by Mary Daheim
“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 something 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. Hec
k, 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?”
Judith shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll be darned if I’m going to open all the rest of those cartons, though. If there’s something mysterious about them, we’ll leave it up to the police. And the sheriff.”
Ten minutes later, the cousins were at the hospital, listening to Joe’s litany of complaints about the staff, the food, and his discomfort. Judith tried to cheer her husband as best she could; Renie’s eyes glazed over.
“…to make oatmeal taste like toenail clippings and dilute the orange juice so that you might as well be drinking…”
“…a corpse.” Judith had been trying to interrupt Joe for some time. Finally, her words registered. Joe’s green eyes stared at her and his mouth clamped down.
“In the cottage? What the hell are you talking about?” He struggled with pulleys, ropes, and cast, trying to sit up further in the bed. “Is that what…One of those dimwitted nurse tubs said something about a murder, but I didn’t think it was here, in Buccaneer Beach. What the hell is happening, Jude-girl?”
Judith explained, watching Joe’s self-pity turn into astute professionalism. He picked up the unlighted cigar from the nightstand and stuck it between his teeth. Renie glanced over at the other bed and noticed that Jake Beezle was gone. Joe caught her curious gaze and mouthed the word, “Therapy.” Judith concluded her narrative.
“Well, well,” remarked Joe, chewing on the cigar and linking his hands behind his head. “So you’ve got another murder on your hands, Jude-girl. It’s out of my jurisdiction; it’s off your turf. How much good will it do to tell you to keep out of it?”
Judith turned wide black eyes on her husband. “None. I’ve got the outline of a corpse on our rented living room rug. Can you really think I’d ignore all this and look the other way?”
Although he wished otherwise, Joe couldn’t. Experience told him that the victim must have known her killer. Yet somewhere deep down in the layman’s part of his mind, he was hoping for the nameless vagrant who was moving on down the road by now. At least that way Judith would not be in any danger.
Joe gnawed on the cigar and frowned. “You and Renie form a human chain, okay? I don’t want either of you taking chances.” He saw Judith nod and Renie salute. “Do you know that a lot of us cops figure that if you don’t find the killer in the first forty-eight hours, you might as well give up?”
“It’s only been twelve,” Judith replied dryly. “Where do you suggest we start?”
“Her nearest and dearest,” said Joe, relenting a bit. His bride and her cousin were at a distinct disadvantage trying to solve a crime in Buccaneer Beach. On previous occasions, Judith had known the people involved, even when she was out of town. But here on the Oregon coast, her chances of running up against the murderer were remote. He took out the cigar and examined the well-mangled end. “Look for motive, opportunity, means.” He uttered a short laugh. “What am I saying, I’m talking to my bride, the Bed-and-Breakfast Sleuth. Just get me a notebook and keep me posted. Check out that boathouse first—Alice Hoke can wait. If she’s as bereaved as she ought to be, you won’t find out much this soon anyway. In fact, I’d keep away from the family in general. You might check to see if anyone else has shown up in town in the last few days who could have a connection. Buccaneer Beach is small enough that word would probably get around.”
“Gee,” grinned Judith, “thanks for not giving me any advice. Do you want a written report or will verbal do?”
The gold flecks danced in the green eyes. “Not verbal, oral.” He grabbed Judith by the wrist and pulled her close. “The next time Jake goes to therapy, dump Renie and lock the door,” he whispered. “I miss you, Jude-girl. This is a hell of a honeymoon.”
The tide was almost out when they reached the beach fifteen minutes later. As usual, the kiteflyers trod the sands, as did the walkers, the joggers, the children, and the dogs. Clouds were drifting out to sea, and there was genuine warmth in the late morning sun. Judith and Renie approached the boathouse warily.
“Why are we acting like a pair of fugitives?” asked Renie. “You said the boathouse was part of the package.”
“Because the guy who was hanging around down here wasn’t,” replied Judith, who had paused to examine the sand some twenty feet from the small structure. “It looks as if the tide never gets any further than here, so there’s not much in the way of clear footprints. The sand’s too soft and dry.”
“I don’t know why you’re looking for footprints at this late date,” said Renie, as they moved slowly up to the four steps that led to the tiny porch. “And even if you found some, there are so many people all over this beach, nobody could possibly sort out one set from another.”
“True. Alas.” Judith jiggled the doorknob. To her surprise, the door opened easily. The cousins edged inside.
The boathouse looked much better from the inside than the outside. Although the furnishings were worn, even tattered in the case of the floral sofa, it was apparent that somebody was keeping the place tidy. Judith took in the rest of the small room, with its two easy chairs, a large cherrywood coffee table, a pair of floor lamps, and a magazine rack which she noticed held the latest issues of People and Good Housekeeping. The sagging floorboards creaked beneath their feet, reminding Judith of her house on Thurlow Street.
Straight through the small sitting room was a kitchen, with two stools pulled up to the counter, a stove, sink, refrigerator, and even a microwave oven. There were no windows and the far wall was covered with nautical charts. A coffeepot was plugged in, a casserole dish was covered with aluminum foil, and the sink contained half a dozen dirty dishes.
“The lived-in look,” murmured Renie.
Judith glanced down at the linoleum which displayed a starfish pattern and looked comparatively new. “The man I saw might be whoever’s living here,” she remarked, feeling the ever-present sand underfoot. “He might also be coming back, since the coffee’s on. There’s no
rear entrance. We’d better scoot.”
“Right,” agreed Renie as they exited the little kitchen. She stopped to open one of the doors on each side of the open entry into the sitting room. “A half-bath,” she said. “Sink, toilet, shower. Clam shells on the shower curtain. Or are they abalone?”
Not to be outdone, Judith tugged at the other door. It was a small closet, housing clothes for both genders. Judith arched an eyebrow. “My Mysterious Stranger has a girlfriend. Unless he gets a kick out of wearing ugly dresses and pantsuits.”
“Takes all kinds,” said Renie, coming to look over Judith’s shoulder. “Gee, I haven’t seen that much corduroy since Grandma Grover used to make all of us cousins jumpers for school every fall.”
“And corduroy party dresses with mother-of-pearl buttons from collar to hem. I always looked like a can of Crisco and you looked like a bean pole.” Judith smiled in reminiscence. “Cousin Sue insisted she was too old for the jumpers when she got to high school but Grandma made her one anyway and stitched a picture of the team mascot on the back.”
Renie’s brown eyes twinkled. “Do you think Grandma was serious?”
Judith grinned. “Was she ever?” No one could have been more of a pixie incarnate than Grandma Grover. Judith lived by two of her axioms, “It’s always better to laugh than to cry” and “Keep your pecker up.” Renie preferred “It’ll all be the same a hundred years from now.” But the real heritage Grandma Grover had passed on was the gift of laughter, which Judith considered the rarest form of courage.
“You know,” Judith mused as they started out of the boathouse, “there are times when I can actually hear Grandma saying something in my ear, like…” She stopped, her hand on the rusty door knob. “Corduroy! That’s what Leona was wearing when I first met her. A corduroy jumper.”
Renie stared at Judith, then inclined her head. “So now we know where the deceased was staying.” She gestured at the little sitting room. “Cozy, huh?”