September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  Assuming that H. Burrell Hodge was in fact the man sitting on the other side of the table, and also assuming that she was about to become the manager of Chavez Cove, Judith conjured up a sheepish smile.

  “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding, Mr….Hodge.”

  “I’m sure it better be!” Hodge huffed as his face turned red with indignation. “Do you know this woman who runs the place?”

  “In a way,” Judith admitted. “My cousin and I are going there to…”

  “Because if you do,” Hodge said, getting to his feet, “you’d better warn her not to play games. H. Burrell Hodge doesn’t like games.” He picked up the newspaper and crumpled it loudly in his beefy hands. His chest puffed up and his jowls jiggled. “H. Burrell Hodge knew somebody would try to throw a spanner in the works. H. Burrell Hodge is getting angry.” The big man stomped off, impervious to the ferry’s starboard list.

  “H. Burrell Hodge is getting loud,” Renie commented. “Are we going to have to listen to him for a whole week?”

  Judith wore a worried expression. “I don’t know. I’ll see Jeanne’s guestbook when we arrive. She said there shouldn’t be any problems. But doesn’t that suit look like a problem to you?”

  “Huh?” Renie’s round face puckered in puzzlement.

  “Men in three-piece suits don’t stay by themselves at bed-and-breakfasts, especially not in a rural area like Chavez Island. Think about it, coz.”

  “Coz is thinking,” Renie replied, then tipped her head to one side. “You’re right, they don’t. They check into hotels with a corporate rate. Maybe he’s been traveling from some other part of the country and hasn’t had time to change.”

  Judith gave a shake of her head. “H. Burrell Hodge needs to change his attitude. I hope the rest of the guests aren’t so difficult.”

  Renie withheld comment.

  There was nothing difficult about Rafe St. Jacques, at least not in the sense that Judith had attached to H. Burrell Hodge. Rafe was more aptly described as tall, dark, handsome, and—if Judith could recall from the romance novels she occasionally read—conveyed a touch of mockery. Or irony, or self-deprecating humor, or cynicism. He was probably in his late thirties, though his age could have gone ten years either way. Muscles rippled under his white linen shirt, his black hair fell carelessly across a tanned forehead, and his azure eyes matched the richness of the sea.

  Rafe had just helped Judith and Renie into the thirty-foot inboard cruiser when H. Burrell Hodge came huffing down the pier. “Is this the boat to Chavez Island?” he shouted, holding on to his dark gray hat with the hand that wasn’t clutching a large suitcase.

  “We’re waiting for you,” Rafe replied. Though courteous, his manner indicated he was very much in control of the situation, the passengers, the cruiser—and himself. “Come aboard. You must be Mr. Hodge.”

  “So I am, H. Burrell Hodge to be exact.” The identification was again accompanied by the expanding of chest and the jiggling of jowls. Spying the cousins, Hodge frowned under his hat brim. “You’re right—you’re going to Chavez, too.”

  “I’ll be darned,” murmured Renie. “So we are.” She shot Judith a caustic glance, indicating her disapproval of H. Burrell Hodge.

  Rafe was consulting a small leather notebook. “That’s it,” he said, more to himself than to his passengers. “Three passengers this trip.” He flipped the notebook shut and strode off to take the helm.

  H. Burrell Hodge had planted himself on the cushioned seat opposite the cousins. He perched his fingers on his knees and sighed deeply. “Pretty area,” he remarked. “Too bad I can’t enjoy it.”

  Judging from Renie’s sour expression, Judith figured there would be no conversational help from her cousin. Judith didn’t blame Renie, but reminded herself that H. Burrell Hodge was an arriving guest, and she was his incoming hostess.

  “I beg your pardon?” Judith said politely. “Do you mean this is a working holiday?”

  The pale blue eyes regarded Judith as if she were a nincompoop. “Now what would you think, Mrs…. What was it? Barber?”

  “No, no,” Judith began, but was interrupted by a shout from Rafe St. Jacques.

  “Killer whale! Port side!”

  The cousins leaned forward; Hodge turned, though his attitude suggested indifference. At first, there was nothing to see. Then the killer whale dived out of the water, a graceful flash of black and white. Judith gasped, and Renie grinned. H. Burrell Hodge’s hat flew off. With a curse, he snatched the hat from where it had landed next to Judith’s feet.

  “Whales! What next, crocodiles? This better be a comfortable setup. H. Burrell Hodge hates to be put out.”

  Judith and Renie exchanged covert glances. A silence fell over the little party as the cruiser cut through the water. Before the Ice Age, the Santa Lucias had been a mountain range, but the great glaciers had crept down to erode the peaks and create valleys which eventually had let in the sea. Large deposits of gravel had been left in the glaciers’ wake along with a kindlier till that allowed forests, shrubs, and meadowlands to flourish. In the distance, the cousins could see the other islands, some large and inhabited, others the size of a big rock. But all were covered in greenery, from tall evergreens to soft moss. Trying to ignore H. Burrell Hodge, Judith sat back to enjoy the scenery.

