by Mary Daheim
“What about Eldritch?” asked Judith.
“He’s only been sheriff for about five years. The guy he replaced was so old and daffy that everybody knew he couldn’t find a fly in his soup. Say, what’s for supper, Flynn? Gin.” Jake spread out his cards again.
Joe was bemused. “You lucky old son of a gun. I’m going to have to dip into my pension fund to pay you off.”
Jake was fingering a small menu printed on a buff-colored card. “I checked the box for the turkey divan. What’s that? You suppose they cooked up a sofa? Most of this food tastes like old upholstery.” His sharp little eyes raked over the cousins. “How about some poker? Those lazy lard bucket nurses are late with our supper tonight.”
Judith smiled at Jake, then reached for her purse. “Renie and I are better at bridge. Sorry, Jake, but we have a dinner reservation.” She neglected to mention the fact that it was over two hours away. “We want to show you something—except that we forgot to buy a magnifying glass.” She took the little scrap of map from its resting place in the handbag’s inner pocket and gave Joe a querying look.
It was Jake who responded. “Mrs. Wampole in D-208 has one. She uses it to read with. Cute little trick, even if she is lying about not being a day over seventy.” He chortled. “I ought to know, I read her chart.”
Renie went to fetch the magnifying glass, the price of the loan being a five-minute conversation. “It’s a good thing I went instead of you,” said Renie to Judith. “You’d still be there, hearing all about her four children, seven grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. I only got their names, ages, and addresses.”
Judith examined the map with Mrs. Wampole’s magnifying glass. “At least it’s in English,” she said. “Joe, write this down.” Her voice grew with excitement. “Four paces…Actually the p is gone, faded, I guess…king and queen of something or other…a hundred miles of…I can’t make it out, it’s just squiggles…Follow the bridge…Hmmmm.”
Joe, with his ballpoint pen poised over a copy of the hospital’s daily menu, made a face at Judith. “I’m supposed to write down that gibberish? The only thing that makes any sense is the part about the bridge. Here, give it to me. I’ll get Jake to pilfer a microscope.”
Judith was reluctant to part with the treasure map, but if there was anyone she could trust—other than Renie—it was Joe. “The handwriting is very old-fashioned. Of course they were English pirates. I wonder what king and queen they’re talking about?”
Renie was wrinkling her pug nose. “William and Mary?” Her minor at college had been in history; her heart was forever in England. “They’d be just a few years too soon for the early seventeenth century. Isn’t that when these pirates were supposed to be chasing the Spaniards all over the coast?”
“I think so,” said Judith who was vague about names and dates when it came to the British royal house. Her English passion was literature, especially Dickens and the Lake poets. “You read the brochure this morning,” she added with a faint hint of reproach.
“Right,” agreed Renie. “Early seventeen hundreds. Queen Anne, then George I, the first Hanover. His queen was shut up in some German castle because she’d been caught dallying with a Swedish count.”
“No account, probably,” put in Jake, who was getting bored with Renie’s recital. “Nothing around here named for any of those royal majesties. This ain’t Canada, toots.”
Dinner, served by a waddling nurse with a surly expression, arrived. Although Joe and Jake had ordered different entrées, both plates looked exactly the same. “I’ve got sole,” said Joe.
“I’ve got rhythm,” said Jake. “I wish I had booze. Or at least some real turkey. Wild Turkey, maybe.” He chortled, but his mirth faded as he tasted his food.
Judith and Renie announced that they had to get ready for their own dinner. Joe gave his bride a bleak look. Jake offered to give Renie the bird—off his tray. The cousins made their exit.
“Next time,” Jake called after them, “we’ll play some poker. I’ll swipe some pills to use for chips.”
Judith hoped he’d remember to swipe the microscope first.
After Judith called Arlene to learn that Sweetums still hadn’t shown up, Renie got Darren Fleetwood’s number from Directory Assistance. When she dialed his residence in Malibu shortly after 7:00 P.M., a pleasant masculine voice came on the line. The recording announced that no one could come to the phone at present, but to leave name, number, and any message at the beep. Renie hung up, a perplexed expression on her face.
“Well?” inquired Judith.
“He sounded sort of…familiar,” said Renie.
