Wed and Buried Read Free

Gertrude had held sway, giving grudging consent to the reinvention of the Grover house as a bed and breakfast establishment.
    Judith spared a fond look for the old, solid three-story structure that had been home to four generations of Grovers. Nine years had passed since Judith had begun the major renovation. Hillside Manor’s green-on-green exterior had faded in the rain and damp of those gray Pacific Northwest seasons. Maybe it was time for a paint job come the fall. It wasn’t a smart idea to take on any big projects during the height of the tourist season.
    Fleetingly, Judith glanced in the direction of the bay where the water sparkled like diamonds and the mountains to the west stood out against an almost flawless sky. The vista never palled: Even in a downpour of autumn rain or thick winter fog or what sometimes seemed like perpetual drizzle, Judith found something that caught her eye. Perhaps it was a ship riding at anchor in the harbor or the sleek glass and steel structures of downtown or merely the changing play of light and shadow. She had grown up with that view, and while many things had changed including herself, certain elements remained constant. Judith smiled as she hurried into the house.
    Mike and Kristin were foraging in the refrigerator. “Hey, Mom,” Mike asked, “is Grams making her killer potato salad for the reception?”
    Gertrude’s potato salad was famous. “She’ll supervise Arlene,” Judith replied. “It’s too big a job for Grams todo alone. I need the car keys. I’ve got to run up to the store.”
    Holding a twenty-pound ham in one hand, Kristin closed the refrigerator door with her hip. She was a big girl, a tall girl, a Valkyrie of a girl. Her long blond hair was more or less tamed into a single braid, and her flawless skin was almost as tanned as Mike’s. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but neither was she plain. Judith usually settled for “striking” when describing her daughter-in-law to-be.
    â€œAunt Leah and Uncle Tank had a little trouble checking in at the Naples Hotel,” Kristin said in her low, calm voice. “There was some confusion about their reservation, but they got it straightened out after Uncle Tank threatened to shoot the desk clerk.”
    Startled, Judith glanced at Mike. Her son, however, showed no unusual reaction as he opened a loaf of rye bread. Kristin placidly began carving ham.
    â€œYou’re kidding?” Judith sounded dubious.
    â€œIn a way,” Kristin replied matter-of-factly. “The airlines don’t allow guns in the passenger cabin. Uncle Tank left his at home where they live in Deep Denial.”
    Judith’s dark eyebrows arched. “Deep denial? Of what?”
    With only the faintest hint of a smile, Kristin shook her head. “They live in Deep Denial, Idaho. It’s a place, not a state of mind.”
    I wonder , thought Judith. She knew little about Kristin’s extended family. Maybe that was just as well. Mr. and Mrs. Rundberg seemed like sensible people, but that didn’t mean that their shirttail relations were. Judith knew that too well from her own sometimes peculiar relatives.
    But there was no time to discuss family eccentricities. Judith was off to Falstaff’s Market. As she turned on the ignition of her Subaru, the radio also came on. Judith winced. Mike and Kristin had been listening to a young adult music station.
    â€œYa-a-a-h!” the DJ shouted. “Turn up the volume and tear off the knob! It’s rockin’-sockin’-slammin’-jammin’-rappin’-slappin’ tunes right here on KRAS-FM, with your freedom-lovin’-gun-totin’-butt-kickin’ Harley Davidson, bringing you all the…”
    â€œNo, you aren’t,” Judith said quietly but firmly, and tuned the dial to a station that featured hits from the fifties and sixties. Andy Williams and “Moon River” caressed her ears as she