Dune to Death (5 page)

“Last night,” said Judith, handing Clooney a mug of coffee and offering tea to Eldritch who declined. “About eleven-thirty. She was just leaving. We didn't see the man, though. He must have already left.”

Eldritch was looking longingly at Renie's orange juice. “Let's back up. Are you saying this woman came here with a man? They were here together? What are you talking about?”

Judith explained how she and Renie had returned from Salem and seen the so-called Mrs. Hoke and a man through the window. “I don't want to imply that they were in a passionate embrace,” Judith emphasized, “but they were standing very close together. Let's call the scene ‘intimate'—in the real sense of the word.”

“Intimate, huh?” said Clooney, slurping coffee and obviously conjuring up more lurid images than Judith had intended. “So you went away and let them go at it?”

Judith lifted her chin. “We went away,” she said with dignity.

“And a lot of good it did us,” put in Renie, sounding surly. “How come nobody in this stupid town stays open after ten o'clock?”

“What for?” asked Eldritch.

“What do you mean, ‘stupid'?” countered Clooney.

Renie wasn't about to be put off by a mere sheriff and a chief of police. “I mean whatever happened to
Open All Hours?
This is almost the twenty-first century. Don't you yokels have a 7-Eleven? I can get three kinds of root beer at 3:00
A
.
M
. at the one on Heraldsgate Hill.”

“Hold it,” rumbled Clooney, looking dangerous. “This is a murder investigation, lady. Let's not get sidetracked.”

“Sidetracked?” echoed Renie, rolling her eyes. “You're the one who was picturing that poor woman frolicking on the carpet with some young stud. We just said we saw them. Together. For all we know, he was her dentist, making a house call. I think people in small towns must have dirty minds. If they kept longer hours, they wouldn't have time to think bad thoughts.” Renie looked uncharacteristically prudish, a fair imitation of Gertrude at her most narrow-minded.

Judith put aside mental comparisons with her mother and intervened. “Look! All we can tell you is that I saw this woman twice—three times, if you count through the window—and that she was in excellent health when she left here last night around eleven-thirty. She may have been here again today to get more boxes or dulcimers or whatever, but we didn't run into her.”

Eldritch sat up a little straighter. “More what?”

Judith waved a hand. “She claimed she'd come back last night for her dulcimer.” Seeing the blank expressions on the lawmen's faces, she went on, “It's an old-fashioned musical instrument. Like a guitar. Except she didn't have it with her. But somebody has been taking boxes out of the garage for the last two days. They're stacked to the rafters.” Folding her hands in her lap, Judith tried to strike a calmer note. “Really, that's all we know, except that she
drove a fairly new Buick. I dealt with Mrs. Hoke—or whoever rented this place to us—only by mail. I'm sorry we can't be more help.”

Clooney was tapping his ballpoint pen on his notepad. “It's Alice's house, all right,” he said, more to himself than the others. He was silent for a moment, then turned wearily to the sheriff. “Well, what do you think, Josh?”

Eldritch looked pleased at being asked. “I hate to say it, but you're probably right. You know the family better than I do. You're older,” he added slyly.

Clooney snorted and stood up. The rocker creaked again. “Not by much, Big Fella. But at least I know Alice.” He looked smug.

Eldritch unwound himself from the chair and also got to his feet. He looked down at the cousins. “You're not going anywhere for a few days, I take it?”

“No,” replied Judith, with a distasteful glance at the victim's outline on the carpet. “How long do we have to put up with that?”

Eldritch shrugged. “A day or two. You can walk on it.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Judith faintly.

“By the way,” said Clooney, turning around in the doorway, “where'd that kite come from?”

Judith and Renie were both standing now, too. “Mrs. Hoke brought it,” said Judith, then took three long strides to confront the sheriff and police chief. “I can't keep calling her Mrs. Hoke. I gather you two may know who she is. Why the secret?”

Clooney gave Judith a condescending look. “You're right, we're pretty sure who the dead woman is, but we're waiting for positive ID. Police procedure, you know.” He gave an indulgent little laugh. “Actually, you
wouldn't
know. Trust us, we yokels have our methods, even in a
stupid town like Buccaneer Beach
.” He bit off the last words and glared at Renie.

Judith stopped her cousin just in time by stepping on her foot. Renie jumped, her mouth half-opened, but the words she was about to utter died on her lips. Sheriff Eldritch and Chief Clooney took their leave. The cousins
could hear them arguing all the way back to their respective emergency vehicles.

“You should have told them,” Renie insisted, shaking her head.

