Free Wed and Buried by Mary Daheim

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.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œHuh?” 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…”
    â€œWhat?” 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.”
    â€œI 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
    P HYLISS R ACKLEY 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.
    â€œPhyliss,” Judith called over the racket, “I have a terrible headache. Can you turn down God’s Army?”
    â€œA 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?”
    â€œNo.” 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 radiosquawked, squeaked, and squealed. Suddenly, a deep, rich, and somehow familiar voice filled the living room.
    â€œThis 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?”
    â€œI 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