Clam Wake (35 page)

It took what seemed like a long time and several mumbled cusswords that would have done Auntie Vance proud, but Renie finally loosened the door enough to open it. “You're on your own,” she said, stepping back. “All I see is more dark.”

“Hey,” Judith said under her breath, “don't you have that little light on your key chain? Let me use it.”

“It doesn't shine very far,” Renie warned, delving again into her purse. “Here. I took the key chain with the light off my big key ring, just in case you don't come out of the basement. Good luck.”

Judith clicked on the light, which covered about a three-inch swath. She moved it to see how many stairs led to the basement. Only five were in view, but they were steep. There was a wooden handrail, which Judith grasped before leaving solid ground. Maybe it was a root cellar or a storage area as opposed to a full basement. Testing the wooden surface of the top step, she felt slick, damp moss underfoot and decided to take the steps one at a time.

Renie hovered above the opening. “For God's sake,” she whispered fervently, “don't fall!”

“I'm hanging on,” Judith assured her, counting the steps.
Five, six, seven . . . solid ground
, she thought—and realized she'd been holding her breath. Still moving cautiously because of the little light's restricted glow, she was able to see some discarded chairs piled on her left. The air smelled damp, even fetid. As she moved forward and her eyes seemed to grow accustomed to what little light that might have come in through the open door, Judith noticed the wall on her right was filled with cupboards. One of the doors hung open, its hinges broken. She glimpsed jars of what looked like cobweb-covered canned goods. Peering straight ahead, she saw a big wooden box. As she got closer, the big box's contents seemed to be protected by heavy plastic or maybe glass. Judith stifled a sneeze. From above, she heard a skittering sound, probably from the rats. Undaunted, she approached the box. The little light glinted on what Judith recognized was thick glass. She made out some kind of floral fabric, rotting with age. Moving the light over the glass, she saw what looked liked a pair of old kidskin gloves. She gave a start when she saw a face—and realized it was her own reflection. Judith laughed at herself for being so skittish and moved the light to the end of the box.

She took one look and almost dropped the key chain. Nausea overcame her. Covering her mouth with her free hand for fear of throwing up, she staggered to the staircase. Shaking all over and unsure of her footing, Judith croaked out the words, “Help me!”

Renie scrambled as fast as she dared down the steps and reached out to her cousin. “What is it?” she asked in a low, anxious voice.

Judith grabbed Renie's hand. “Wait,” she said in a barely audible voice, taking deep breaths.

“Take it easy,” Renie urged. “I'm hanging on to you. If you fall, you'll land on me. As usual.”

Her cousin's normal tone helped Judith regain her composure. Wordlessly, they climbed the slick stairs and stepped onto the ground. Renie waited patiently, using the time to put the door back into place and retrieve the key-chain light from Judith's trembling hand.

“Well?” Renie finally asked, ignoring the rain that was dripping off her hood. “What happened?”

“I was wrong,” Judith confessed, sounding almost normal. “Blanche didn't kill Ernie. Blanche isn't buried anywhere. Blanche is a . . . mummy.”

I
could make a really bad joke here,” Renie murmured, “but I'll refrain. In fact, you look as if you need a really stiff drink.”

Judith pressed her hands together as if she was about to pray, which, she realized, wasn't a bad idea. Neither was a stiff drink. “I flunked again,” she said between clenched teeth. “Damn!”

“Let's go back to the house,” Renie said, taking her cousin's arm.

“Fine. Where's the deputy?”

“Not here,” Renie replied. “I kept an eye on the road. Nothing.”

“It doesn't matter now,” Judith muttered in a dejected tone. “The sheriff can't arrest a corpse. And just when I thought I'd solved this case in a way that nobody else would ever consider.”

“I'll give you points for creativity and originality,” Renie said.

“But where did I go wrong?” Judith asked as they started down the road. “It all fit. Blanche, faking that she died, but staying in the shadows and keeping control because nobody else had the mental or physical capability to murder Ernie Glover.”

“Ah . . .” Renie made a face. “I'm missing motive here.”

“Does it matter now?”

