then that Joe held up a reluctant hand. “Just a minute, guys,” he said. “We may have a witness.” The dark glasses turned in Judith’s direction. “It won’t be a positive ID, but it may give us…a clue.”
    Judith moved forward, edging past Dr. Chinn, Hector Pasqual, the medical personnel, and the patrolmen. “Renie and I were going to have lunch at…” she began in a small voice.
    Joe didn’t seem to hear her. With an impatient hand, he unzipped the body bag. Judith took a deep breath and steeled herself. She didn’t know what ghastly sight to expect: If the woman in the bridal gown had fallen any distance, she might be mangled, disfigured, crushed. Judith felt her teeth clench and her knees turn to water. But she took a final step, and gazed down at the gurney.
    It wasn’t the woman she had seen on the Belmont’s roof.
    It was the man.

FOUR
    G ERTRUDE REFUSED TO eat the salmon quiche that Judith had prepared for dinner. Or, as Gertrude preferred to call the evening meal, “supper.”
    â€œIt’s fish slop,” Judith’s mother declared. “Feed it to your awful cat. I want ribs.”
    â€œIt’s too late to fix ribs, Mother,” Judith protested. “And it’s too hot to turn on the oven. I heated the quiche in the microwave.”
    â€œYou should have put the cat in the microwave,” Gertrude grumbled, eyeing her plate with disgust. Abruptly, she looked up. “Where’s Mike?”
    Judith gave a little start. “In Mexico, on his honeymoon. They’ll be gone ten days.”
    Gertrude snorted. “Very funny. Where is he? On his paper route?”
    Judith gnawed on her forefinger. Had her mother really forgotten how old Mike was? Was she unable to recall the wedding from two days ago? Did she truly picture Mike as a twelve-year-old boy?
    â€œMother, Mike and Kristin had a lovely…”
    Gertrude shoved her plate at Judith. “Give me some wienies. You can boil wienies without having the vapors, can’t you? It’s not hot in here. In fact, I need mysweater.” She hunkered down in her baggy orange cardigan.
    It was useless to argue. It was also depressing. Maybe Gertrude’s mind really was going. Certainly her circulation wasn’t very good. Judith trudged back to the house, hoping that her mother would at least eat the spinach salad that accompanied the quiche. It was almost six, and Hillside Manor’s guests would expect their appetizers and punch in a few minutes. Judith felt hot, tired, and frazzled. It had been a trying day.
    In the next half-hour, Judith managed to feed Gertrude and the full house of guests. Joe still hadn’t arrived home from work. For once, Judith wasn’t anxious to greet him. He had not been pleased to find her at the Belmont, he had insisted that she go straight home after viewing the body, and he had refused to share any information with her at the site. By the time the ambulance had pulled away and the police personnel had departed, Judith had lost her appetite. The bearded man on the gurney was no longer an ephemeral figure on