Dune to Death

by Mary Daheim

  “Noooo,” replied Arlene. “I would have found him by now if he were there.”

  Judith’s recovery slipped a notch. “What do you mean? How long has he been gone?”

  Another pause. “Let me see—since Sunday? Oh,” she raced on blithely, “you know how independent cats are. The fireworks may have scared him. Pets don’t like all that noise. I suppose the little dickens is hiding some place, waiting for the Fourth of July to be over. Take care, Judith, I’ll see you soon.” Arlene hung up.

  Renie was considerably more sympathetic than Arlene, although she couldn’t resist teasing Judith a little about Sweetums. “Sometimes I really don’t think you despise that cat after all,” she said, handing her cousin a stiff scotch. On the way home from the hospital, they had stopped at the liquor store and the grocery store to restock. To Renie’s surprise, both had been open.

  “I’d hate to lose him after all these years,” admitted Judith. “I wonder if my insurance covers the toolshed.”

  “Well, your roof doesn’t cover it any more,” grinned Renie, hoisting her bourbon in a toast. “Cheers, coz. Here’s to calling our mothers.” Judith groaned.

  Renie volunteered to do the phoning. But after finding the line busy on three attempts, the cousins decided to wait until after dinner. Since the weather had gotten so much warmer, they had agreed to build a fire and eat on the beach. Sitting in the living room at Pirate’s Lair, Judith glanced down at the outline which was still etched on the carpet.

  “We’ve got to clean that off,” she said into her scotch. “It’s a bit creepy.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Renie. “You get the corn and hot dogs and stuff ready to take to the beach.”

  Judith rustled about in the kitchen while Renie used some damp rags to remove the chalk marks on the rug. “Where’s the vacuum?” she called as Judith came in from the carport with a stack of kindling—and a crumpled newspaper. “What’s that, the Berlin Gazette?” inquired Renie.

  “Not exactly,” said Judith, setting down the kindling and smoothing the paper on the counter. “It’s from Liechtenstein. Remember Vaduz?”

  Renie cast back through more than a quarter century of memories to the three-month tour of Europe the cousins had taken before their respective marriages. “I do, actually. We went through there on our Eurail pass. It was somewhere around Austria. Or Italy.”

  “In between,” said Judith. “This paper is dated May 10 of this year. If those boxes belonged to Leona Ogilvie, why were they packed up in Liechtenstein and sent to this country by Lufthansa? That’s a long way from Brazil, coz.”

  Renie, whose knowledge of German was only slightly better than Judith’s, stared at the columns of long, guttural words. “Do you think Brazil is a lie?” she finally asked.

  “A recent lie, maybe.” Judith put the mangled newspaper into a wastebasket. “We should check with Lufthansa to see when Leona flew with them last.”

  “She must have had a passport,” said Renie. “Do you suppose it’s up at the family home with Alice?”

  “Could be. Since Alice isn’t grieving all over the place, we ought to call on her before the funeral.” Judith idly fingered the stop press edition of the Bugler which also reposed on the kitchen counter. “Tomorrow, maybe.” She glanced down at the big, bold headline. “Poor Leona. I wonder if anyone is seriously grieving about her demise, except Larissa?”

  “Larissa always was too serious,” Renie remarked facetiously, then slipped the newspaper out from under Judith’s hand. “Jeez, look at this layout! Even for a rush job, it’s offensive. And I don’t mean the copy! This is an art director’s nightmare!” She turned to the back page and shook her head. “It looks as if the only ad they could muster up on such short notice was from the Freebooters’ Festival Committee. They’re having a treasure hunt. Want to join in?”

  But Judith declined. “We’ve got our own hunt. For a killer.” She sounded unduly somber. “Come on, coz, let’s haul our goodies down to the beach. We need to get the fire started.”

  Fifteen minutes and many matches later, the driftwood finally caught. Judith and Renie sat on a big log and watched the waves roll onto the shore. The evening was clear, with the sun a great golden ball dangling over the ocean. Down the coast, on a rocky point beyond the bay, they could see a lighthouse. Three small boats were heading in, probably fishermen, seeking safe harbor in the marina.