“Let me try,” said Judith. She placed the call, then listened intently. “You’re right. Unless we want him to sound familiar.”
“Who does it remind you of?” Renie asked.
Judith fingered her chin. “I’m not sure. Yet.”
Renie arched her eyebrows. “But you can make a guess?”
Judith tipped her head to one side, in the direction of the motel. “Maybe.”
“I thought so,” said Renie. “The Green Dragon?”
“Could be,” said Judith. “But phone voices often lie.”
“So do people,” noted Renie.
“So they do.” The cousins exchanged quizzical looks.
La Bastide had been inspired by a guest house in Provence, but built by none other than Bernard Hoke as a summer retreat for a Portland banker. Located a half mile off Highway 101 and five miles south of Buccaneer Beach, the banker had not opted to take advantage of the ocean view, but instead had chosen a site nestled among tall evergreens next to a creek that wound indolently through lush ferns.
The small terrace featured planters overflowing with bright summer flowers. Judith and Renie agreed to have an aperitif outside but to dine in the main part of the restaurant. Renie in particular was not keen on eating al fresco. She insisted that too often unwanted extras were added to the food—like bugs. But at least it was cool on the terrace, with the sun finally starting to slip behind the cedar, fir, and cottonwood trees which surrounded La Bastide and its small, well-tended garden.
It was Renie, perusing the appetizing, but brief menu, who discovered that Alice Hoke’s late husband had built the house. A somewhat effusive paragraph on the inside front cover related the establishment’s history.
“Alice,” said Renie, putting the menu aside, “is the only person we really haven’t talked to much.”
Judith sampled the spicy pâté en croute chaud they had decided to share for a starter. “She doesn’t want to talk to us, as far as I can tell.”
“Or anybody else,” agreed Renie. “At least we shouldn’t feel picked on.”
“Or so the story goes,” mused Judith. She twirled the stem of her aperitif glass in her fingers. “Has it struck you as strange that after seven years of apparent seclusion, Alice has come out of the woodwork?”
Renie considered. “But has she? Having her sister murdered sort of forces her to put on a public face.”
Judith allowed Renie to finish the last of the pâté. “I don’t mean that so much as the fact that she started seeing Neil Clooney, she allowed the Limas to park their RV on her property, and she didn’t prevent the younger Hokes from making the trip from Pocatello. Why have all these things happened now? And about the same time that Leona Ogilvie shows up in town?”
A waiter, whose aura was more evocative of Anaheim than Avignon, ushered them to their table in the salon. Lace curtains fluttered at the windows; lace draperies depended from the ceiling lamps. A mural depicting joyous farmers under sun-drenched skies in the fields of southern France covered one end of the room. Dried flowers stood in various gleaming copper utensils. The cousins smiled their approval.
“So what you’re saying,” Renie noted after they’d given their dinner orders, “is that Alice Hoke played the hermit for what—seven years?—and suddenly emerges when her sister shows up? Psychologically, that might not be too hard to explain. Bill would say
that when Leona returned, Alice had a need to establish her own identity so she…”
Judith waved a hand. “Don’t give me Bill’s deep-thinking crap, coz. Not,” she added hastily, seeing Renie’s face fall, “that there might not be something to it. But Alice reestablishing her identity wouldn’t get her sister killed. I’m looking for logic. Facts. Motives.”
Renie brightened at the sight of her big salad topped with warm chicken livers. “Were you saying that Alice refused to let her kids visit until now?”
Judith shrugged. “It sounds like it. From what I gather, neither Larissa nor Augie has been to Buccaneer Beach since their father died. Larissa and Donn Bobb may have been on the rodeo circuit. Augie and Amy were probably too busy having babies. But any normal grandmother would want to see the kids, even if it meant Alice going to Idaho.”
Renie munched on crisp lettuce. “Alice is not normal. I don’t need Bill to tell me that much.”
“Right.” Judith paused as the waiter returned to pour their house white wine, bottled by an Oregon vintner. “And I don’t need anybody to tell me that if Augie and Larissa both insisted on showing up to see their mother for whatever reasons, Alice couldn’t stop them from coming. But she could refuse to see them. And she didn’t. Meanwhile, she’s suddenly out running around with Neil Clooney. It’s not…logical.”
