Clam Wake (30 page)

Renie looked up at the derelict home from which the old man ruled over Obsession Shores. “I wonder if she notices the rain that much. We don't, unless it's a downpour. We're natives.” She involuntarily shivered as they approached the vacant lot next door. “I think I'm spooking myself.”

“Take it easy,” Renie cautioned. “I doubt they'll release the hounds.”

They stopped just beyond the Quimby property, gazing at the overgrown lot that remained unsold. Vine maples, wild blackberry bushes, salal, Oregon grape, and several varieties of ferns had sprung up in nature's attempt to reclaim the vacant lot.

“Why?” Judith said under her breath.

“Why what?” Renie asked.

Judith shook her head. “I don't understand why this lot was never sold. Didn't it perc? If not, why didn't the Quimbys plant vegetables or something? They went to the trouble to clear it. If a sewer system is put in, it's probably worth close to a hundred grand. Like all the other lots, whoever builds here has an amazing view.”

Renie smirked. “And live next door to the Quimbys? No thanks.”

“The buyers wouldn't know that,” Judith said. She walked carefully off the road and onto the property. A glance to her left surprised her with a narrow view looking over to Scratchit Head. “Hey, coz,” she called to Renie, “I forgot about the adjacent community of Dandy Look. How do you get there from here?”

Renie joined Judith, craning her neck to glimpse the narrow spit with a single road between the homes on each side. “You don't. You take the road just before the turnoff to Obsession Shores. Hey, that means if you really want to carry out your phantom-ship sighting tonight, all we have to do is drive back out to the highway and turn into Dandy Look.”

“You're right,” Judith agreed. “It's a smaller community, but they have their own marina. Maybe that's where the mystery boat is kept.”

“Of course.” Renie grinned. “That solves that. We don't have to go out tonight after all.”

“Yes, we do,” Judith declared. “I want to be certain. It could come from Scratchit Head or . . . some other place,” she murmured.

“How about Uranus?”

“What?”

Renie sighed. “Never mind. Are we done here?”

“I guess so,” Judith said, but walked carefully up the slight slope, trying not to let the wet underbrush dampen her slacks. “I'll bet the deer come here quite often. Lots of greenery for them to munch on. Too bad they prefer Auntie Vance's rose . . . oops!” She staggered slightly as her right foot struck something solid. “Damn! I hit my toe.”

Renie hurried to her cousin's side. “Did you do any damage?”

“To myself, or whatever I hit?” Judith didn't wait for an answer. “I'm fine. It was my good hip's side.”

Renie looked relieved. “What was it? A root?”

“No.” Judith moved her foot around, trying to make sure she wouldn't stumble again. “Here. You bend over. It feels like a rock.”

“It's cement,” Renie replied after yanking away the tall grasses and a couple of ferns. “Good grief,” she gasped. “It's a tombstone.”

Judith moved closer. “I can't lean down. Can you see the name?”

“Yes,” Renie replied. “It's not that old. Let me brush off more dirt and leaves.” She worked quickly, clearing the simple marker to reveal a name and dates. “‘Blanche Marie Moreau Quimby, born April 3, 1921, died August 31, 1998.'”

“Quimby's wife,” Judith murmured, crossing herself. “She was several years younger than he was.
Is
, I mean, still being alive. But why bury her here? And not keep up the grave site?”

“Good question,” Renie agreed. “He wanted her close by, but . . .” She shrugged. “It's futile trying to make sense of Quentin Quimby's mind-set.”

Judith sighed. “It certainly is. I suppose this burial site is why the lot's never been sold. Let's get out of here. I don't like this place. If I believed in ghosts, I'd swear it was haunted.”

The cousins trudged back to the Weber house in silence. The rain had stopped and the pale sun was setting over the Peninsula. Judith finally spoke when they reached the deck.

“I wonder if the Sedgewicks know about Blanche's grave. I think I'll call them when we get inside.”

Renie undid the lock and opened the door. “Go ahead.”

As soon as Judith took off her car coat, she went to the phone on the kitchen counter. Jane answered on the second ring.

“Good timing,” she said. “We're about to have a cocktail. Want to join us?”

