Dune to Death

by Mary Daheim

  The good news was that Joe would recover. The bad news was that he would be laid up in Buccaneer Beach Community Hospital for at least five days. He had suffered a compound fracture of the left tibia and could not be moved until the bones began to knit. The doctors were kind, seemingly competent, and Joe was resting comfortably. But for now, the honeymoon was over.

  Disconsolately, Judith paced the visitors’ waiting room. She should have never said it was perfect. The word had hexed them. Nothing was perfect. She and Joe were married; they would, God willing, enjoy many years together. But their wonderful seaside honeymoon had been sabotaged by a dune buggy. And under the no-refund lease, Judith was out seven hundred dollars.

  Or at least most of it. She wandered from fake-leather chair to fake-leather sofa to myrtlewood lamp to blank TV set. She should stay in Buccaneer Beach, of course. She couldn’t leave Joe alone in the hospital. But what would she do for the rest of the week by herself?

  Not that Judith was unaccustomed to filling her spare hours on her own. It was just that she’d had so few of them over the years. During her first marriage, there were the two jobs, during the day as a librarian and working nights in the bar at the Meat & Mingle. Then came seeing Mike off to college, moving back in with her mother, renovating the old Edwardian house on Heraldsgate Hill, and starting up the B&B. The truth was, Judith was a novice at recreation. She could read herself to sleep at night or take in an occasional movie, but that was about the extent of her independent leisure. Staying alone in the honeymoon cottage meant for two was beyond her. Judith’s statuesque figure slumped against the outdated magazines in the wooden rack at her back. There was only one solution.

  Judith left the visitors’ waiting room, marched to the row of pay phones in the hospital lobby, and called Cousin Renie.

  TWO

  RENIE SAID NO. She was sorry about Joe’s accident, she really felt bad that their honeymoon was ruined, she even commiserated about the seven hundred dollars. “But,” Renie asserted in the businesslike voice she usually reserved for her graphic design clients, “I’m up against deadline on the artwork for the Franciscan monks’ calendar, I have a symphony brochure to complete, and most of all”—Renie took a deep breath and a considerable amount of umbrage—“there is no way I can leave our mothers. You stuck me with the job of getting your mom settled in with my mom. Next to sizzling in hell for all eternity, I can’t think of anything more gruesome.”

  Judith was assailed by a pang of guilt. She had not wanted to leave the Resettlement of Gertrude entirely up to Renie, but with the start of the tourist season at the B&B and the wedding preparations, she hadn’t had much choice. Besides, Renie had volunteered, arguing that as long as their mothers were going to be living together in Aunt Deb’s two-bedroom apartment, it was her responsibility as much as Judith’s.

  “What’s the matter?” Judith asked into the phone. “Mother’s been there almost a week. I thought she was getting used to it.”

  Renie snorted. “Has marriage made you soft in the head, coz? Your mother has caused two fires, booby-trapped the toilet, and insulted the milkman. My Mother the Martyr is on the verge of complaining. That’s how bad it is.”

  Judith grimaced. “I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But Mother swore she wouldn’t live under the same roof as Joe.”

  “Right, right,” agreed Renie, rather testily. “But you must have figured out that she thought it would be Joe who would have to compromise, not her. Listen, coz, we should have guessed there’d be problems when she locked herself in the attic.”

  “It’s not an attic any more, you dope, it’s the third floor family living quarters, and you know it.” Judith had raised her voice, gaining the attention of an orderly, two nurses, and a Pink Lady at the desk. She had to simmer down. Renie was right—it was too good to be true to think that Gertrude would surrender her place in the family home without a whimper. But in fact, she had moved in with her sister-in-law and sometimes arch-rival, and Judith had prayed that the matter was settled. With Mike away in Montana on a job with the Forest Service, Judith had hoped that she and Joe might experience a serene summer. Except, of course, for the horde of guests who would be tramping in and out of Hillside Manor. Business, however, was business.

  “Anyway,” Judith went on, dropping her voice, “I don’t think Mother locked herself in deliberately. She just got a little muddled. Change is really hard on old people.”

  “It’s hard on this middle-aged one, too,” griped Renie. “And the day your mother gets muddled, I’ll tap-dance down the freeway during rush hour. Nude.”