  The wind was down, so the kiteflyers had gone in, except for the curly-haired young man from the motel who was still trying to cope with his green dragon. Judith and Renie watched him struggle with the string, then race along the sand, pulling the kite behind him. It bobbed, sagged, and finally fell to the ground. The young man tried again, this time going in the opposite direction. The dragon lifted slightly, swooped, and came to rest about ten feet from the cousins.

  “We gave up,” Judith called to the frustrated kiteflyer. She didn’t feel it was necessary to mention that part of the reason was because their kite’s string had become a murder weapon.

  “You’re smart,” the young man called back. “There’s a knack to this, and I don’t have it.” He approached Judith and Renie, carefully reeling in his green dragon. “I paid fifty bucks for this thing. I feel gypped.”

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Judith, aware that the young man was quite good-looking, too. Tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow at the hip, his angular face was framed with auburn curls. Unlike Brent Doyle’s, Judith felt certain that his tan was the real thing. “You must be a tourist, too. Haven’t I seen you at the motel?” She motioned behind her, toward the Best Ever Over the Waves complex high above them on the bluff.

  “Right,” he said with a wide smile. His Spandex shorts revealed well-muscled thighs; his bare chest revealed everything. “Are you staying there, too?”

  Judith realized she was staring and felt vaguely embarrassed. She was, after all, a sensible middle-aged woman. And a new bride. With a husband in traction. Judith bit her lip and concentrated on Renie, who was threading hot dogs onto a stick. The mental images conjured up by Renie and her wienies didn’t help much.

  “No,” Judith finally answered, returning her gaze to the young man and tilting her chin up in an effort at dignity. “My cousin and I are staying at the beach cottage next door, Pirate’s Lair.”

  “Oh.” The bright smile fled. Grasping the reel of his kite, the young man began to backpedal. “Cute place. I’ve seen it from my room. Have a nice evening.” He all but ran down the beach, the green dragon bobbing behind him.

  “You will make friends,” Renie murmured, placing the corn on the cob near the fire’s glowing embers. “Couldn’t we go someplace just once and not have you meeting and greeting anybody who strolls within six feet of us?”

  Judith wasn’t listening to Renie’s misanthropic diatribe. “That’s odd,” she remarked, more to herself than to her cousin. “He took off like a shot when I told him where we were staying.”

  Putting two potatoes on another stick, Renie gave Judith a wry look. “What’s so odd about that? I’m not sure I’d want to cozy up to a couple of strangers who found a corpse in their living room. For all he knows, we done it.”

  Judith started to argue, then shut up. Renie was right. Given the circumstances, they were as good a pair of suspects as anybody else around. Maybe even worse—if the young man had read the special edition of the Bugler, they were also a couple of idiots. Judith turned her attention to keeping up the fire.

  An hour later, the potatoes still weren’t done. Renie suggested taking them up to the cottage and putting them in the microwave. Or better yet, to avoid climbing the long set of stairs, sneak into the boathouse and zap them there.

  “We can’t take a chance,” said Judith. “Titus Teacher may be in there, counting corduroy.”

  Renie agreed, and in the end, they simply ate the potatoes half-raw. Still, the food tasted delicious, enhanced by the fresh salt air and the scent of smoking driftwood. Lazily, the cousins lounged on the log and watc
hed the parade of beachwalkers pass by.

  “We’ve still got to call our mothers,” Judith said, glancing at her watch, which showed it was well after eight. The sun now hung low over the water, casting amber shadows on the waves. The lighthouse blinked in the gloaming, and a single ship traversed the far horizon. A freighter, Judith guessed, bound for California. Around the bay, above them on the bluff, windows began to glow as lights were switched on to ward off the coming of night.

  Judith looked over at the boathouse, which was dark on the inside. She wondered about Titus Teacher. Surely the sheriff or the police chief must know who he was. Or at least Alice Hoke should. After all, she was the boathouse’s legal owner.

  Judith was about to say as much to Renie when they spotted two figures strolling down the beach, hand in hand. The woman was half a head taller than the man, but he was twice as wide. The cousins recognized Alice Hoke and Neil Clooney at once.

  “Hey,” whispered Judith, though the couple was still out of hearing range, given the crash of the incoming waves, “where do you suppose they’re going?”

  “Why don’t you ask?” replied Renie archly. “Don’t you want to be buddies with Chief Clooney and not-so-tiny Alice?”