“So,” Renie speculated, “you figure something must have triggered all this social activity on Alice’s part. The obvious something being the Return of Leona Ogilvie, who promptly gets herself killed. Which is not logical, because the sister with the money is Alice. Unless…” Renie leaned across the table, unwittingly garnishing her blouse with the remains of her salad. “Could it be? Was it really Alice who got killed?”
Judith rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Augie and Larissa would know which one is their mother, even if they hadn’t seen her since their father died. Surely Neil Clooney could tell the difference. I remember that he gave quite a start when he saw the body, but that was probably because the resemblance is so strong. Even if they were all in on some sort of conspiracy, there would be other ways to prove the dead woman was Leona, not Alice. And why play out such a farce? It would work better the other way ’round.”
The waiter was removing their salad plates. “I wonder,” mused Renie, “who Alice’s will is made out to. Do you think Brent Doyle would tell us?”
Judith was staring off in the direction of the rustic mural. “No,” she replied after a long pause. “Weird.”
“What?”
Judith shook herself. “Nothing. I just had the craziest idea. Lunacy must be contagious in this town.”
“What kind of idea?”
But Judith declined to elaborate. “It’s too bizarre. Let me mull awhile. Or at least try to make some sense out of it.”
Renie was about to pester Judith, but the arrival of their entrees bought her silence. For the next half-hour, with breast of duck au poivre in front of them and a bottle of white wine beside them, the cousins agreed to put murder behind them.
The duck blew up at 3:00 A.M. Unaccustomed to such rich living for more than two or three days at a time, Judith’s usually stable stomach rebelled. Luckily, she had stashed some antacid tablets in her suitcase, but by the time her digestive tract had settled down, it was almost 4:00 A.M. and she was wide-awake. She sat in a chair by the picture window, watching the first dim streaks of light over the ocean.
It was about five minutes later that she heard a vehicle in the cul-de-sac. Judith thought nothing of it at first, since travelers had a right to arrive or depart at any hour of the night. For all she knew, one of their neighbors in the nearby houses worked an odd shift. But moments later, a soft thud sounded from the vicinity of the carport. Judith tiptoed out through the kitchen. She considered turning on a light, but thought better of it. Peering through the window in the back door, she saw a figure move, but couldn’t make out more than a vague outline. Quickly, she moved from the kitchen, to see if Renie might have awakened. Her cousin, however, was sleeping like a log. Judith returned to the back door, deciding that she had nothing to lose by flipping on both the kitchen and carport lights. As she did so, she heard an engine start up. Unlocking the back door, Judith nipped out into the carport.
In the murky predawn light, she could just barely identify the vehicle turning out of the cul-de-sac. It was the black van. Judith gazed around the carport. Everything looked all right. She blinked. Two of the cartons were back.
ELEVEN
“QUILTS,” SAID RENIE. “Nice.”
“Crazy quilts, as far as I’m concerned.” Judith used a hammer to pound the nails back into the packing crate. “Sheets and pillows in the other box. Why bring them back at four in the morning?”
“Why do anything at four in the morning?” Even at almost nine, Renie wasn’t fully awake. “You sure it was that black van?”
“Pretty sure,” said Judith, heading back into the kitchen. The cousins had decided to attend the funeral after all, and were going to eat a light breakfast before the ten o’clock service. “I wish I’d gotten the license number. Woody could find out through the Oregon State Patrol who that van is registered to.”
A knock at the door interrupted their coffee, toast, and juice. To Judith’s dismay, Terrence O’Toole stood in the doorway. “Hi, I brought you some extra Buglers. For your family and friends.”
“Thanks, Terrence.” Judith forced a bright smile. “We appreciate it.” She gave him a nod, presumably of dismissal.
Terrence didn’t budge. “I brought you a map, too. We printed them this year. Are you going to take part in the big hunt?”
Judith held out her hand. “I doubt it, but thanks anyway. When does it start?”
