by Mary Daheim
“Yes and no,” said Renie faintly. “Speaking of Judith, I’ll put her on so she can say hi to Aunt Gertrude, okay?”
Thus began the long winding down of the conversation between Renie and Aunt Deb, involving many reassurances of mutual love, promises of keeping safe, and fulsome wishes for a happy reunion. Out of breath and almost out of patience, Renie gratefully handed the phone to Judith.
“Well, you horse’s behind, what do you want?” rasped Gertrude. “I don’t have time to gab my head off on this stupid telephone. I’ve got to go fix the temperature on the hot water tank.”
“Just checking in, Mother. Are you okay?” Judith winced.
“Okay? What does ‘okay’ mean? I’m a crippled old woman shipped out of my house like some foreign leftover in World War II. DPs, they called them. I figure it stood for Dopey People, because they couldn’t find their way home. I know where my home is. But I guess I’m not welcome there any more. A fine thing; I might as well be living over a heating grate outside the public market.” Gertrude snorted loudly.
“Mother,” Judith began on a familiar weary note, “it was you who insisted you couldn’t live with Joe. We even offered to get one of those new condos a block down on Plum Street and run the B&B by remote control.” It had, in fact, been a fleeting idea, but the impracticality of living away from Hillside Manor had dashed the plan. So had the three-quarters of a million dollar price tag on the luxurious new residences.
“Bull,” replied Gertrude. “When are you getting home? My glasses need adjusting.”
“Why don’t you try adjusting?” Judith snapped, and was immediately repentant. “Sorry, Mother, I’m kind of beat.” Briefly, Judith considered telling Gertrude about the toolshed. And Sweetums. Maybe her mother already knew. If she didn’t, it might be better to save the news until Judith could deliver it in person.
“Beat?” growled Gertrude. “From what? Lying half-naked in the sun and getting sand up your nose? Or do you have to keep running over to the hospital to hold that shanty Irishman’s hand?”
“Mother…”
“Forget it, kiddo. You’ve made your bed, now you lie in it. Of course,” she continued at her primmest, “that’s all you ever really wanted to do in the first place with that wild Irish rogue.”
“Mother…”
“Got to go. Deb’s whining about sitting in the dark. Lord, how that woman can go on! I’m putting my ears in storage for the summer. G’bye.” Gertrude slammed the phone down so hard that Judith jumped.
Renie was standing by the picture window, watching the moonlight dance on the ocean. “We could take assumed names and stay here forever,” she mused, slowly turning to face Judith.
Judith was shaking her head. “They’re a pair, coz.” She stood up and stretched. Her back was definitely better, but still given to occasional twinges. “What did you just say?”
Renie looked blank. “Huh? Oh—about hiding from our mothers. A joke, right?” Renie didn’t sound too sure.
“Right.” Judith’s tone was also uncertain, but it had nothing to do with Gertrude and Aunt Deb. Dismissing the elusive thought, she pointed to the copy of the Bugler lying on the coffee table. “The funeral is at ten o’clock, Friday, Buccaneer Beach All Souls Are Us First Covenant Church, Tenth Street and Ocean Drive.”
Renie made a face. “I kind of hate to miss it. What do you bet the Wailers show up?”
“The what?”
“The Wailers.” Renie perched on the rocking chair. “When Bill and I lived in Port Diablo, there was a bunch of women who came to every funeral whether they knew the deceased or not. They sat together in the back row and wailed. It was God-awful. Maybe they do that in other small towns, too.”
“Jeez.” Judith rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get sidetracked. Why do you suppose Alice Hoke went to the boathouse with Titus Teacher?”
Renie yawned. “Is this a riddle? If not, then my guess is that she: a) owns the boathouse so why shouldn’t she go there with or without Titus Teacher; or b) wanted to collect whatever Leona had left there.” Renie gave a little shrug.
“What about c?” asked Judith.
“There is no c. It’s too late for c. I’m heading for bed.”
Renie was as good as her word. Judith noted that it was almost eleven and decided to follow suit. Lingering at the window for one last view of the ocean, she tried to plan their activities for the next day. Thursday. Perhaps Joe was right—they should tackle the police chief and the sheriff.
