by Mary Daheim
“Jeez,” muttered Renie.
“Help!” breathed Judith.
The Reverend raged on. Fortunately, there were no Wailers. At intervals, a hymn was sung. Judith’s favorite was Donn Bobb’s rendition of “Throw Out the Anchor, Someone’s Floating Away.” The cousins didn’t dare look at each other. Judith found her eyes roaming over the congregation. Alice Hoke remained rigid; Larissa wept copiously; Amy looked as if she might throw up. Judith didn’t much blame her, since Reverend Bumber was now thundering away about the most depraved of pagan sexual practices, which seemed to have something to do with making love with the lights on. Or at least during the day-time. Judith’s gaze wandered to the other side of the church. She poked Renie; Titus Teacher was sitting in the back row.
Next to him was the curly-haired young man from the Best Ever Over the Waves Motor Inn.
It was almost eleven-thirty before the funeral ended. Judith and Renie beat a hasty retreat to the MG, which they had had the foresight to park half a block away from the church on Ocean Avenue. They hadn’t wanted to take any chance of getting blocked in the parking lot.
“The address is 1708 Orca Drive,” said Renie, reading from the note she’d made before leaving Pirate’s Lair. “According to the map, we go up Tenth Street to Myrtlewood Avenue, turn right, then Seventeenth to Orca. Tenth isn’t cut through because of the power plant.”
It sounded simple enough to Judith, and it was. Five minutes later, they were at the Ogilvie-Hoke family home, a white two-story late Victorian house complete with a wide veranda and a turret. The Limas’ battered RV was conspicuously parked just off the sloping driveway.
“It’s a well-kept house,” Judith remarked, parking the sports car at the edge of the road. She noted, however, that the barn near the trees lining the property was somewhat run-down, as were a couple of other outbuildings at the edge of an untilled field. “It’s been a while since they took their farming seriously, though.”
Renie concurred. The cousins walked up the drive to the front door. Alice Hoke lived on the edge of town, mostly surrounded by forest. The slanted roof of a much newer house could be seen in the distance, but there was no other sign of nearby habitation. Except for the occasional passing car, Judith and Renie felt safe from prying eyes.
“This property must be worth quite a bit, too,” remarked Judith, working the lock with a tiny screwdriver. “What do you figure, at least a couple of acres?”
“I’m no judge,” said Renie. She watched admiringly as the door swung open. “Way to go, you common crook. You never lose your touch.”
It was true. Judith’s lockpicking skills, honed as a child when her boundless curiosity got the better of her, rarely failed. The cousins entered a long hall, with a staircase at one side, an old-fashioned parlor on the other. Judith led the way, and somewhat to Renie’s surprise, headed up to the second floor.
“What,” demanded Renie, speaking in an unnecessary whisper, “are we looking for?”
“I’ve no idea,” Judith replied candidly, “except that whatever it is won’t be downstairs. Let’s try picture albums, for one thing. And a passport, for Leona Ogilvie, the woman without ID. I’d like to know why.”
Picture albums weren’t easy to find. The first bedroom was clearly the master suite, with a big canopied bed covered by a lace counterpane. The only photo the cousins found was of an elderly couple attired in their best finery, standing by a Christmas tree. It reposed in a plain silver frame on the dressing table. Judith guessed it was Mr. and Mrs. Angus Ogilvie, Alice and Leona’s parents.
“No other pictures,” noted Judith. “No children, no grandchildren, no Bernie Hoke. Interesting.”
“No Alice, if it comes to that,” Renie pointed out.
“Right,” agreed Judith. “She’s not the sentimental sort. Still, you’d think she’d have at least one picture of her late husband.”
“Maybe they didn’t get along,” suggested Renie. “Alice must have been a pain to live with.”
“I’m sure she was. Twenty years of Alice could have helped make Bernard Hoke sail off into the sunset.” Judith gave Renie a wry look. “There were days with Dan when I felt like walking in front of a Metro bus.”
The cousins progressed to the next bedroom, a much smaller, considerably more cluttered, affair. A pile of magazines stood next to the bed. Religious tracts were scattered around the room. A dozen photos were stuck to the wall with transparent tape. All of them showed a much younger Leona Ogilvie with smiling native Brazilians in various states of undress. The blue corduroy jumper Judith had first seen Leona wearing was thrown carelessly over a chair.