Terrence handed over the map, printed on what looked like a place mat. Sure enough, Judith noted that along with the weekly newspaper and the Chamber of Commerce, various local restaurants and other businesses were co-sponsoring the Buccaneer Beach treasure hunt. “Tomorrow,” replied Terrence, waving at Renie who duly waved back from her vantage point at the kitchen table. “They tell me it’s limited to public places, mainly the beach. On the back of the map, they show you where they’ve hidden the treasure over the years so there won’t be any duplication, like looking in the wrong places and unnecessarily disturbing property. You might want to keep an eye out; some of the people may try to use your staircase to get down the bank. Any resemblance to real pirates is intentional.”
Judith sorted out this information and took a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll watch for trespassers. And pirates.” Her smile was strained. “Thanks again, Terrence.”
This time he took the hint, and after stumbling over his own feet twice, departed from Pirate’s Lair. Judith closed the door, returned to the table, and set the place mat down. “Just what we need—more people tramping around at all hours. It’s a good thing Joe and I didn’t need serious privacy after all.”
Renie had polished off her third piece of toast and was beginning to acquire her normal alert air. She had put on her perennially smudged red-rimmed glasses and was studying the place mat. “Hey, coz, this looks like fun. See, it’s not so much a map, but a puzzle. ‘A&C don’t stand for me; take a bike or a hike and go due west. Look for the sign that was formerly wine; go down, me hearties, and find the chest.’ What do you think?”
“I think it’s bilge,” replied Judith, cleaning up their breakfast clutter. “We’ve got a real treasure map to decipher. If we can ever read the blasted thing. Come on, coz, let’s get dressed. It’s almost nine-thirty.”
The Buccaneer Beach All Souls Are Us First Covenant Church was a peculiar blend of architecture, featuring a crenellated stone roof, yellow siding, and square windows hung with stained glass plaques. The truncated steeple looked more like a wooden chimney. Inside, rose-colored, flocked wallpaper clashed with lighting fixtures made out of wagon wheels. A larger-than-life-sized portrait of Jesus hung in the sanctuary, showing a blond, athletic, smiling Savior, beckoning lost souls
to come forward and find salvation. Or play a little one-on-one. Judith couldn’t be sure. Accustomed to the subdued, traditional decor of Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church on Heraldsgate Hill, the cousins shuddered.
The pews were filling up rapidly. Black did not predominate, as it would have in an earlier era of strict etiquette. Indeed, many of the mourners had arrived in shorts and cutoffs. Judith and Renie had done their best, given the circumstances. Judith had brought along a black and white polka-dot summer dinner dress. Renie settled for beige silk with a black patent leather belt.
The cousins squeezed in near the rear, realizing after they’d sat down that Sheriff Josh Eldritch was just across the aisle and Brent Doyle was two rows up. As the organ, which had a surprisingly mellifluous sound, intoned the opening hymn, a grim-faced Alice Hoke took her place in front of the church with Larissa and Amy. Alice, dressed in a plain brown linen dress, frowned at her daughter’s tear-stained face. Amy’s attempt to pat her mother-in-law’s shoulder was rebuffed. When Chief Clooney bustled up the aisle to wedge his bulk into the row behind the family pew, Alice barely acknowledged him. Clearly, thought Judith, Alice Hoke preferred to experience her grief privately, perhaps even exclusively.
The babble of conversation faded away as the organ intoned its first doleful notes. Augie and Donn Bobb accompanied the flower-strewn casket, serving as pallbearers along with four men Judith didn’t recognize. Alice Hoke kept her eyes to the front, never so much as darting a glance at the approaching remains of her sister.
The funeral was a simple, if lengthy, affair, mainly due to the Reverend Roscoe Bumber’s interminable eulogy, a classic case of a man who knew not of whom he spoke. In his defense, however, the family apparently had provided him with a sketch of Leona Ogilvie’s missionary career and her zeal in seeking converts for Christianity.
“There, in the heat of the jungle, amid danger, strife, and disease, Leona May Ogilvie brought the Lord to those poor pagan savages who worshipped false gods,” Reverend Bumber declared in sonorous tones and with many flourishes. “Paying no heed to pestilence, flying in the face of wild beasts, defying the ignorance and poverty she found in every bend of the Amazon, Leona May Ogilvie sought to convert these simple, innocent natives with their sordid sexual pleasures and immodest attire with naked loins and bare breasts and…”