Yet Judith felt discouraged. True, a mere twenty-four hours had passed since Renie had stumbled across Leona Ogilvie’s body. Joe had said that if a murderer weren’t caught in forty-eight hours, the case often remained unsolved. Judith felt the pressure of that statement. But she and Renie couldn’t search Alice Hoke’s house until Friday. And even when they did, Judith wasn’t sure what they expected to find.
Suddenly aware that she, too, was very tired, Judith staggered off to bed. The window was open and the sound of the waves lulled her to sleep. She dreamed not of murder most foul, but of her mother, adjusting the ocean so that it ran down the drain and left nothing but an empty beach littered with bifocals.
Renie had found lamb kidneys in the local grocery store. She was elated, since Falstaff’s Market on Heraldsgate Hill rarely had them on hand. “These yokels probably don’t appreciate a good grilled kidney for breakfast,” said Renie happily over coffee.
“Gack,” said Judith, “I can’t think why not. How about frying up some goat gizzards?”
“Goats don’t have gizzards,” said Renie with an air of dignity. “I never understood why Grandpa Grover didn’t teach you how to appreciate good English cooking.”
“Because it doesn’t exist,” retorted Judith, going through the phone book to find the address of the sheriff’s office. She already knew where the police department was located, having passed it several times on Highway 101.
An hour later, after a brief visit with Joe in the hospital, the cousins were asking to see Josh Eldritch. His headquarters was situated in a no-nonsense one-story building at the south end of Buccaneer Beach on a side street near the high school and next to a shingle mill. The aroma of sawdust and smoke was pleasing to a pair of native Pacific Northwesterners.
Eldritch didn’t keep the cousins waiting long. He had them ushered into his crowded office after about a five-minute delay, and warily eyed them both.
“You know something we don’t?” he asked abruptly after they’d sat down on the other side of his desk.
“Probably not,” answered Judith. “That’s why we’re here. To see if we’ve picked up any information that might be helpful to you.” She gave the sheriff her most beguiling smile.
The sunken blue eyes turned quizzical. “What kind of information?”
Judith grew diffident, and not without reason. In truth, she and Renie had gone over their small store of facts at breakfast and realized they had learned very little. But Josh Eldritch didn’t need to know that. Yet.
“Leona Ogilvie’s stay in Vaduz, for one thing,” said Judith, hoping that her guess was correct. “Did she intend to settle here or go somewhere else?”
Eldritch’s lantern jaw dropped a jot. “What? Where’s Vaduz? California?”
“It’s the capital of Liechtenstein,” Judith said at her most self-deprecating. “You know—that little country wedged in between Switzerland and Austria. A lot of people go there for tax reasons—and other peculiar purposes.”
It appeared to be news to Josh Eldritch. “Europe, huh?” He rubbed at his long chin. “I thought she was in Brazil.” Catching himself, he waved a sinewy hand. “I mean, I didn’t know she’d been traveling in other countries.”
“Her passport must say so,” Judith remarked, still diffident.
“Her passport.” Eldritch cleared his throat and looked down at the cluttered surface of his metal desk. “Yeah, sure it would. Alice Hoke probably knows where it is.”
“It wasn’t with her other ID?�
�� Judith asked innocently.
Eldritch looked up. “Uh…No. We didn’t need to check ID. Clooney was pretty sure it was Leona, once the old goof gave it a thought. The Ogilvie sisters look a lot alike.”
“That’s true,” said Renie suddenly. “Leona had no purse. At least I didn’t see it the night of the murder.”
Judith gave her cousin a sharp look. “You’re right. But she did carry one, an eelskin bag. I wonder if she left it in the car.” She turned back to the sheriff. “By the way, where was her car? I know she drove a Buick, but there was no sign of it Tuesday night.”
“Clooney’s men found it parked up above the cul-de-sac, on 101,” Eldritch said grudgingly. “She must have left it there and walked down. It was only about a block away.”
“And her purse?” Judith asked encouragingly.
Eldritch waved his hand again, this time in impatience. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t there. If you think Neil Clooney is going to share any information with us, you’re dead wrong. What’s her purse got to do with it anyway?”