Renie studied the pictures, most of which were curling around the edges. At a touch, one of them fell off the wall. “Whoops,” exclaimed Renie, retrieving the photo. “I should put this back up.”
“It won’t matter to Leona,” said Judith, rummaging through the bureau drawers. She turned suddenly, staring at Renie who had placed the fallen photo on the dressing table. “Hey—let’s see that!”
Judith examined the photo, which showed the youthful Leona in a bush jacket and split skirt, standing next to three young Brazilians in front of a native hut. “This picture—all these pictures—have been on the wall a long time. Look.” She pointed to the square of paint where the displaced photo had hung. It was much lighter than the rest of the wall. “Would Alice have put them up?”
Renie considered. “Doubtful.”
“Right,” said Judith, getting down on her hands and knees and reaching under the bed. She found a pair of fuzzy slippers, a heating pad—and Leona’s eelskin purse. “My wacky idea is getting less wacky by the minute.” Squatting on the floor, Judith methodically went through the purse: a crumpled handkerchief, a comb, a nail file, a roll of breath mints, a safety pin, a ballpoint pen, a coin purse with $18.37. There was also a plastic folder containing various cards. Eagerly, Judith drew out each one and studied it with care. She noted Leona’s ID, with the Orca Drive address, her Social Security number, a membership in a missionary society, and a temporary Oregon State driver’s license. The next day, July 1, would have been her fifty-first birthday. Judith felt like a ghoul.
“Damn,” she sighed, scrambling to her feet, “murder is an awful business.” She glanced down at the provisional license. “It’s dated about three weeks ago. Maybe I’m crazy after all.”
“Well, I’ll never know,” sniffed Renie. “Have fun arguing with yourself, and, as my mother would say, ‘Don’t worry about me.’”
Judith shot Renie a baleful look. “I’m not being coy, I just feel silly with a theory that…” She gave another start, then clutched at Renie’s arm. “There’s no passport! No credit cards, no bank cards, not even a library card!” Letting go of Renie, she rifled through the magazines. “Look! Some of these are over a year old!”
“So am I,” said Renie dryly. “So stop treating me like a nitwit baby.”
Judith went to the window to make sure no one was approaching the house. The coast was clear. She sat down on the bed, clearing away a pile of stockings and some underwear to make room for Renie. “I don’t think Leona Ogilvie got back in town only a month ago,” declared Judith. “I’ll bet she’s been here all along, living like a recluse in this house.”
Renie was understandably incredulous. “But why? What about Alice? Is being a hermit a family trait?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was high noon, and, she decided, high time to escape before any family members returned to the house. “I haven’t worked all this out yet. That’s one reason I didn’t want to say it out loud. I’m not even sure if it ties into the murder. But,” she continued, getting up and heading out of the bedroom, “I’m pretty sure Alice was never a recluse. It was Leona, posing as Alice. I’ll bet you fifty bucks Alice Hoke just got back from Liechtenstein a month ago. The next question is why she came home to Buccaneer Beach.”
It was just as well, Judith thought, that Jake Beezle was off in therapy when they arrived at the
hospital ten minutes later. She wanted to test her theory on Joe. He listened carefully as he spooned up the last of his vanilla pudding cup.
“I can check that on the phone,” Joe volunteered, referring to the alleged reentry of Alice Hoke into the United States. “I’ll do it when Jake’s not around. There’s no point in getting him any more involved than he already is. After all, he goes home tomorrow and this is a dangerous business.” The green eyes bored into Judith’s face. “You know that, I hope? You two won’t do anything stupid, will you? Like breaking into anybody else’s premises, including Sir Charles’ Souse’s houses?”
With a sheepish expression, Judith felt compelled to give her husband an assurance of discreet behavior. “Nobody knows we’re trying to solve this case. They just think we’re a couple of snoopy tourists.”
