Grave Expectations on Dickens' Dune

by Anna Celeste Burke

  Judith hadn’t told us why Allen Rogow was anywhere near Dickens’ Dune. The abandoned bunker could have served as a private meeting place, if the murder was premeditated and someone had lured Allen Rogow to his death. I closed my eyes, but I could still see the stains on the cement floor and on that cushion. The police claimed to have found signs of foul play somewhere on Dickens’ Dune—did they mean inside the bunker?

  No one had ever found Allen Rogow’s body. The sound of the ocean waves below was a reminder that he wouldn’t have been the first dead man—or woman as my group of sleuthing friends and I had recently learned—to be dumped into a watery grave. A cold, clammy breeze swirled around my head and neck, leaving a tingle on my scalp. Domino and I both jumped at what sounded like boots on gravel.

  Had the man with the binoculars caught up with us? I wondered as I looked around for a place to hide. He’d given me no cause to run or hide, but my preoccupation with matters of the grave had me eager to get away. I gave Domino’s leash a tug and then bolted up the trail toward the summit.

  I paused to scan the trail below, but I couldn’t see anyone. There were more footsteps, and that got me moving again. We hadn’t gone far when I suddenly heard coughing, followed by words I couldn’t make out, and laughter. It was a woman’s laugh. I slowed down and allowed my breathing to ease up. That’s when I recalled a few words from the little of Dickens’ work with which I’m familiar.

  “There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!” In my case, “whoever you are” was more appropriate since it was a person and not a specter that had spooked me. Meeting another hiker on a public trail in broad daylight was no reason for alarm. Unlike Scrooge, I couldn’t blame my irrational fear on gravy or a bit of undigested meat since that wasn’t part of my breakfast.

  “Not a spook or a cutthroat, but a lesson learned,” I said aloud. “No more grave hunting alone.” To my surprise, Domino uttered a low guttural sound which got me climbing again. We didn’t stop until we reached a set of steps cut into the rock that led to the summit of Dickens’ Dune. At the top of those steps, the view was spectacular. Dizzying too, when I inched my way to the edge and looked down to see if I could catch a glimpse of who was on the trail below us.

  A bit of gravel slid off the side, and the male member of the couple below glanced up and made eye contact with me. A smile formed on his lips. As paranoia gripped me again, it appeared to me as a sly “gotcha” kind of smile. I stepped back from the precipice, trying to calm my beating heart and tame my wild imagination.

  I also quickly searched for another way down from here. I reached into my pocket where I carry a self-defense keychain weapon called a kubotan. It was quite useful, although the summit of Dickens’ Dune was an unfortunate place to have to take a stand. I searched again and spotted what appeared to be an old, abandoned trail. There weren’t any steps cut into the hillside where Domino and I stood, and the shadows made it hard to tell how far a drop it was to the ground below.

  Footsteps crunching on the rocky trail were closer now. I turned to face the point at which we’d stepped onto the summit, and braced myself for a confrontation. “Think, Miriam, think!” I muttered aloud. I’d seen the man before, but where? No good association popped into my mind as I struggled to recall who he could be, just a sick, uneasy feeling.

  Surely, we couldn’t have stirred up old trouble related to Allen Rogow’s death already, had we? Our investigation had barely begun. Had I met the man during one of the murder investigations that my friends and I had recently been mixed up in? Nothing registered.

  I pulled Domino closer as a new question formed, displacing my efforts to recall where I’d seen the man before. How did he know I’d be here this morning? He must have followed me. With that possibility looming, I heard those footsteps moving more quickly, accompanied by a hacking cough.

  “Let’s go!” I whispered. “Momma first.” I eased backward off the ledge and my feet touched the ground with no trouble. Domino followed, and we moved as quickly as we could, using the remnants of makeshift steps, slipping and sliding as we fled. I looked over my shoulder and didn’t see anyone coming after us. Soon, the old trail became easier to follow, although our descent was angled on a steeper decline.