“Are you crazy? We've got enough problems without me admitting my husband is a big city homicide detective.” Judith headed back for the living room to clear away the coffee and tea items. “Listen, coz,” she went on as she handed the teapot and carafe to Renie, “Joe may be in the hospital, but I'm still on my honeymoon. It's not my fault that some woman I don't even know got herself strangled in the living room of Pirate's Lair. It's not my beach cottage, it's not my town, it's got nothing to do with me. I'm sitting this one out.” She gave Renie a long, level stare.

Renie batted her eyelashes. “Oh. Okay, you're right. It's midnight, let's head for bed. Maybe we can go to the outlet mall in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” said Judith.

“'Night,” said Renie.

“'Night,” said Judith.

 

At one in the morning, Judith was still awake, wondering who had been murdered in the living room at Pirate's Lair. At two, she was still puzzling over the missing rental receipt. At three, she was wishing she'd gotten a better look at the young man she had seen through the picture window. And at four, she finally drifted off to sleep, but dreamed of a furtive figure, rowing a boat and sinking slowly in dry sand at the foot of the staircase that led to the beach.

Judith knew she was sunk, too.

J
UDITH TRIED TO
pretend it was an ordinary day at Buccaneer Beach. Mike called from Whitefish, Montana, shortly after eight-thirty. He'd only gotten in the night before because he'd spent Monday with his girlfriend, Kristin, and her family on their wheat farm in the rolling hills of the Palouse. It had been over ninety degrees on the other side of the mountains, and they'd sat around all day, drinking lemonade and beer under the shade of a big weeping willow. He hadn't yet seen his supervisor in the Forest Service, so didn't know exactly what his assignment would be. He promised to call back in a couple of days, either at the beach or when Judith got home.

“How come you didn't tell him about Joe's accident?” asked Renie, looking semialert over ham and waffles.

Judith didn't meet her cousin's bleary-eyed gaze. “Oh—I didn't want to worry him. He'll have a lot on his mind with a new job.”

Renie started to say something in response, but decided to drop the subject. There were few topics the
cousins avoided, but the relationship between Joe and Mike struck Renie as one of them. At least for the moment.

“We ought to call our mothers tonight,” Renie said instead.

“Right,” Judith agreed without enthusiasm. “And I should check in with Arlene and make sure everything is going okay at the B&B.” She poured syrup over her waffle and gave Renie a surreptitious glance. “I think we'll skip the pinochle session this morning.”

“Oh?” Renie's reaction was one of innocence. “How come, coz? Did you want to spend a lot of time at the outlet mall?”

“The least we can do is find out who got killed out there in the living room,” said Judith, her mind in gear and her thought process assuming its usual logical order. “I turned the radio on this morning when I got up, but this town doesn't have a local station. The weekly paper comes out today, so it was probably printed before we found the body. After we go see Joe, we ought to stop by the police department—or the sheriff's office—and see what we can find out.”

“Okay,” agreed Renie. “Then what?”

Judith considered. “I'd like to check out the boathouse. For all I know, that man I saw lives there. Maybe he's a homeless person.”

“And?” Renie was stuffing her mouth with waffle.

“I wish I'd noticed the license number on that Buick. I know it was an Oregon plate and it had some fours in it.” She started to cut up her ham, then realized that Renie was taking the sudden plunge into detection much too complacently. “Well?” demanded Judith. “Aren't you going to try to talk me out of getting involved?”

Renie, whose mouth was still full, shook her head. Judith was faintly exasperated; she despised being so predictable. A hammering at the back door prevented Judith from defending herself.

A young man with flaming red hair and a dusting of freckles stood on the threshold with a tape recorder and a
notebook. “Terrence O'Toole,
Buccaneer Beach Bugler
,” he said with an eager, gap-toothed smile.

“So where's your bugle?” asked Judith, who assumed he was identifying himself.

“No, no, sorry, no music, no magazines, no encyclopedias,” he said, looking apologetic and wiggling his unruly red eyebrows. “I mean, I'm not a salesman, I'm a reporter from the
Buccaneer Beach Bugler
. The local newspaper?” He eyed Judith as if he weren't sure she'd know a newspaper if she found one in her mailbox.

“Oh. Well…” Judith glanced over her shoulder at Renie and found no help. Renie was pouring spoonfuls of batter into the waffle iron, onto the counter, and over her shoes. Judith decided that her cousin wasn't as awake as she'd pretended.