  “Sure do,” replied Judith, awkwardly getting to her feet. “Let’s go pass howdy.”

  “Let’s just pass,” muttered Renie, but as usual, she complied.

  “Hi,” shouted Judith, stepping directly in front of the couple. “It’s us. Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones. We cleaned up the carpet. Is that okay, Chief Clooney?”

  Clooney, who was dressed in a plaid cotton shirt and khaki pants, scrutinized the cousins with a baleful eye. “Huh? Oh—the chalk outline. Sure, no problem. I meant to talk to you two today but you weren’t around when I called this afternoon.” He felt the pressure of his companion’s hand and pulled her forward with uncharacteristic deference. “This is Alice Hoke. She’s in mourning, so I’m giving her the air.”

  “And more,” said Renie in her aging ingenue manner. “I mean, there’s so much of it down here, right? The ocean and all.” She waved one arm like a windmill.

  Alice Hoke did not offer her hand. Up close, her thin face revealed a slit of a mouth, pale gray eyes, an aquiline nose that Judith figured could cut cardboard, and a sour expression. While she could see the resemblance to Leona, Judith wondered if Alice ever smiled, and if so, if the sisterly bond would have been even more striking. Alice’s eyes had narrowed at Judith. “Your check hasn’t bounced. Yet,” she added with a squint.

  Chief Clooney laughed and slapped Alice’s bony shoulder. “Hey there, honey-bunny, stop kidding around! These ladies are okay, just got some Big City ideas.”

  “They got nerve,” said Alice, puckering what little there was of her lips. “Mrs. Flynn here wants two days’ free rent just because her stupid husband ruined a dune buggy. We don’t do business like that in Buccaneer Beach, Mrs. Flynn. You get what you pay for. If you want to stay on, it’ll cost you a hundred and fifty dollars a night.”

  Judith, whose best room at Hillside Manor went for eighty-five and included breakfast, aperitif, and hors d’oeuvres, gaped at Alice Hoke. “That’s ridiculous! And don’t call my husband stupid! If you must know, he’s a pol…”

  “Polish sausage salesman,” broke in Renie, jabbing Judith in the back. “Say, Mrs. Hoke, you must have talked to Brent Doyle. Did you find that missing receipt?”

  Renie’s defensive maneuver caught Alice Hoke off-guard. “What receipt? I never issued one. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You should,” replied Renie with a note of reproach. “That’s the way we do business in the Big City.”

  Alice Hoke’s long, homely face set like stone. “You’re a pair of chiselers. Maybe worse. For all I know, you killed my poor sister!”

  Renie’s taunting turned to outrage, but Judith intervened before her cousin erupted. Judith had gotten her own temper under control. No matter how annoying Alice might be, a quarrel would serve no purpose. “Look—let’s all take it easy. The last twenty-four hours have been pretty nerve-racking.” She turned to Chief Clooney. “If you thought my cousin and I were under suspicion, I’m sure you would have questioned us by now, right, Chief?” Judith didn’t wait for Clooney’s assent, but looked back at Alice. “Truly, we’re sorry for your loss. I’ve never had a sister—just my cousin here—but I can guess how hard it must be.”

  Alice’s contemptuous gaze indicated she didn’t think Renie could be any loss to anybody, but she didn’t say as much out loud. “Indeed.” Alice slipped her thin hand back through Clooney’s arm. “Let me know when you plan to leave.” She gave the police chief a little nudge and the two of them resumed their stroll.

  Judith and Renie returned to the log. The fire was almost out and the sun was slipping down behind the edge of the world. Absently stirring the embers, Judith watched Alice and Clooney disappear into the dusk.

  “I’m not sure she’s going to let us in if we go see her tomorrow,” Judith said with a sigh.

  “She’d probably prefer we didn’t go to the funeral, either.” Renie, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers.

  “Right,” agreed Judith.

  “Drat,” said Renie.

  For a few moments, the only sound was of the incoming tide. Overhead, a half-moon dappled the water with silver beams. Judith and Renie looked up at the same time. They both grinned.

  “What time is the funeral Friday?” asked Judith.

  “I don’t know, but there was an obituary in that special edition of the Bugler.” Renie chewed on her lower lip. “Dare we?”

