by Mary Daheim
“Dan used to buy them all the time,” recalled Judith, as the aroma of fresh fish and baked bread wafted their way. “Remember the time he got five out of the six numbers and the dog ate the ticket?”
“Barely.” Renie was distracted by the scent of food. Before she could comment further, the hostess beckoned to them just as a young, careworn couple came through the door. Judith heard the man ask for Mrs. Flynn. Allowing Renie to continue on into the dining room, she felt forced to invite the newcomers to join them. They looked as if they could use a good meal.
“The lottery?” Augie Hoke bore a passing resemblance to his sister, mainly because of his blond hair and blue eyes. But by comparison, he seemed lackluster, painfully thin, and extremely shy. His wife, also on the lean side, but with hair so dark it was almost blue, seemed chronically breathless.
“Pottery,” said Judith, leading the way and trying to find Renie in the crowded restaurant. Spotting her cousin hiding behind a menu, Judith made the introductions. “We’re here in Buccaneer Beach to look for unusual pottery. We heard your family had some interesting heirlooms.” Judith paused briefly and licked her lips. Renie was peering over the menu with a bemused expression, obviously watching closely to see how Judith would extricate herself from this monstrous prevarication which was growing like Topsy. “We—that is, my husband and I—rented your mother’s beach cottage. But before I could call on her and inquire about the pottery, your poor aunt got killed. I certainly don’t want to bother your mother at a time like this.” Judith gave both Hokes her most sympathetic gaze.
Amy Hoke was giving her husband a puzzled look. “Pottery? Augie, does she mean that old blue stuff your mother has been using since she was a kid? It must be pre–World War II. Lu-Ray, isn’t it?”
Augie stared off into space, though it was not the vacant expression of Donn Bobb Lima or even Larissa. “I guess. It belonged to my Grandpa and Grandma. Momma inherited almost everything, including the cheese factory.” His long face sagged. “There wasn’t much left, though, after the rat got hold of it and ran it into the ground.” He pushed the menu aside and leaned toward Judith. “Then you aren’t from the state lottery?”
Judith’s black eyes widened innocently. “My, no. The motel manager must be a little hard of hearing. You’re right though—Lu-Ray pottery can be quite a collector’s item.” The statement made her pause; another thought leapt to mind, then fled. Judith frowned. “Go ahead, order lunch. It’s on us.” She kicked Renie under the table.
With a show of minor reluctance, the Hokes complied. Amy requested only a small salad; Augie opted for oyster stew. Renie got both, along with the trout. Judith settled on halibut cheeks and cottage fries.
“So how are the children?” Judith asked airily.
The children—all five of them, as it turned out—were still in Idaho, staying with Amy’s parents. Under Judith’s artful probing, she learned that Augie worked in cement, which was seasonal at best, and nonexistent at worst. Amy was a candlemaker, probably not in great demand on a year-round basis. It was no wonder, Judith thought, that Augie, father of five, had come home to mother to ask for a loan.
“I hope,” remarked Judith in midcourse, “that you got to see your aunt before she died.”
Augie sighed over his empty oyster stew tureen. “Just once. We came up to the house—Momma’s place—Sunday afternoon. Momma was going to fix dinner, but she got too tired. She’s not used to company.”
“It’s been terrible for her,” Amy put in, not making it quite clear if she blamed or pitied her mother-in-law, “to grieve for so long. Sometimes I think she waited alone in that house for seven years, like that lady in the poem, hoping Mr. Hoke would come back from the sea. Isn’t it true that if you don’t find a body, you can’t declare somebody legally dead for seven years?”
Judith started to say that was true under certain circumstances, but Augie spoke first. “She never doubted he was dead. I think she used it as an excuse to avoid everybody. Even us. Momma never did like people much. Aunt Leona was more shy, but she had real love in her heart. She was sorry we didn’t bring the kids. Auntie was crazy about kids. It’s too bad she never had any of her own.” His pale skin flushed slightly, as if he were embarrassed at having said so much to a stranger. But as ever, Judith’s open countenance encouraged confidences. Augie looked away.
“She never married?” Judith’s expression was bland.
It was Amy who answered in her breathless voice, “No. She spent her whole life devoted to missionary work.”
Judith felt Renie nudge her under the table. “Do you have any idea who Titus Teacher is?”