  I continued to slip and slide on the loose gravel that had accumulated on the unkempt trail, but we were making great progress. If my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, this path would eventually lead us by a more direct route back to the parking lot. I didn’t look back as someone called out my name in a gruff tone. Was he still on the summit, or had he followed us using the same escape route we’d chosen? Could we beat him to the car? If not, then what?

  2 Of Trails and Trials

  “She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be.” ~ A Tale of Two Cities

  ∞

  “From dead ghosts to old graves,” Marty said. “What is it about the friends we keep?”

  “Friends or not, the people who come to us for help are always going to do it because they’re deeply troubled by a problem they can’t solve on their own. Otherwise, why bother to hire the Grand Old Lady Detectives? For our friends, it’s also a chance for us to be ‘truest to them in their season of trial,’” Charly replied.

  “Nicely put! The line about a ‘season of trial’ is from A Tale of Two Cities, isn’t it?” Neely asked. The phrase sounded familiar to me, but I could never have made the connection as Neely quickly had. “Inspired, no doubt, by the fact that your friend, Judith Rogow, is convinced the grave she wants us to find is on Dickens’ Dune.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Joe said as my eyes settled on him for a split second. He was piling food on his plate from a sidebar where Midge had set up our potluck buffet style. As usual, when my friends and I get together, we eat. There’s comfort in food, especially when the topic is foul play, now that our “active adult” pursuits include sleuthing. That was especially true for me, given my unexpected “trial” on the trail this morning.

  “I’ve never read A Tale of Two Cities. The only Dickens story I know is the one about Scrooge. That one was about ghosts and graves. Marley was some ghost, too!” Carl nodded in agreement with Joe’s commentary on Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. That story had made Scrooge a holiday icon almost as well-known as Santa.

  “He had heavy-duty chains to rattle, that’s for sure,” Carl added. The two men, who are best buddies and fancy themselves to be “Charly’s Angels,” high-fived each other. “Whether in the best of times or worst of times, Dickens’ writing is often preoccupied with the dark side.”

  “Well, he didn’t shirk from looking square in the face at the problems of his day, if that’s what you mean. He was a radical with a critical eye, although Scrooge ended up as a transformed man. Pip, in Great Expectations, did too. Still, he can be gloomy. Maybe that’s appropriate since we have a sad, old murder on our hands. I hope we can do more than offer support to your friend, Charly. Her ‘season of trial’ would end better with her ex-husband’s killer on trial in a courtroom,” Midge offered, sighing as she spoke.

  As an avowed Anglophile, who lives in the Austen Cottage, Midge’s comment about Charles Dickens being gloomy was a little surprising. Perhaps her disposition was due more to the case than the author for whom Dickens’ Dune had been named. Midge bit into a slice of Amish Tomato Pie, her eyes rolled heavenward, and her mood changed instantly.

  The pie recipe is a favorite from my old life in Ohio before my husband’s sudden death sent me west to Seaview Cottages. References to renowned writers like Dickens are everywhere in this area. That’s especially true in the Writers’ Circle where we all reside in cottages bearing authors’ names.

  “We don’t know yet that Leonard Cohen’s deathbed confession is true. If it is, and Judith’s ex-husband is dead and buried on Dickens’ Dune, I don’t want to raise her expectation that our investigation will bring his killer to justice. Who knows if the killer is even alive?” Charly
asked and sent a sideways glance my way.

  Had Neely caught that? I wondered as Neely pursed her lips and her brow furrowed.

  When I got home from Dickens’ Dune this morning, I called Charly and explained what had happened. In the safety and comfort of my Hemingway Cottage, it all seemed less dire than it had when Domino and I had run for it. Charly told me then what she was telling everyone else now—that Allen Rogow’s killer was most likely dead.

  She repeated what I’d already told myself. We hadn’t been involved in the investigation of Allen Rogow’s disappearance long enough to have stirred up much interest in tailing me or anyone else. She’d also pointed out that murderous cutthroats usually work alone and don’t bring a laughing woman along with them when they’re stalking their next victim.