Her response didn’t entirely satisfy Joe, but he knew it was hopeless to try to enlist his wife’s full cooperation. He felt inadequate to protect her, and it rankled. The best he could do was help her find the killer—before the killer found her.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh, “you’ve got Leona living in seclusion at the family home. Any casual caller could mistake her for Alice because of the close resemblance. The family members haven’t been around in years, no doubt discouraged by Leona from visiting. When they finally do show up, Alice is right where she’s supposed to be. Leona’s there, too, suddenly back from Brazil.” He made a note in the margin of the Oregonian’s sports section. “It’ll take some digging, but I can find out when Leona Ogilvie really did come home from South America. Now tell me more about the clothing in the boathouse and all those mobile boxes.”
Judith moved Joe’s tray out of the way. “The clothes may have been planted in the boathouse to make it look as if Leona were in transit. Or perhaps she planned to move down there. Alice Hoke may not be a hermit, but she doesn’t seem to like people much. She hadn’t seen her own kids in seven years, yet neither Augie nor Larissa seem to find that too unusual. I’ll bet she was the kind of mother who didn’t want them underfoot, even when they were small. Having Leona around must have galled Alice. She may have latched on to Neil Clooney just to get out of the house. I doubt that she and Leona could have gone on living under the same roof for very long.”
Renie was prowling around the room, looking out the window next to Jake Beezle’s empty bed. “Somebody’s living in the boathouse right now, though,” she pointed out. “Titus Teacher, maybe.”
“Or Alice, escaping from Leona,” said Judith. “At least Alice uses it as a pied-à-terre. As for the boxes in the carport, I suspect they’re Alice’s, shipped via Lufthansa from Liechtenstein. She probably stored the stuff there, just as we thought Leona had done. But why those two cartons were brought back last night still mystifies me.”
Joe grinned. “I’m glad something mystifies you. It makes me feel bad to think that only the police get baffled.”
Judith sighed. “Oh, I’m baffled about a lot of things. Why was it necessary for Leona to pretend she was Alice in the first place? Why did Alice go away? What was she doing in Liechtenstein, of all places? How does any of this provide a motive for the crime? Leona the Recluse is as harmless as Leona the Missionary. What’s worse is that everybody seems to have an alibi.”
“Except,” Renie chimed in, “Titus Teacher and Darren Fleetwood. Whoever they may be.”
With a lurch that rocked Joe’s bed and jostled his pulleys, Judith reached for the phone book. “I’ll take care of Darren right now.” Moments later, she had spoken to the desk at the Best Ever Over the Waves Motor Inn. “Eureka!” she cried, her black eyes dancing at her husband and her cousin. “Darren Fleetwood is indeed staying there. He arrived Sunday. What do you bet that was him sitting next to Titus Teacher at the funeral?”
Renie gave a little snort. “He’s also sitting on some prime property. Shall we tell our local law enforcement fellows?”
But Joe intervened. “Keep off that turf. The sheriff and the police will get an anonymous telephone tip.” He raised his rust-colored eyebrows.
Judith rubbed her hands together. “Wow! If the man who has the only motive has no alibi, we may have this one in the bag!”
At that moment, Jake Beezle entered the room, using crutches and berating the surly nurse. “…Hopping like a damned stork! You try it, Tootsie Roll, and then after walking them phony stairs ’til you drop, you find your lunch is colder than a penguin’s hind end!” He simmered down when he saw the cousins. “Hey, my favorite visitors! Where’d you two get those nifty dresses? You both look real snazzy for this neck of the woods. You been to a funeral or something?”
Judith smiled at Jake as the nurse made her indignant exit. “Are you going to be okay at home, Mr. Beezle? Is there anyone to watch out for you?”
“Oh,” Jake replied breezily, “I’ll manage. I’ve got a couple who’ll do right by me.” He struggled with the crutches, then lowered himself onto the bed.
“It’s nice to have good neighbors,” Judith remarked, then stared as Jake raised his hospital gown a mite too far and revealed a microscope affixed to his bony thigh with surgical tape.
“Here, Flynn, take the damned thing, will you? Pinching it from the lab was a cinch, but I had a hell of a time hopping back from therapy. We can put some light on the subject with my super-duper flash I use for looking at the liquor ads in the magazines under the covers at night.”