  Judith felt her conscience rise up only to be dashed by her curiosity. “Everybody will be at the funeral. It could be our only chance.”

  Renie hugged her knees. “They should add ‘Breaking and Entering’ to the local tourist attractions.”

  Judith chuckled. “The main thing is not to get caught.”

  “We can always say we’re looking for the receipt.”

  “True.” Judith slid down behind the log and signaled for Renie to be silent. A few yards away, they could just make out two people coming from the opposite direction. Even though darkness was settling in, Judith recognized Alice Hoke. But the man who was limping at her side was not Chief Clooney.

  It was Titus Teacher.

  They went into the boathouse.

  EIGHT

  AS EXPECTED, RENIE’S mother answered the phone. She expressed dismay at having missed her daughter’s earlier calls. “I talked to Mrs. Parker up the street for only a minute. And to Auntie Vance to thank her for the lovely chicken and noodles. Oh, and Ellen, in Nebraska. They got home safely this afternoon.”

  Renie was accustomed to her mother’s marathon bouts on the telephone. Deborah Grover loved the phone as much as Gertrude Grover despised it. Now, with the sisters-in-law under the same roof, Renie wondered if her mother didn’t use the instrument not only as a source of pleasure but as a shield to ward off Gertrude.

  Patiently, Renie listened to her mother’s account of Aunt Ellen and Uncle Win’s airline adventures, Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince’s problems with the ferry schedule, and Mrs. Parker’s dilemma with her miniature poodle, Ignatz, which had suddenly become un–house-trained.

  “People certainly have their troubles,” commiserated Renie, with a glance at Judith who was checking the newspaper for the funeral times. The cousins had agreed not to worry their mothers by mentioning the murder. “Are you and Aunt Gertrude getting along okay?”

  The slightest hesitation caused Renie to frown. “Well—yes. All things considered.”

  Renie could imagine what all those things actually were, which mainly meant Gertrude being Difficult. “Do you think Aunt Gertrude is…adjusting?”

  Deb’s voice tightened. “She’s adjusting the thermostat right now. I honestly don’t think we need to have it up to seventy-five when it’s almost eighty outdoors.” Her voice rose a
s she spoke, presumably for Gertrude’s benefit. “She adjusted the refrigerator, too. Our milk froze. Then she adjusted the bathroom scale. I’ve lost ten pounds. Now she’s adjusting the floor lamp. Gertrude, do you mind, dear? I’d really like to keep the bulbs in their sockets.”

  Renie blanched. “Mom—call somebody and get up a card game for tomorrow. You know how much Aunt Gertrude loves to play cards. It’s too bad your church group doesn’t meet for bridge during the summer.”

  Deborah Grover sighed, a martyr’s last breath before the fatal blow delivered in the name of heresy. “If I do, you know who will have to fix the snack. Even in my wheelchair, some people expect to get waited on.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “But don’t worry about me,” Deb went on. “It’s not too much trouble. It’s just that my hands get so sore from pushing the wheelchair. It bothers my back, too. And my bad hip.”

  “Maybe one of the other players could pick up…”

  “I thought about calling Dr. Clapp and making an appointment for next week, but I don’t know when you’ll be home. Besides, I so hate to bother you. You’re always so busy with your little drawings.”

  As ever, Deborah Grover’s cavalier dismissal of her daughter’s graphic design career rankled, but Renie was used to it. Despite the fact that Renie usually stopped by her mother’s apartment once a day and called at least twice, Deborah still resented the fact that her daughter felt compelled to work. Or at least do something with her time that didn’t involve her mother.

  Renie kept a tight rein on her patience. “Go ahead, call the doctor. I’m sure I’ll be back by next Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday!” wailed Deb. “That’s a week from today! You’ll miss the Fourth of July! Why do you have to be gone so long?”

  “Because of Joe,” Renie replied in reasonable tones. “It all depends on when the doctors will release him.”

  Aunt Deb expelled another sigh, beyond martyrdom. “I don’t see why you have to stay there for over a week, Serena.” She was beginning to sound a bit cross. “Judith is a grown woman, she can be on her own for a few days. It would do her good. At least,” she added darkly, “she doesn’t have to put up with her mother any more.”