  “It is an odd coincidence, and I don’t like coincidences that occur anywhere near an old murder scene, so cool it, okay?” She’d added.

  “I’ve learned my lesson. No lone wolf behavior when we’re working on a murder case. You’ve already told us that, but it’s a cold case, so I didn’t even think about it until Domino and I got out there on the trail.”

  “Trust your instincts, Miriam. The minute you feel uncomfortable, change course, especially when you’re in an isolated setting like that. Let me see if I can get someone to help us identify the driver of the car parked next to the guy wielding those binoculars. That plate looks like one used by a rental car company.”

  Fortunately, even in my frantic flight, I’d had the presence of mind to pull out my cellphone. I’d snapped a couple of photos of the license plate on the car parked in the lot before taking off. I tried to let it go and refocus on what Charly was saying now.

  “I believe Judith would settle for knowing where her ex-husband’s body is buried and, perhaps, moving him to consecrated ground,” Charly added as she addressed all of us.

  “That’s good to hear, but how are we going to find his body decades later when the police weren’t able to do it while the trail was still warm?” Marty asked with an anxious expression on her face.

  I’d asked myself the same question many times in the few days we’d spent recovering from the startling revelations behind a series of unfortunate events at Shakespeare Cottage. The property is still under armed guard, as federal agents work with local and state police to recover pricy stolen property and search for clues about the owners’ involvement in a smuggling ring. The crime lab had already collected evidence about two murders from the location. Who knows what other secrets remain for the authorities to find? I flashed on the image of the man with those binoculars.

  Does he have an ax to grind about my involvement in that mess? I wondered before I responded to Marty’s question.

  “We didn’t have much to go on when we began looking into Robyn’s troubles in the Shakespeare Cottage, so who knows what we’ll dig up.”

  “Yuck, yuck,” Neely interjected. “Pun intended I assume. When it comes to digging up old bones, let’s leave it to the dogs.”

  “No one on two legs or four legs is going to disturb Allen Rogow’s resting place if we find it. Not until the crime lab folks have had a crack at it,” Charly interjected in a firm voice. “You can do all the digging you want in cyberspace, but no poking around on the dune until we have a better understanding of what we’ve taken on by agreeing to help Judith.” Charly caught my eye once again, and I nodded. This time, I was sure Neely noticed the brief exchange before she spoke.

  “I’ve already read the old news I could find about Allen Rogow’s disappearance, which isn’t much. Social media didn’t exist; no Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. The Internet wasn’t used by us regular folk much then either. I can try to do a search of online newspaper archives. We might find useful information if the story of Allen Rogow’s disappearance got picked up by the national news outlets.”

  “I already tried to do that, Neely, but without any luck. I think we need to make a trip to Duneville Down Public Library and go through their microfiche archives the old-fashioned way. What we do have that the police didn’t have when Judith Rogow’s ex-husband went missing, is Leonard Cohen and his deathbed confession about Allen Rogow’s murder. That’s a fresh place to start.”

  “Won’t the police do that and look into the matter again now that they have Leonard Cohen’s confession?” Marty asked.

  “That’s a very good question. It’s the first issue that concerned me once Judith explained why she wanted to hire us. Judith’s convinced that no one cared much about Allen’s disappearance at the time even though there were suspicious circumstances. She felt they saw him as just one more troubled vet who’d turned to drugs to solve his problems, and she doesn’t believe they’ll care more about it now. Since I spoke to her, I’ve used my contacts with the local police to see if there’s a cold case team, or anyone else assigned to take a new look at Allen Rogow’s case. So far, Judith appears to be right that no one’s chomping at the bit to do anything.”

  “At least we won’t be stepping on anyone’s toes,” Joe pointed out. “I’m not looking forward to bumping into Deputy Devers again soon. He may not be as scary as the bad guys we’ve run into, but he’s far more annoying.”