“The passport. It might have been in there.” Judith kept her tone amiable.
Eldritch pushed back from his desk, stretching out his long legs. “So what? She could have come from Timbuktu for all I care. What’s that got to do with her getting killed?”
Judith had to admit she didn’t know. “It just seems odd, since she let on she was in Brazil for twenty-odd years. It’s even more odd that she also let on to me that she was her sister.” Keeping her gaze fixed on Eldritch’s long face, she let the words sink in.
“The woman was daffy,” declared Eldritch. “Alice didn’t think Leona was fit to let loose. It’s a wonder Leona didn’t think she was the Queen of Sheba or some damned thing.” He pulled the chair back toward the desk and rested his arms on a stack of paperwork. “Look, this is probably just your typical screwball killing, some guy on drugs who wandered in from the highway looking for money and Leona Ogilvie happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t go for Clooney’s dumb-assed theory about buried treasure.”
The sheriff’s phone rang; he picked it up and asked the caller to hold. The request was obviously a signal for the cousins to be gone. He allowed them a parting shot of information. “Yeah, buried treasure. Every year we go through this with a hoked-up hunt put on by the Chamber of Commerce and some service organizations. And every year some crazy fool gets the idea that he can find a chest full of gold and jewels left over by the Spanish three hundred years ago. It’s a bunch of crap, but people are gullible as hell. If it were a crime, I’d haul them in.” He turned away and spoke into the phone. “Yeah—who’s picking off seagulls with an AK-47?”
The cousins trudged out of the sheriff’s office. “What now? Clooney?” Renie shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun. The forecast for the Oregon coast was a high of eighty-one. Summer appeared to have blown in on the western winds.
“I guess.” Judith stood by the MG and surveyed the sawmill’s dark dome through a stand of Douglas fir. “At least we can ask him about the buried treasure.”
“That sounds like a crock to me,” said Renie, getting into the sports car. “I’m with Eldritch on that one.”
Judith figured her cousin was right, but having called on half of the local law enforcement chiefs, she felt obligated to talk to the other, too. Neil Clooney, however, was out. One of his subordinates told Judith and Renie that his boss wasn’t expected back until just before lunch.
Out in the parking lot, Judith scanned Buccaneer Beach’s main street. The police department was two blocks from the newspaper office. “We could ask Terrence O’Toole about the treasure hunt except that I don’t think I can stand his feverish excitement.”
“We could ask Neil Clooney,” said Renie, pointing across the highway. “Isn’t that him going into the coffee shop?”
It was. The cousins waited for a break in the almost endless traffic, then ran for their lives. By the time they reached the restaurant, which was built in the shape of a giant oyster shell, Clooney was already at the counter, teasing the pretty redhead who was serving him coffee and a sweet roll.
Judith and Renie climbed up on the empty stools on each side of the police chief. He evinced surprise, with just a touch of irritation. “I’m taking a break,” he said, pointing to a clock with a picture of Elvis that hung above the confectionery cabinet. Elvis’s arms showed that it was not quite eleven.
“So are we,” said Judith. “Say, Chief, tell us about this treasure hunt. Is there really something buried from way back when?”
Clooney stuffed a chunk of sweet roll into his mouth. “Could be.” His words were muffled as he chewed lustily. “There were pirates around here, that’s for sure. But nobody’s ever found any treasure.” He washed the roll down with a big swig of coffee. “Lord knows they’ve dug up most of the beach from one end of town to the other and then some.”
Judith accepted a white mug of coffee and let Renie tear apart an elephant ear for sharing. The cinnamon- and sugar-covered coil was about a foot in diameter. Judith hoped it tasted as good as it looked.
“It’s interesting though,” remarked Judith. “Especially your theory. Or did the sheriff get it wrong?” She sampled the elephant ear; it wasn’t up to Begelman’s Bakery’s standards on Heraldsgate Hill, but it was pretty tasty.