Both the Hokes’ faces were a void. “Who?” asked Amy.
Judith took a sip of coffee. “He’s living in the boathouse. I thought he knew your aunt.”
Augie and Amy continued to appear mystified. “Never heard of him,” said Augie. “Aunt Leona was staying with Momma.”
“Really,” Judith responded. “And your sister and her husband were in the RV on your mother’s property, right?”
Augie nodded as Amy made a face of disapproval, apparently caused by the mention of her in-laws. “Momma doesn’t like guests. That’s why we haven’t come home for all these years. She’d keep writing and putting us off,” Augie explained slowly. “I don’t know how she put up with Aunt Leona for this past month. Or vice versa,” he added with a dark look.
The check had arrived and Judith knew that the interview was rapidly drawing to a close. She felt as if she were getting nowhere. “At least you got to see Leona on Sunday,” she said, trying not to be too transparent. “I still don’t understand why she came back to Pirate’s Lair last night. I mean, it isn’t as if she were staying there.”
Augie gave Amy an inquiring look. “Didn’t Momma say she had some of her stuff stored in the boathouse? Maybe she went back to collect it.”
Amy nodded, a languid, yet convincing gesture. “Augie’s aunt loved the beach cottage. That’s why Augie’s granddaddy relented and left it to her.” Briefly, her dark eyes sparkled. “Everything else went to Augie’s mother. Not fair, I’d say, except it’s none of my business. Everybody’s family is different, I guess.”
Judith tried to sift through this particular bit of information. “So Aunt Leona actually did own Pirate’s Lair? Did she handle the rentals?”
Augie again looked vague. “She couldn’t have, since she was gone for so many years. I suppose Momma did it for her.” He gave Judith a sudden, sharp glance. “Oh—you mean now, after she came home. Maybe. It would have been her right. And fair’s fair. I have to agree with Amy—the way the money got divvied up in this family wasn’t exactly right. But then there wasn’t as much left as there should have been, after…all was said and done.” He caught Amy’s warning look and turned away.
“Done by the rat?” Judith asked guilelessly.
Augie colored again, offering his wife an apologetic nod of the head. “Yes—the rat. Race Doyle. Heck, Amy, everybody in this town knows what happened. Race botched up the cheese business and then made off with the money that was left and skipped town.” His face froze in a portrait of resentment.
Amy sniffed. “He’s probably been living on the Riviera ever since, chasing half-naked women. I can’t believe his nephew had the nerve to come back here and practice law!”
Augie stared at Amy. “And that Momma still uses the firm! Just because Bartlett Doyle was the Ogilvie attorney for thirty years! Bart may not have been a crook like Race, but I wouldn’t trust any Doyle an inch.” He slumped in his chair, as if the uncustomary outburst had exhausted him.
“What happened to Bart?” asked Renie, now surfeited with tiny oysters and rainbow trout.
“Bart died,” said Amy, as if it served him right. She took a deep breath. “He got run over by a logging truck last year.”
Judith shuddered. She swiftly changed the subject, to when the Hokes were heading back for Idaho. After the funeral, according to Amy, which was scheduled for Fri
day morning. There was no point in staying on, Amy continued with a meaningful look at her husband, as long as Alice Hoke remained so impossible.
The restaurant was clearing out rapidly, and when Judith’s offer of dessert was declined, even by Renie, it was obvious that the time for departure had come. Judith still hadn’t found a tactful way to ask if the Hokes had an alibi for Tuesday night.
“This has been very generous of you,” said Amy Hoke, getting up and smiling at the cousins in a wan sort of way. “We don’t eat out much. It costs a lot with all the kids. I’m just sorry we don’t know much about Alice’s pottery.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Judith began, still racking her brain for a subtle inquiry into the Hokes’ whereabouts of the previous evening. “Maybe I can write a letter after I get…”
“I suppose,” interrupted Renie, hoisting her huge handbag and pushing back her chair, “you’ve got an alibi for last night? We do.” She gave the Hokes a big smile.
“An alibi?” echoed Augie, looking startled. “You mean…” He stared first at Renie, then at his wife. “Oh—well. I suppose that’s routine, right?” His gaze shifted to Judith.
“You haven’t talked to the police?” asked Judith. “Or the sheriff?”