“Of course it does. I want to know how you arrived at such a weird conclusion.”

“Wait until we get inside,” Judith said as they turned toward the stairs that led to the deck. “Frankly, it seemed obvious, if wrong.”

Once they were safely back in the friendly confines of the kitchen, Renie poured two short but stiff drinks. “Let's hear it,” she urged, joining Judith at the table. “You do realize it's two
A
.
M
.?”

“We can sleep in,” Judith said—and yawned. “It was Ernie's looks. We'd both noted a resemblance to my father. Of course we never saw Ernie up close when he was still alive, and we certainly couldn't see what he looked like when we found his body. He was facedown.”

“I do remember the incident,” Renie drawled. “It seems like it was only last Friday.”

Judith ignored the sarcasm. “I assumed that Blanche had lost her marbles and become a recluse. Maybe Quentin or even Quincy didn't want anyone to know. It was bad enough that Betsy suffered from mental illness. They decided to tell everyone she'd died and had a marker made to prove it.” Judith paused to sip her drink.

“What did they do with her?” Renie asked. “Lock her in the basement until she finally croaked?”

“I doubt that,” Judith replied. “I've no idea how long she's been dead. A coroner can figure that out. But old Quentin was now in control of the money. Yes, he probably had handled the actual sales, along with Quincy's help. But while Blanche was still of sound mind, she ruled. Everybody seems to agree on that, according to the Hilderschmidts. When her remains weren't found in the vacant lot, I was convinced she was still alive. When I saw the Polaroids and the returned letters, I suspected she was the killer. In her muddled mind, even their last names were alike—Glover and Grover. She thought Ernie was my father. It even made sense that she could have come up with the idea of pretending she was dead and had buried the souvenirs of her unrequited love under her grave marker. That might've been part of the madness that afflicted her.”

Renie leaned back in her chair. “That's all so twisted I could almost believe it. Of course, the Quimbys are a very bizarre family. Nan must've known, but when she was here, she talked about Blanche's death some years ago. Didn't that blow your theory?”

Judith shook her head. “Nan was following the party line. I figured that Quimby had indoctrinated her—and no doubt Quincy—to keep the ruse alive, even if Blanche wasn't.”

“I guess I can follow your logic,” Renie said, “which is usually spot-on. Anything to do with the Quimbys could derail Einstein. But what do you think has become of the French coins Blanche brought with her from the Paris museum?”

“I honestly don't know,” Judith said, shaking her head. “They may be tucked away in her box. I mean, it's more of a coffin, though . . .”

A knock at the door made both cousins jump.

“What now?” Renie said under her breath. “I'll get it.” She crossed the room and asked for the visitor's ID.

“Jacobson,” he called back.

Renie undid the lock. “You're on duty tonight?”

“Do I look like it?” he asked, indicating his civilian attire.

“In that case,” Renie said, “how about a drink?”

The deputy sat down at the table. “I can't . . . hell, why not?”

Renie opened the cupboard where the liquor was kept. “Bourbon, Scotch, vodka, gin?”

“Bourbon, rocks, and water,” he replied. “It's a good thing I stayed home today and schlepped around the house. At least I'm not exhausted.”

“So,” Judith asked, “why did you answer the call?”

“We got a big wreck between Langton and Cooptown,” Jacobson replied. “Five cars involved, possible fatalities. Teenagers out too late racing on the wet roads and probably doing booze and drugs. All the on-duty deputies are tied up at the scene. Your call was sent on to me, since I'm the one handling the homicide case.” He paused to take his drink from Renie. “So what's happening here now?”

Judith was embarrassed. “I jumped the gun—so to speak. I thought I'd fingered the killer. I was wrong.” She bit her lip. “I'm so sorry. I've made you come out in the middle of the night for nothing.”

Renie held up a hand. “Whoa. That's not true. What about the dead body in the Quimby basement?”

“Oh,” Judith said. “That. It's not exactly an emergency.”

Jacobson's eyebrows shot up as he took a deep swallow of bourbon. “Let me be the judge of that. What are you talking about?”