“I'm covering the murder,” said Terrence O'Toole, hitching up the navy blue suspenders he wore over a freshly pressed white dress shirt. He was tieless, and his open collar revealed a bright blue T-shirt. Judith wondered if Terrence was going for the Clark Kent–Superman look all at once, but hadn't yet figured out how to hold up his pants. “I hear you found the body. How do you feel about that?”

“Grim,” replied Judith, wondering how to discourage the press tactfully. “Excuse me, I'm just a tourist and have no…”

“But that's the point!” exclaimed Terrence, beaming at Judith even as he inserted a foot in the doorway. “Kite-flying, beachcombing, waterskiing—everybody who comes to Buccaneer Beach does those things. They're a cliché. But you found a body!”

“Don't I always,” murmured Judith. Behind her, she could hear Renie snicker. “I don't even know who got killed. Look, Mr. O'Toole, my husband is in the hospital and I have to go…”

Terrence's sky blue eyes widened under the unruly brows. “Hospital?” He wedged himself between Judith and the doorjamb. They were eyeball-to-eyeball, and Judith
found herself fascinated by the gap between Terrence's teeth. “Wowee! Did he get attacked? Is this a conspiracy?”

Judith, whose nature, not to mention her livelihood, allowed for an open-door policy, relented and stepped aside. “Hardly. My husband wrecked a dune buggy. Or it wrecked him.” She ushered Terrence to an empty chair. “We'll give you five minutes and a cup of coffee. If you can tell us who the victim is, we'll divulge our deepest horrors.”

“Let's leave our mothers out of this,” muttered Renie, dutifully pouring coffee for the reporter.

Judith gave Renie a baleful look, then turned to Terrence. “Have you an ID?”

“Of course. Given the situation, I understand your need for caution. I even have a press card so I can park by the dock where they launch the crab boats.” Terrence flipped out his wallet.

Judith put up her hand. “Not
your
ID—I mean for the woman who was killed here last night.”

The blue eyes again grew wide. “Oh! Wowee! Sharp question! Yes—her name was Leona…” He paused, consulted his wallet, realized his mistake, and opened his notebook. Judith began to worry about Terrence O'Toole. “Leona Ogilvie. She's somebody's sister.”

Judith's brain clicked. “Alice Ogilvie Hoke's sister?” She exchanged quick looks with Renie. If Alice and Leona were sisters, that might account for some of the confusion. It would also explain why the police chief thought the victim looked familiar.

Terrence nodded, just a shade doubtfully. “Right. Extremely sharp. I think.” He picked up the coffee mug Renie had handed him and took a big gulp. “I graduated from OSU last semester. I haven't been in Buccaneer Beach very long.” With an air of regret, Terrence dumped a heaping teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. “Neither was Leona Ogilvie.”

Judith arched her dark brows. “Oh? But was she from here originally?”

Terrence nodded. “There was a big difference between
Leona and her sister, Alice. In personality, I mean. Leona went away a long time ago. To be a missionary in South America. My editor told me she must have just got back. Weird, huh?”

“She would have been safer with the pygmies along the Amazon,” remarked Judith, thinking that Leona's recent return might explain all the boxes in the garage. Perhaps they were her belongings, shipped back from South America. “Was she staying with her sister, Mrs. Hoke?”

Terrence didn't know. Indeed, after a few more inquiries, Judith came to the conclusion that except for the victim's name and occupation, Terrence O'Toole didn't know any more than the cousins did.

But the youthful journalist was determined to proceed with the interview. “How did you react to murder in your living room?” Ballpoint pen at the ready, Terrence's bright blue eyes roamed from cousin to cousin.

Judith considered. “Shocked, of course. Upset. Violence is always disturbing, especially when it intrudes under your roof. Your rented roof, that is,” she added hastily. She felt crass, but the truth was, Judith had encountered death so often in the past year and a half that she had built up defenses to shield herself. The words tripped out as if by rote, having had far too many opportunities to sort out her reactions before setting foot in Pirate's Lair. “Any life taken willfully is a life wasted,” she declared, looking unduly solemn.

Terrence O'Toole regarded Judith with something that bordered on awe. He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Deep. Very deep. Wow-
ee
.” His lively gaze shifted to Renie, who was complacently finishing her third waffle. “And you, ma'am?”

Renie waved her fork. “Me, too,” she said with her mouth full. Her brown eyes veered up to the kitchen clock, whose crab claw hands pointed to nine forty-five, and very close to her traditional time for becoming fully alert. “First of all, you're writing on your wallet,” she said after taking a big swallow and waiting for Terrence to notice his error. “Then I'd say it's tragic, and wonder how Alice Hoke is
taking her sister's untimely demise. What do the law enforcement bozos tell you about Leona's survivors?”