  “Okay, okay,” muttered Judith, fearing that she and Renie might be on the verge of one of their rare quarrels. As close as sisters but without any sense of sibling rivalry, the cousins had always meshed like ham and eggs. Or so the voracious Renie would have put it. “I’ll try to sort it out with Mother when I get home. Meanwhile,” Judith went on in a wan voice, “I’ll go out and walk the beach alone and fly a kite alone and eat at all these terrific restaurants alone.”

  There was a short pause. “Restaurants?” Renie’s voice had also changed, but it was far from wan. “Bill and I haven’t been down there for a long time. Have they really got some good places to eat?”

  Judith could hear Renie’s lips smack. “Loads. Last night I had pasta with Dungeness crab and Joe got beef Wellington in a pastry so flaky that…”

  “Stop!” Renie sounded as if she were being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. Judith half-expected to get drool in her ear. “Hey, coz, let me run over to the apartment and see if they’re both still alive. The monks and the symphony can wait. St. Francis was a very patient man, even if Maestro Dunkowitz isn’t. Bill left last night for some numb-nuts conference in Champaign-Urbana,” she explained, referring to her husband’s post as a clinical psychologist and university professor. “The kids—sniff—don’t need me as long as I leave them money, so let me think about it, okay?”

  It was, Judith thought, a good thing Renie couldn’t see her sly smile. “It’s up to you,” she said. “I wouldn’t force you into coming down. Oh!” she exclaimed in mock surprise. “It’s almost noon, low tide. I’m going down to the beach and dig some butter clams. I hope I can carry them all by myself. Bye-bye.” Chortling, she hung up and went to check on Joe.

  Since Joe had been given enough pain medication to knock out an elephant, he wasn’t much fun to be around. Leaving him snoring like a walrus, Judith decided she might as well live up to her word and headed back to Pirate’s Lair to try her hand at clamming.

  The garage, where Joe had parked his aging but still handsome MG two-seater, was crammed with cartons, gardening tools, and firewood. Judith and Joe had been thankful that the MG hadn’t needed much space. She prowled around, finding a bucket and a shovel resting between two crates. Judith eyed them curiously. Mrs. Hoke, who reportedly lived on the edge of town, must use the garage for storage. The idea struck Judith as odd; why would she lug junk all the way across town? The distant ringing of the phone reached Judith’s ear, interrupting that line of thought.

  It was Renie, announcing that she could catch a south-bound train leaving at 2:00 P.M., arriving in Salem around 9:00. She would rent a car there and drive out to the coast. No, countered Judith, she would make the drive inland and collect Renie at the depot. Renie didn’t argue.

  “I’ll eat on the train,” she told Judith.

  “Of course you will,” replied Judith. “How are our mothers?”

  “Mothers? What mothers?” It was Renie’s turn to chortle.

  Judith was just heading back outside when a big Buick pulled into the drive and parked next to a black van. Pirate’s Lair was situated in a cul-de-sac, with paved roads leading back up a hill to Highway 101. While there were several permanent and rental houses in the immediate vicinity, the cottage itself was flanked on both sides by commercial enterprises, a large motel to the left, and a posh resort to the right. Judith wondered how Mrs. Hoke had managed to withstand the real e
state developers.

  Waiting by the garage, Judith watched as the newcomer emerged from the car. Judging from her air of proprietorship, Judith guessed it was Mrs. Hoke.

  “Hallooo,” the woman called, waving a long, gangly arm. She was tall, in her fifties, with springy dark hair going gray in patches, and bright gray eyes. “Is everything all right?”

  “Well, sort of,” replied Judith, coming forward and extending her hand. “I’m Judith Flynn. My husband had an accident this morning.” Judith explained about Joe and the dune buggy. Mrs. Hoke commiserated as they went inside.

  “Such a shame,” she clucked, setting a roll of paper towels and a box of plastic garbage bags on the kitchen counter. “But you say your cousin is coming down to stay with you?” The look she gave Judith suggested something improper.

  “My cousin Serena,” Judith emphasized, setting Mrs. Hoke straight. “It seemed a shame to rent the place and stay here alone.”