“One—or both—left calls,” offered Amy, brushing at the wrinkles in her faded denim dress. “But we haven’t seen anybody yet.” She took her husband’s arm. “Actually, we went for a drive up the coast last night. We stopped at some place about ten o’clock for milk shakes.” Amy gave Augie a tight little smile. “Didn’t we have a nice time, honey?”
He petted her hand. “We sure did. No kids. Just us.”
The cousins watched them head back for Anchors Aweigh. Renie stood with her fists on her hips, handbag swinging at her side. “They may not be nuts, but they’re lying,” she said flatly.
“Huh?”
Renie turned to Judith. “Milk shakes at ten o’clock? In this part of the world? Ha!” With a twitch of her backside, Renie stomped off toward the MG.
By coincidence, the law offices of Doyle, Doyle, and Diggs were adjacent to the Buccaneer Beach Bugler, right in the middle of town. Both buildings were low, long, and level on top. An insurance agency, a counseling service, and two dentists shared leases with the attorneys. Judith marched up to the receptionist’s desk and asked to see Brent Doyle. Taking up the rear, Renie waited to see what colossal fib Judith would come up with this time.
“I don’t have an appointment,” Judith told the chestnut-haired young woman at the desk, “because I’m only in town for a few days. I want to see Mr. Doyle about suing a dune buggy.”
The young woman didn’t turn a chestnut hair. “Mr. Doyle is in a meeting,” she responded with a chipped-tooth smile. “Will you wait?”
Judith glanced at her watch; it was after two o’clock. Joe wouldn’t expect her back at the hospital until about four. “Yes,” she agreed. The cousins took up places on a leather couch that was flanked by a large fern at one end and a philodendron at the other.
“You probably could sue,” Renie whispered when the receptionist answered the phone.
“For what?” responded Judith. “Joe drove like a sailor on shore leave.”
“The root,” hissed Renie. “Didn’t you say he hit a root?”
Judith gave Renie a disparaging look. “It was about the size of a small redwood. He should have seen it. I did.”
Renie’s further arguments were cut short by the opening of a door at the far side of the reception desk. A tall, angular woman stalked across the carpet with a sour expression on her face. Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. The resemblance to Leona Ogilvie was sufficiently striking to let the cousins know they were in the presence of Alice Hoke.
“Carlene,” intoned Alice Hoke, tapping the smooth surface of the desk for emphasis, “I shall need another appointment with Mr. Doyle in about a week after he sets up the new power of attorney. This is a convenient day and time. See to it, please.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept out of the office. The cousins might as well have been part of the decor.
Carlene scribbled furiously, then picked up the phone and spoke softly, presumably to Brent Doyle. A moment later, she ushered Judith and Renie into the attorney’s inner office.
Brent Doyle couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with a red-gold crew cut, a pug nose, and a deep tan that probably owed more to the electric beach than the Oregon sun. He had a hearty handshake, an expansive smile, and a rack of white teeth. Judith dropped the lawsuit and fell back on candor.
“That,” she said after proper introductions had been made, “was my landlady, Alice Hoke. I’d never seen her before.”
Brent Doyle grinned at both cousins. “Nobody sees much of her. She’s a bit of a hermit. I’ve been away at law school for the past few years, but I heard she was getting to be a legend around here.” He shoved back in his comfortable padded chair and adjusted the jacket of his well-tailored suit. “Now what’s this about a dune buggy?”
“Skip the dune buggy,” said Judith, taking in her surroundings which were stodgy in a 1950s wood and plastic style. No doubt Brent Doyle had inherited the office from his father. The son’s outgoing manner didn’t mesh with the father’s pale green paint and trailing ivy planters. “My cousin and I found Leona Ogilvie’s body in the beach cottage where we’re staying. Naturally, we’re a little nervous. Do you think we’re safe?”
The grin faded slowly from Brent Doyle’s wide face. He picked up a pen and twirled it in his slightly pudgy fingers. “Oh—who can say? It could have been a drug addict. Or a burglar. There are so many unstable people these days, even in a small town. How are the locks on the doors at Pirate’s Lair?” He had become very much the lawyer, noncommittal, cautious, asking rather than answering questions.
Yet his query was not without merit. Judith tipped her head to one side. “The house wasn’t broken into. We assumed Leona Ogilvie let her killer in. Or that the murderer was waiting for her.”