In her excitement over the discoveries at the Ogilvie-Hoke house, Judith had forgotten about the old treasure map. Now, she could hardly contain herself as she watched Joe adjust the microscope and slide the scrap of parchmentlike paper into place.
“It’s still fuzzy,” he announced, “but I can make out a little more…That’s not paces after all, it’s four aces, four kings, four queens, four jacks. Then a hundred miles of…damn, that part’s still unreadable. Let’s see…Follow the bridge. It rules. Hunh.” For just an instant his green eyes flickered above the microscope. Then he gave a little shrug and turned a puzzled face to the others.
Judith and Renie insisted on taking a turn, too. But Joe was right. Whatever came after “a hundred miles of…” looked like a broken m. The part about the bridge was also hard to read.
“Sounds squirrelly to me,” said Jake, attacking his lunch tray. “What did these pirates do, sit around on their booty and play whist?”
Renie gave Jake a condescending smile. “As a matter of fact, they did. Not whist, but they certainly played cards. My husband, Bill, is always amused by the fact that people in the twentieth century think they invented every imaginable pleasure, including sex. He calls that attitude…”
“Sex!” interrupted Jake, and rolled his eyes. “I remember now! It was almost as good as booze!” He scrunched up his wrinkled face. “Or was it better? Maybe I should go see Mrs. Wampole before I check out of this dump.”
Grateful for the diversion, Judith steered the conversation back to the map. “A hundred miles, it says. Not to, but of. Of what?” She squinted again at the scrap of paper, then threw up her hands. “Oh, phooey, we’re getting sidetracked! This can’t possibly have anything to do with Leona’s murder.”
Joe’s eyes roamed the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. It might if somebody thought she had it. How do you know it wasn’t put under that rug very recently?”
“It seemed to be stuck,” said Renie. “But that was after I’d scrubbed the carpet.” She looked at Judith; Judith looked back. Joe’s suggestion was not implausible.
“If you could figure it out, and find a real treasure, you might find your motive,” Joe said. “I know it sounds weird, but there have been several instances of buried wealth uncovered along the Pacific Coast. A lot of them have been in sunken ships, but some have been on land, too.” He favored Judith with his most ingenuous expression.
“Well…” Judith gazed from her husband to the map. “I suppose…But when I stop to think about it, it seems like a wild-goose chase. I mean, even if there is something buried around here fr
om almost three hundred years ago, how would it tie in with Leona Ogilvie?”
Joe spoke in reasonable tones. “I told you—because she had this piece of map. It was in her house, wasn’t it?”
Judith was still dubious. “Maybe. I mean, it was, yes, but it all seems pretty obscure.” She jabbed at the map with her finger. “This is particularly obscure. Four aces, four kings, and so forth. The only bridge I know of in town is the one over Bee Creek.”
Joe didn’t meet Judith’s stymied gaze, but he bestowed a nod of approval. “That’s a start.”
“We’ll see,” said Judith. “Right now, it’s time to call on Darren Fleetwood.” She stood up, just as Rolf Lundgren strolled into the room, making his afternoon rounds.
“Hi, everybody,” the young intern said by way of greeting. “This is certainly a busy room. Where’d you get that microscope, Mr. Flynn?”
Judith knew Joe’s explanation would be interesting, even colorful. But she didn’t want to take the time to hear it. Besides, she could tell that Renie’s stomach was growling. Loudly. They made their escape.
To relieve Renie’s hunger pangs, and the less vociferous ones of her own, the cousins stopped at the diner overlooking Bee Creek. “At least we’re making a token effort at looking for the treasure,” said Judith as they slipped into a tall booth. “We’re near a bridge.”
“We’re near food,” replied Renie, “which is all that counts right now.” She glanced up from the menu which was designed to resemble that of an old-fashioned railroad car. “Are we really going to see Darren Fleetwood this afternoon?”
“Let’s say we’ll run into him.” Airily, she waved a hand. “It’s a beautiful day, at least if you like your weather in the eighties, so I presume he’ll be at the beach. If not, he may be hanging around the pool. We’ll find him.” Her buoyant mood slipped a notch. “Damn that Joe. I wish I’d married a man who didn’t know me so well.”