  Mrs. Hoke made a stabbing gesture at her hair. “Oh, I don’t know. Solitude is a good thing.” She darted a glance through the kitchen window which looked out toward the motel where a curly-haired young man was struggling with a dragon-shaped kite in the parking lot. “Oh!” Mrs. Hoke grabbed her eelskin purse and began to rummage through the contents. Her spare figure was attired in a wrinkled blue corduroy jumper and a black turtleneck top. “Your receipt…it’s here some place…”

  “That’s okay,” Judith said in a soothing manner. “I’ll have my canceled check with my next bank statement.”

  But Mrs. Hoke seemed intent on finding the receipt. The more she looked, the more she fluttered. “Oh! I saw it…It’s on yellow paper…I know I’ve got it…”

  A surreptitious glance at her watch told Judith that it was almost 12:30. The tide would soon start coming in again. It was all she could do to keep from tapping her foot.

  “Ah!” Mrs. Hoke produced the yellow slip of paper as if it were an original copy of the Magna Carta. “Here, Mrs. Flynn. I knew it was in there all along!”

  “Swell,” said Judith, a trifle dubiously. “Thanks,” she added, smiling. Being addressed as Mrs. Flynn was still a novelty. And a thrill. “I take it you don’t live on the beach?”

  Mrs. Hoke’s gray eyes widened. “The beach? Oh—the beach!” She giggled, an unmusical sound that jarred Judith’s ear. Why had she asked? Judith was anxious to be off with her bucket and shovel. But the genuine interest in other people that had helped make her B&B such a success was hard to put on hold. “The family home is actually a farm,” Mrs. Hoke explained, still bubbling with girlish glee. “It’s above the town.” She gestured with a long, thin hand. “My parents owned it. They started a creamery years ago and then built a cheese factory. Ogilvie’s Cheese was once a household word.”

  It had, in fact, been a common commodity in the McMonigle house, Judith recalled. But somewhere between an eviction notice and a threatening letter from the IRS, Ogilvie’s Cheese had disappeared from the local grocery. About the same time, the store also stopped permitting the McMonigles to pay by check. Judith wasn’t sorry those days were behind her, but now that she thought about it, she missed the cheese.

  “Good stuff,” said Judith, edging toward the door. “Did the family sell out?”

  Mrs. Hoke twirled her springy hair into strange little coils. “Well, sort of. This state was hit hard by a recession about then…” Her voice, the bubbles now deflated, trailed off.

  Judith knew about Oregon’s Hard Times that had begun more than a decade earlier. Long before the rest of the nation had nervously mouthed the word “Recession,” Oregon’s timber industry had been particularly hard-hit. Parts of the state were still fighting an uphill battle in what was optimistically called a Recovery Mode. But back in the late 1970s, Judith had enough economic disasters of her own. She gave Mrs. Hoke a sympathetic smile and pushed the door open.

  Her landlady seemed reluctant to leave. “You’re sure you have everything?” she asked, standing first on one foot and then the other. Judith noted Mrs. Hoke was wearing red knee-sox with hiking shoes. It was not a fetching combination.

  “Yes, the cottage is wonderfully well furnished.” Judith kept her smile fixed in place.

  “Oh, good.” Mrs. Hoke’s gaze lingered on the cozy kitchen with its nautical decor. The cupboards, like most of the room, were finished in knotty pine. “What about wax paper?”

  “Huh?” Judith’s smile slipped. “Wax paper? I don’t think we’ve needed any yet. There’s aluminum foil, though. That should do it.”

  Mrs. Hoke’s angular face turned eager. “I can go get wax paper at the store. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Judith tried not to look pained. “Actually, I was just going down to dig some clams…”

  The springy hair hopped up and down as Mrs. Hoke nodded vigorously. “That’s all right, I have a key. I’ll just leave the wax paper on the kitchen counter. And Drano. I’ll bet you’re out of Drano.”

  “Heaven knows I’d hate to be out of Drano,” said Judith, wondering if Mrs. Hoke knew something she wasn’t telling about the plumbing in Pirate’s Lair. Grabbing the bucket and shovel from next to a sealed carton marked “Fragile,” Judith bade Mrs. Hoke farewell and walked in her long-legged manner across the front lawn to the wooden staircase that led to the beach.