“Ah.” Doyle lifted red-gold eyebrows. “Well, I hear she was like that. Naive. Gullible. Poor woman.” He shook his head and fiddled again with the pen.
“How is Alice Hoke taking it?” Judith asked, wondering if lawyers and doctors both took the same course in avoiding direct questions.
Doyle seemed to consider, his gaze transferred to the plastic-covered overhead light which was mercifully switched off on this partially sunny afternoon. “Mrs. Hoke is a strong person. She’ll be all right.” His voice was a trifle dry.
“I gather she and her sister really weren’t close,” Judith remarked. “Leona had been away for years, I’m told.”
“That’s true.” Brent Doyle smiled again. “I never met the woman. She must have headed for South America before I was born.” His square-shouldered shrug seemed to dismiss Leona Ogilvie’s entire life.
Renie decided to end her role as stooge. “What ever happened to your uncle? The one who made off with the cheese money?”
Brent Doyle turned pale under his tan. “Where’d you hear that?” His grip on the pen tightened. “Say—what are you two here for? I thought it was something about a dune buggy. If you’ve got a lot of crazy questions, go ask the cops. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve only been in practice here about six weeks.” An angry pulse throbbed along Doyle’s jawline.
In reply, Judith whipped a copy of the lease out of her purse. “I want a receipt. Somebody stole the one Leona Ogilvie gave me. And I also want two free days’ rent for the inconvenience of having found a corpse on the carpet. You can make the arrangements with Mrs. Hoke and let me know by tomorrow.” Judith tapped the lease with a fingernail. “Make a copy, please. I want to keep the original.”
Although startled by Judith’s demand, Brent Doyle obviously found himself on ground he could tread legally. “The receipt should be no problem,” he asserted. “It’s hard to imagine how it got stolen. Are you sure you didn’t lose it?” He stared at Judith as if she were a hostile witness.
J
udith wasn’t sure what had happened to the receipt, but she didn’t intend to admit that to Brent Doyle. “It disappeared last night. About the same time Leona was killed.” She let the implication sink in on the young attorney.
Doyle made a disparaging gesture with the pen. “That doesn’t sound right. Of course I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t even in town. We had a law review reunion in Eugene and I didn’t get back until this morning.” It was Doyle’s turn to let his words penetrate his visitors’ brains.
Judith stood up and Renie followed suit. “Just make the copy and call me by tomorrow,” said Judith. “If my husband is laid up longer than we expect, I’m going to have to stay on in Buccaneer Beach. I don’t think it’s out of line to ask for two free days rent after all we’ve been through. This town is dangerous.”
“And inadequate,” put in Renie. “Are the courts open all day or on an appointment-only basis?”
Mystified, Brent Doyle stared at Renie. Deciding to leave him in his baffled state, the cousins made their exit, but not before the receptionist had produced a copy of the lease. Judith and Renie were heading for the car when Terrence O’Toole came dashing out of the Bugler’s editorial office.
“Hey—it’s me! Press!” He wildly waved a newspaper. “We put out an extra edition! You’re in it! I got a byline—‘By Terrence O’Toole, Staff Reporter!’ Wowee! Want to see it?”
Resignedly, Judith took the paper from Terrence O’Toole. The sun had finally come out in full force and Judith suddenly felt too warm in her green leather jacket. The stop press contained four pages in all, featuring a banner headline blaring “LOCAL WOMAN MURDERED—Killer Kite Kayos Cheese Whiz’s Daughter.” A two-column picture of Leona, taken so long ago as to be virtually unrecognizable, stared out from under the bold type.
“Page two,” said Terrence helpfully.
Judith flipped the paper open. Sure enough, there was the story, with Terrence O’Toole’s byline in boldface type. “Gruesome Death Mars Tourists,” read the double-decker headline, causing Judith less uncertainty than it might for other readers. “How about ‘Tourists Marred by Gruesome Death’?” she suggested, but caught Terrence’s rapt expression as he leaned over her shoulder and realized that it was too late for editorial comment. Which, the cousins recognized, was a shame, because the lurid account that followed did nobody, including Terrence, any credit. Judith and Renie came off sounding like a couple of hysterical nincompoops. With a sigh, Judith folded the paper and handed it back to the young reporter.