“My theory? If you heard it from that moron, Eldritch, it’s probably all screwed up.” Clooney finished his sweet roll and waited for the redhead to pour more coffee. He gave her his most seductive smile. She gave him the cream. “I suppose our lamebrained sheriff is trying to steal my ideas. Again. My guess is that some nut was looking for the treasure and Leona got in his way. It’s that time of year.” He wiped off his mouth with a rumpled napkin. “There’ve been a lot of rumors over the years. A couple of them pinpointed the area around Pirate’s Lair. The beach, I mean. There were supposed to be secret caves or passages or some damned thing where the pirates hid out. But when the resort was built and later, when the motel went up, nobody found anything. I figure it’s all a bunch of hooey. If there’s any treasure, it’s probably someplace else.” He drank more coffee, then tossed the napkin on the counter.
“But,” persisted Renie, “people still believe in the tales?”
“Sure,” said Clooney, swiveling on the stool and barely managing to steer his bulk between the cousins. “People will believe anything, especially when money’s involved. Then they have this Freebooters’ Festival and treasure hunt and all the old stories get trotted out again. Midsummer madness, I call it. Happens every year.”
“But murder doesn’t,” Judith said quietly.
Clooney’s small eyes got smaller. “No. You’re right. It looks to me as if somebody got carried away this time.” He stood up and put a dollar bill on the counter. “Hey, Janice,” he called to the redhead, “that’s for you. I’ll make it a five if you can bake me a sweet roll like Alice does.”
“Alice bakes as well as sews?” Having latched onto the police chief, Judith was loath to let him go. “She sounds very accomplished.”
Clooney nodded in agreement. “You bet. She can make just about anything out of cheese. But her sweet rolls are tops. Night before last, she put frosting and brown sugar on top. Mm—mmm.” He closed his eyes at the delicious memory.
Renie looked up from her coffee. “That was the night of the murder?” She shivered. “Sorry—it just seems so strange. You and Alice were eating fresh-baked goodies while poor Leona was getting strangled. Life’s full of ironies, isn’t it?”
Clooney was quick to agree. “You bet it is. Hell, we weren’t that far away when it happened. I almost wanted to turn in my badge when I got the call after I took Alice home. It made me feel like a sap to have a homicide so close.” He wagged a stubby finger at the cousins. “But don’t go telling Josh Eldritch I said so.”
Judith’s expression was puzzled. “When you took her home? Where was she doing all this baking?”
Clooney plopped his
regulation cap on his head. “At the boathouse.” He winked. “We wanted to get away from Leona and Larissa and Billy Bobb Donn or whoever he is. Those goofy kids of hers kept tramping inside from the RV to use the bathroom. There’s no hookup in Alice’s yard.”
Judith’s puzzlement deepened. “I thought Titus Teacher lived in the boathouse.”
Clooney gave a shrug of his burly shoulders. “That screwball? He comes and goes. I can’t think why Alice let him stay there in the first place. If you ask me, he’s a common vagrant. And a moocher. I guess she wanted to have somebody around to watch things during the tourist season.” He looked up at the Elvis clock. “Hey—got to run. It’s almost time for lunch.” The police chief trotted out of the coffee shop. Apparently he wasn’t required to pay a bill.
Judith gave Renie the rest of her elephant ear. “This case is a bollix,” she declared. “What kind of procedures are these people using? There’s no cooperation between the two agencies, and for all we know, they’re putting obstacles in each other’s way. They don’t have any ID for Leona, they don’t know who Titus Teacher is, and now Chief Clooney tells us he was a stone’s throw away from the murder, stuffing himself with Alice Hoke’s brown sugar buns.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Renie with a faint leer. “Why can’t you get Joe to ask Woody Price to run these people through the computer at home? We might at least find out if they really exist. I’m beginning to feel as if I’m leading a rich fantasy life.”
“Getting Woody in on this isn’t a bad idea,” agreed Judith. “Let’s go back to the hospital and talk to Joe. I’m not hungry for lunch after eating that elephant ear.”
For once, Renie didn’t protest. The cousins drove up 101, noting that there were more banners, bunting, and reader boards in honor of the upcoming festivities. The brightly colored pennants which hung on every light standard gave the town a cheerful air. Given the death of Leona Ogilvie, Judith felt that a black wreath on City Hall might have been more appropriate.