“No, thanks,” Judith said with an appropriate amount of regret. “Renie and I are going into Langton to have dinner at Cabaret.”

Jane laughed. “We haven't been there in ages. Dick swears he never knows what he's eating. It's always good, though.”

“That's encouraging,” Judith said. “We just got back from a little walk. What do you know about the vacant lot next to the Quimby place?”

“Oh . . .” Jane paused. “Not much, really, except that Mrs. Quimby's grave is there. I guess the old coot didn't want to spend the money on a cemetery plot.”

“He could've made more money selling the lot,” Judith pointed out.

“Probably. But he's an odd one. Got to go. The cocktail lamp is lit.” Jane rang off.

“That's strange,” Judith said as she put the phone in its cradle. “I could swear Jane's fobbing me off about that empty lot.”

“Why would she do that?” Renie asked from where she'd parked herself on the sofa. “Did she know about the tombstone?”

“Yes.” Judith sat down next to her cousin. “What I'd really like to know is why that lot gave me the creeps. Did it affect you that way?”

Renie shook her head. “Seen one empty lot, seen 'em all.”

The response didn't help Judith shake off her eerie sense of doom.

T
here was only a brief wait at Cabaret. The small dining room was full after Judith and Renie were seated at six thirty. Their table wasn't by a window, but darkness had descended, so they didn't complain.

“How do we know what we'll be eating without a menu?” Judith asked.

“We won't,” Renie replied. “For all I know, they only prepare one item each night. Let's hope it's something we like. If not, dinner's over, as Grandma Grover used to say when anybody griped about what she'd cooked.”

Happily, the bespectacled, middle-aged server identified herself as Wanda and informed them that the entrée du jour was prawns with truffles. Renie licked her lips.

“We get greens and bread, too,” she exulted. “And all for under thirty bucks.”

“You call that a bargain?” Judith shot back. “There better be at least a dozen prawns.”

“Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to be a pig,” Renie chided. “You're irked because you haven't spotted anyone to interrogate.”

Judith's gaze roamed to the entrance. “I have now. Here come the Bendareks and the Blomquists.”

“Great,” Renie muttered, craning around to glimpse the newcomers. “Just when I wanted to take a sleuthing break.”

Judith squinted in the candlelit interior. “Relax. They haven't spotted us.”

Wanda arrived with the wine that she'd suggested as an accompaniment.

“The Chardonnay is from Sonoma,” she whispered with a hint of apology. “The French wines are a bit pricey for our clientele.”

“No problem,” Renie said. “They all taste like mouthwash to me.”

Wanda smiled weakly. “How . . . clever.” She practically galloped away, almost colliding with the foursome of women who were getting out of their chairs at the adjacent table.

“Oh, drat,” Renie said with a sigh. “Now the Bendareks and the Blomquists will be grilled along with the prawns.”

“Stop griping and start drinking like everybody else.” Judith lifted her wineglass. “To finding a killer.”

Renie looked disgusted, but lifted her own glass to touch Judith's. “Before he or she finds us. Gosh, I feel better already, you twit.”

Judith was unmoved by the sarcasm. “Motive. We still don't have one. Don't forget this seems to be a premeditated homicide. Well timed, if there really were no witnesses.”

“Imminent storm scared everybody off the beach,” Renie noted. “Except Ernie, of course.” Her eyes strayed beyond Judith. “End of discussion. Obsession Shores crew about to be seated at the adjacent table for four.”

If the newcomers noticed the cousins, they didn't react. The quartet seemed caught up in their own company, especially Becca and Katie. Judith was glad to see that Becca looked happy, no doubt because she was in the company of a woman who wasn't eligible for Social Security.

Judith made a face. “I am not trying to eavesdrop,” she declared.

“And the world ends tomorrow. Which,” Renie continued, “reminds me to ask if we are, in fact, leaving here in the morning.”

Judith couldn't help looking put off. “Well . . . under the circumstances, I feel it'd be wrong to turn away from what's happened. Wouldn't Auntie Vance say we were chickens?”

Renie looked askance. “She'd be more likely to think you'd had a personality transplant. It's fine with me, but what about the B&B?”