  It was a long way down. Judith counted the steps which made several zigs and zags before reaching the flat, gray sand. One hundred forty stairs in all, a serious workout as far as Judith was concerned. Especially since she would have to climb them going back. Luckily, she was suffering no ill effects from the dune buggy accident except for a headache and a slight stiffness in her back.

  Briefly, she assessed the stairways that led up from the beach on each side of Pirate’s Lair’s narrow wooden set. Those belonging to the We See Sea Resort were concrete, with landings and benches about every twenty steps. The Best Ever Over the Waves Motel boasted a tram. Judith was tempted, but assumed it probably came out in the lobby or some other place where a nonguest could be easily spotted. She resigned herself to the return climb and set about the business of clamming.

  The breeze felt fresh on her cheeks and the sound of the ocean was music to her ears. Some ten yards from the staircase, nestled at the foot of the bluff, stood the old boathouse, of a much older vintage than the cottage. The little structure obviously had been neglected and was apparently unused. Or so Judith assumed until she saw a man’s silhouette in the small murky window. Judith paused and frowned. The confirmation letter that she had received from Mrs. Hoke had stated that everything on the property was at the newlyweds’ disposal, including the beach rights which permitted clam digging and the building of a fire under safe circumstances. There had followed a couple of paragraphs of legalese which Judith now found incongruous with the flighty, disorganized, Alice Ogilvie Hoke. But of course her landlady had probably sought a lawyer’s advice when it came to renting the cottage. Should Mrs. Hoke be informed that someone was inside the boathouse? Judith considered, then shrugged. With or without Joe, she was on her honeymoon. As long as whoever it was didn’t bother her up at Pirate’s Lair, she’d ignore the interloper. Judith had had enough of mysterious events in the past year and a half to last her a lifetime.

  The clam harvest was meager. The tiny holes that indicated a clam was close to the surface often proved to be decoys, made by some other sort of sea creature. After an hour, Judith had dug up only a couple of dozen clams, but more than enough to make herself some chowder. The tide was coming in, the kiteflyers were out in force, and the beach was overrun by children building sand castles, youngsters on mountain bikes, dogs fetching sticks, and couples strolling hand in hand. Briefly, Judith felt envious. She and Joe should be out there, kicking at the sand and watching the waves edge ever closer.

  But at least she and Joe finally belonged to each other. Judith smiled at the thought and started up the beach toward the wooden staircase. The stiffness she had noticed earlier had worsened, bringing on a head
ache. Her bucket seemed heavier with every step and she noticed that she’d skinned her fingers in several places when she’d abandoned the shovel for chasing after her elusive prey with her bare hands. She should have worn gloves.

  Halfway up, she paused to catch her breath. Even living in a four-story house hadn’t prepared her for quite this much exertion. But the view was spectacular. The ocean seemed so vast, so endless, so dominant. A lonely trawler bobbed out on the horizon. How far away, Judith mused? The sun was no longer directly over head, and was now sitting on top of a row of fluffy white clouds. Down on the beach, the vacationers ebbed and flowed like the tide itself. Judith switched the bucket and shovel from one hand to the other, then resumed her ascent. She had reached the next landing when a movement almost directly below caught her eye. It was a bearded man in what appeared to be a baggy sweater and rumpled pants, staring up at her. She could just make out his uneven footprints in the sand. They led from the boathouse.

  “Big deal,” she muttered to herself. “At least he’s not carrying out a TV and a VCR.” Judith continued up the steps.

  Back in the garage, she went to put the bucket and shovel where she had picked them up and hoped the garden hose would reach that far so she could wash down the clams. But something wasn’t quite right. Judith paused, frowning. The carton marked “Fragile” was gone. Mrs. Hoke must have taken it with her, Judith told herself. And why not? It was her house.

  Inside, she looked for a box of cornmeal to shake into the clam bucket to help get rid of the sand. Sure enough, the wax paper, Drano, and a huge pink kite sat on the butcher-block kitchen table. Judith smiled. Maybe she’d try her hand at flying the kite later. Everybody else in Buccaneer Beach seemed to think it was a wonderful pastime. But for now, she was off to visit Joe.

  The drive to the hospital took only five minutes. The sprawling structure apparently had started out as a clinic shortly after World War II, and, like the rest of Buccaneer Beach, had grown helter-skelter. Judith found Joe awake, but not exactly alert.