In the wake of Renie's unexpected statement, Terrence O'Toole all but reeled. “Not much,” he replied in a faint voice. “They don't tell the press everything they know.”

“But we have,” said Judith with a smile. She stood up, hoping the young reporter would construe her move as the signal for his departure.

Luckily, after taking the cousins' names and addresses, Terrence also took the hint. With a final gap-toothed grin, he headed out the door and jumped onto a red motor scooter. Judith and Renie hurriedly cleaned up from breakfast.

“You're right, coz,” remarked Judith as she loaded the dishwasher. “Where was Leona staying? Was she merely helping her sister out or really impersonating her? The problem is, we don't know much about Leona or Alice, except that their parents owned a cheese factory that made great cheddar.”

Renie nodded. “And according to Terrence O'Toole, Leona spent most of her life converting quaint natives in the Andes or up the Amazon. Somewhere down there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the Oregon-California state line.

“I think we'd better call on Alice Hoke.” Judith pressed the button on the dishwasher and raised her voice over the machine's din. “Let's go see Joe first and then pay our condolences to Mrs. Hoke.”

“Okay.” Renie gathered up her huge handbag and light-weight summer jacket. The sky was fitful, with a breeze blowing off the ocean. “But won't she think we're sort of pushy?”

The cousins were at the car, with Judith unlocking the door on the driver's side. She hesitated, her shoulders slumping. “Of course she will. We don't even know the woman. It would be utterly tasteless to waltz in on her at a time like this. What are we thinking of?”

“You mentioned going to see the sheriff or the police chief,” Renie reminded Judith. “They must know some
thing about Leona, especially since Clooney is seeing Alice.”

“Nobody else sees much of her from what I hear,” said Judith, still standing disconsolately next to the MG. “Damn, coz, we don't need to turn ourselves inside out. I paid seven hundred dollars to rusticate with Joe in this blasted cottage. Instead, I get you—but that's okay,” she said, ignoring Renie's wince, “at least it's a vacation. Why am I beating myself up over a woman I'd never seen in my life until Monday?”

“Because we found her corpse on Tuesday?” Renie rattled the handle of the car door. “Come on, open up. And stop being a dork. You know you thrive on this sort of mayhem. Or at least on the solving thereof.”

But Judith was shaking her head emphatically. “You make me sound like a ghoul. There's a lot to do and see around here. We can poke around in the tourist shops, visit the galleries, collect shells…”

“And go fly a kite.” Renie rolled her eyes at Judith. “Hey, coz, let's face it, all those things sound like fun in the brochures but the truth is, they bore both of us stiff. Heck, your one attempt at playing tourist put the Great Love of Your Life in traction.”

Judith grimaced at Renie. “He drove like your father.” She unlocked the door, but didn't get into the car. “Wait a minute.” Judith marched over to the cartons piled at the end of the carport. “Look,” she called to Renie, “some of these are stamped by Lufthansa.”

“So?” Renie was now leaning on the roof of the low-slung sports car. “Who do you think sent them—Hitler?”

Judith ignored her cousin's flippancy as she studied the boxes. “It just seems odd that…” Pausing, she turned one of the smaller cartons upside down. “Whoever this stuff belongs to didn't want anybody to know about it. The mailing labels have been ripped off.”

Resignedly, Renie approached Judith. “What do you think is inside? Drugs?”

The cousins exchanged sly glances. “There's one way to find out,” said Judith. “Come on.”

They marched back indoors, each carrying a box. Judith used a butcher knife to slit open the carton she'd set on the kitchen table. Crumpled newspapers in a foreign language filled the box. Judith carefully rummaged inside; Renie held her breath.

With a frown, Judith displayed the first item her fingers had touched. It was a serving bowl, in a pretty pink and yellow flower pattern. Then came a platter to match, two cups, three saucers, and a soup tureen. Judging from the chips and cracks, the set was well-used. Renie attacked the second box with the knife, but found only a pile of women's clothing, also well-worn.

“No drugs,” she said, checking the linings just in case. “This must be Leona's—or somebody's—household stuff. Shall we plunder the rest of the boxes out there in the carport or just content ourselves with minor vandalism?”

“I feel like a dope,” said Judith, repacking the dishes. “See if there's some tape in that drawer over there. The least we can do is seal these boxes back up.”

“If they belong to Leona, she won't be needing them right away,” Renie said with a grimace. “Of course, they might be Alice's. But why rip off the shipping labels?”