Judith winced. “We sneaked into the Quimbys' basement. Old Mrs. Quimby is . . . moldering down there. Is that against the law?”

“Is ‘moldering' against the law?” Jacobson shook himself. “You mean . . . she's dead?”

“Very,” Judith replied. “Don't make me explain. It'd take too long.”

The deputy frowned. “I knew she'd died, but . . .” He took another swig of bourbon. “There's nothing I can do tonight about the corpse. You're sure it's Mrs. Quimby?”

Judith realized she wouldn't know Blanche Quimby from blanc mange. In fact, given the state of decomposition, the face had looked kind of like a very unsavory pudding. “Who else could it be?” she asked.

“The Quimbys will have to answer that question,” Jacobson said. “I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why you broke into their house in the first place?”

Judith her head. “I really wouldn't. Do you mind?”

The deputy grimaced. “All things considered, no.” He polished off his drink. “I'd better go now while I'm still sober.”

Renie walked him to the door. “Be careful out there,” she called out before closing the door and locking up. “You're lucky he knows you're FASTO. Otherwise, he would've busted us.”

“Don't mention that stupid nickname,” Judith snapped. “I feel more like SLUGGO.”

“Wasn't he in the comics when we were kids?”

“Yes,” Judith replied testily. “He hung out with Nancy, who was a little fat girl with black hair. You told me I looked just like her.”

“You did. She always had all the answers.”

Judith gave Renie a bleak look. “And I don't. That's why I feel like Sluggo. I'm going to bed.”

“Good idea,” Renie said. “Tomorrow
is
another day.”

“Don't be so optimistic,” Judith retorted. “That's not like you.”

Renie shrugged. “For once, I thought I'd act like
my
mother instead of yours.”

Judith didn't comment. But for some reason, her cousin's words followed her to bed. She didn't realize that they were the answer to who had killed Ernie Glover.

B
y morning, fog had once again settled in over Obsession Shores. To Judith's surprise, she'd slept until almost ten. Not to her surprise, Renie was still asleep. Judith showered, dressed, and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast. She noticed that she couldn't see much beyond the deck.

The phone rang while she was frying bacon. “Jacobson here,” the deputy said. “In case you were wondering, we're going to have to get a warrant to get inside the Quimby house. I figured you might be puzzled about why I hadn't shown up yet this morning.”

“I couldn't see far enough in this fog to tell if you were here or not,” Judith responded. “I'm wondering if Renie and I should head for home.”

“I can't tell you what to do,” Jacobson said, “but I'd advise staying put for now. The fog's all over the south end of the island. It's not a good idea to be out on the roads until it lifts. Besides, the ferryboats to the mainland are having some problems. Of course they're overloaded with the Monday-morning commuters.”

“I have to wait anyway,” Judith told him. “Renie's still asleep.”

The deputy told her that was just as well and rang off. Judith finished preparing her breakfast of bacon, boiled eggs, and toast. She was almost done eating when she heard Renie stirring in the spare bedroom. A few minutes later, as Judith was putting her dirty dishes and silverware into the dishwasher, Renie leaned into the kitchen.

“Don't say it,” she muttered, staggering to the bathroom. “Nothing good about mornings except for committing suicide, as my grouchy dad used to say to my cheerful mom. Gack.”

Judith couldn't resist. “Good morning,” she said in a chipper voice. Renie slammed the door behind her. Pouring a mug of coffee, she picked up the manila envelope from the counter and sat back down at the table.

Looking at the ten photos of her father evoked mixed emotions. He looked much younger than she remembered him. Maybe that was because there were no close-ups, the pictures having been taken from quite a distance. Two of the Polaroids included Gertrude, looking unusually benign. Her mother had always had a sharp tongue, but the toughness came later, after Donald Grover died too soon.

The half-dozen letters hadn't all been postmarked prior to her father's death, though the two that weren't had been sent only the week before the first heart attack. He'd lingered for several days in the hospital before succumbing to the ravages of the rheumatic fever that he'd suffered from as a child. Judith guessed that Gertrude hadn't bothered to check the mail. She'd spent most of the time at the hospital with her husband.