“You're right.” Feeling guilty about imposing on her neighbors, Judith grabbed her purse and car coat. “I'll alert the Rankers now before they get Mother settled in for the night.” She stood up to go outside.

Judith didn't have to worry about noisy traffic on Langton's main street. Only one car and a small van passed by as she placed the call to Hillside Manor. To her surprise, Gertrude answered.

“You're still alive?” the old lady inquired, sounding faintly disappointed. “You picked up any sailors yet?”

“No, Mother,” Judith replied. “Is Arlene there?”

“Who's Arlene?” Gertrude shot back. “What's the matter with you? Are you asking for bail money or have you and that squirrel-bait niece of mine kept out of trouble?”

“We're fine,” Judith assured her mother. “But we're going to stay over another night. Are you okay?”

“Other than waiting for the Grim Reaper? Carl and I are playing cribbage. Arlene makes dinner at a sensible time—on the table by five fifteen. We had chicken and dumplings tonight. No feathers on the chicken either. Unlike yours.”

“That's . . . good,” Judith said. “Could I talk to Arlene?”

“I suppose you could,” Gertrude grumbled, “but what for? You think I can't tell her you're not coming back tomorrow?”

“We still might,” Judith said, “but it'd be more toward evening. I wanted to make sure that—”

“Judith?” Arlene's voice was at the other end. Obviously, Gertrude had handed off the phone. “Is something wrong?”

Judith was glad her neighbor couldn't see the grim expression on her face. “Not really. Renie and I didn't want to fight Sunday-night traffic, so we may not be back until later tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course!” Arlene exclaimed. “It's been quite a while since Carl and I've been able to spend time with your darling mother. She's such a joy, like a burst of sunshine in the middle of August.”

“You mean January,” Judith said with a weak little laugh.

“No, I don't. Yes, Carl and I will be delighted to spend more time here. Your guests have all been well behaved. Except for the Turk.”

“The Turk?” Judith didn't recall any guest reservations with Turkish names. “Dare I ask what happened?”

“He misplaced his fez,” Arlene replied. “I found it. Sweetums had dragged it into the kitchen and seemed quite intrigued by the tassel.”

“Oh. That's . . . good.” Judith recalled that the weekend guests included a man and his wife who were passing through town en route to a meeting in Portland for the Shriners' children's hospital. The last name was Olsen. “I'm glad everything's fine. Any new reservations?”

Arlene laughed. “How would I know? We don't own a computer. Nobody's called, though. You're certain everything's all right with you up on the island?”

Judith had been hoping Arlene wouldn't ask, but perhaps the homicide story had been on TV or in the newspaper. “Yes, really. Renie and I are always cautious in these situations.”

“Good,” Arlene said. “Those ferry rides can be risky. So often they run into other boats or go aground. Do make sure the captain on your return trip is sober. I must dash. I promised your dear mother an extra serving of blueberry cobbler for dessert. Oh, dear—I think she just won again at cribbage. Poor Carl.” Gertrude's triumphant cackle could be heard in the background as Arlene hung up.

Judith clicked off the cell, wondering if the Rankers and her mother had missed seeing the news about the Whoopee Island homicide. Given that it had happened out of town, the big city daily might have relegated the report to a mere paragraph. The local TV stations wouldn't bother sending a crew out of town.

After putting the cell in her purse, Judith noticed a man walking toward the restaurant. As he passed under the streetlight, she recognized him as Jack Larrabee. He stopped a few paces away. “Mrs. Finn?” he said in surprise.

“Flynn,” Judith responded. “I saw you here in Langton yesterday.”

“Yes.” Jack seemed amused. “You were right about the weather. It's been kind of gloomy until late this afternoon.”

“Where are you staying?” she asked as a car carrying a bunch of teenagers drove too fast down the main drag.

“At Scratchit Head,” he replied. “A former colleague retired here. He and his wife invited me stay with them.” He paused. “Are you going inside or do you enjoy hanging out on small-town street corners?”

“I had to call the B&B to see how things are going without me,” Judith said, trying not to be annoyed by his comment. “My cousin and I are waiting for our entrées.”