  “If you think he’s been disagreeable in the past, wait until he finds out the insurance companies are paying us a reward for helping them recover millions of dollars in stolen art,” Neely asserted.

  “I’m not going to mention it, are you?” Marty asked. “Not unless he hears about it elsewhere and decides to go after Miriam. I’ll have plenty to say to him if he annoys her after she made sure the insurance companies shared the reward with all of us.”

  “I would have given anything to see what was in that vault,” Joe added. His eyes still bore the glint of what Detective Eddie Vargas had called “treasure hunt fever.”

  “Does that include your share of the reward?” Carl asked. That brought Joe to his senses.

  “No, it does not. I’ll settle for pictures taken by the evidence specialists, thank you very much,” he replied. “If we ever get to see them.”

  “To be honest, I would have enjoyed being the one to open the vault,” I said. “The reward money is a great consolation prize, and I have no doubt that Charly can find someone who will share the photos with us.”

  Consolation prize is an understatement. The money was a godsend given how close to the edge of financial disaster I’ve lived since I became a widow and inherited a legacy of debt my husband had skillfully hidden. He’d depleted our savings, and the pension I receive as his widow is barely enough to live month-to-month. Thanks to the windfall coming from the insurance companies, I felt like I could breathe again for the first time since Pete died more than a year ago.

  “The next time you and Hank go out for dinner, why not work it into the conversation? Maybe you can arrange a trade—cookies or one of these delicious tomato pies in exchange for pics!” Neely teased.

  I wanted to come up with a witty retort, but I’m still tongue-tied at the mention of my personal involvement with the detective. That’s especially true now that, at fifty, he’d been my first date in three decades. Charly came to my rescue.

  “He’s already promised to share the pictures with us,” Charly responded. “Let’s save the food as a bribery option until we need it again. So far, it has come in handy, but I don’t want to push our luck.”

  “Miriam’s treats have been helpful as a way to put people at ease and start a conversation, that’s for sure,” Neely said. “More like an ice breaker than a bribe.”

  “Which we don’t need with Hank. Not only has Miriam broken the ice but from what I’ve heard they’re going public with their relationship. She’s his date for the County Sheriff’s barbeque fundraiser.” Charly winked as everyone stared at me.

  My mouth fell open since I hadn’t told her about it. Nor had I used the word “date” when I referred to the lovely evening that Hank and I had shared over dinner. I prefer to think of my “relationship” with Hank as
the start of a friendship, not a romance. Still, Hank had called it a date when he asked me to go with him to the fundraiser. Had he mentioned it to Charly, or were the local gossips whispering about it?

  “I’m sure Hank told you it’s, uh, for a good cause,” I stammered. “They’re raising money for their K-9 Unit. He also must have told you that he doesn’t like going to those events alone.” Charly didn’t give anything away. Joe smirked as I squirmed until, mercifully, Carl switched the subject and placed Joe’s love life center stage.

  “Joe’s already been on his second date with Robyn, right, Romeo?”

  “Yep! Robyn is a better golfer than you are. Better than me, too, but I don’t mind a challenge, do you?” Joe asked, probably hoping Carl would jump into the fray and set off a round of banter. When Carl merely shrugged, Joe gave up. “Can we get back to business since now that you brought it up, I promised to go look at a golf cart with Robyn later this afternoon? If it’s in good enough shape, she’s going to buy it and move it into her garage when the sale closes on her cottage.”

  “We don’t have much more business to discuss until Judith Rogow joins us for dessert. I hope she can give us more background about her ex-husband’s disappearance. Memory is an odd thing—it fades over time, but sometimes when revisiting the past, a new piece of information works its way into the retelling of the story,” Midge suggested.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said as I finished the salad that Midge had made to go with our pie. It was her turn to host a gathering of our group. The Austen Cottage reflected Midge’s love of old English country cottage décor, but she’d artfully blended it with her practical, no-frills approach to life.