  Almost five minutes passed before Rafe St. Jacques cut the engine and began to steer the boat through the rocky shoals that led to Chavez Island. He maneuvered skillfully, at one point coming almost within touching distance of the granite boulders which formed the island’s banks. Masses of kelp floated on the tide, indicating the presence of dangerous reefs. The harbor was no more than a small inlet, with a dock that could moor a maximum of three pleasurecraft at one time. Judith saw the wooden steps that led up the steep hill from the water, and beyond, in the shelter of a half dozen cedar trees, she could make out huge glass windows and a stone chimney.

  “Is that the house?” Judith asked Rafe, who was adroitly tying the cruiser to the dock.

  “That’s it,” he replied, keeping his eyes on his work. “Watch your step, Fannie bobs quite a bit.”

  Judith frowned. “Fannie?”

  “The cruiser,” Rafe replied, finishing his task and reaching out to give Judith a hand. She couldn’t help but admire the muscles in his forearms as he helped her onto the dock.

  “Oh.” Judith smiled, but Rafe had already turned his back to assist Renie.

  Renie, however, disdained Rafe’s help. “I’m fine. My father was a seagoing man. I know my way around ships and such just fine. The only problem is, I can’t swim.” With a less than graceful lunge, Renie landed next to Judith on the dock.

  They were halfway up the long wooden stairs when Judith heard someone call her name. Craning her neck, she saw a woman standing on the top step. “Jeanne?” Judith shouted back. “Hi!”

  Jeanne Clayton Barber greeted Judith effusively. “This is so wonderful! I can’t believe I’m actually getting away for a while!” She kissed Judith soundly on both cheeks, then made as if to enfold Renie in a bear hug. “You must be the cousin! Reneé, is it?”

  “Renie, as in weenie,” Renie answered, wincing as Jeanne embraced her. “It’s short for Serena, not for Reneé. Ooof!” Catching her breath, Renie stumbled away from Jeanne.

  Rafe, who was carrying the visitors’ luggage, announced he would put the suitcases on the deck. Jeanne, still beaming at the cousins, nodded. Her face fell when she saw H. Burrell Hodge.

  “Oh! Mr. Hodge? I didn’t realize you were taking an early ferry!” Jeanne put out a reluctant hand. “How very nice!” Her tone belied the words. Jeanne’s small mouth pursed, her gray eyes displayed alarm, and her angular frame seemed to tense.

  The newcomer’s stance was belligerent as he confronted his official hostess. “What’s this about charging me the summer rate? Labor Day was one week ago. I demand a refund of the seasonal charge!”

  Jeanne’s flustered charm evaporated. “You must have misunderstood.
This is still officially summer. The rate doesn’t change until next week.”

  Seeing that H. Burrell Hodge looked as if he were on the verge of an explosion, Judith intervened with a forced smile. “I made the same error, Mr. Hodge. I thought Labor Day was the cutoff, too. But I—we—were wrong.”

  “Chicanery!” Hodge declared. “I was deliberately duped! H. Burrell Hodge doesn’t forget ill treatment!” Despite his claim, he appeared to be quitting the field, at least temporarily. Hodge brushed past his hostess. “Which cabin have I got? I’m half-starved. What time is lunch served?” The question sailed over his shoulder as he stalked up the narrow footpath.

  Jeanne avoided Judith’s curious gaze. “Oh, my!” she laughed. “Mr. Hodge seems rather particular, doesn’t he? Well, Judith, I’m sure you’re used to people like that. Good luck; I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Whoa!” Judith cried, grabbing Jeanne’s arm. “You’re not leaving right away, are you?”

  Jeanne’s smile was forced. “Well, actually, I am. I’ve got to catch the next ferry out of Laurel Harbor if I’m to make my flight to Palm Desert. Rafe is getting my things now. I hope.” Her thin face looked strained.

  Judith’s usual good nature was beginning to erode. “But Jeanne, we haven’t even seen the house yet. There must be a lot of things you need to show us. What about supplies? Who are the other guests? And what the heck are we supposed to do with H. Burrell Hodge?”

  Rafe St. Jacques came gliding down the footpath, carrying two suitcases and a garment bag as if they were tissue paper. “Ready, Mrs. B.?” he asked, his manner just short of being deferential.

  Jeanne Barber gave Rafe a grateful smile. “I think I have everything. Yes, we’d better dash.” She leaned toward Judith and gave her another smacking kiss. “You’re an angel. I’ll see you when I get back a week from Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday!” Judith cried. “I thought we were here only until Sunday! Wait, Jeanne!” Judith started after the other woman, but Rafe blocked her path.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” His smile seemed to convey a warning. “That ferry isn’t going to sit there until we pull in.”

  Judith started down the stairs behind Rafe. “Jeanne! Please! Give me ten minutes! I feel at a complete loss! Jeanne!”

  But Jeanne had reached the dock and didn’t look back. Neither did Rafe St. Jacques. Disconsolately, Judith watched the two figures get into the cruiser. “Damn and double damn!” she exclaimed, her mouth settling into an angry line. “This is crazy. I can’t stay until a week from Wednesday. How could Jeanne run out on us like this?”

  “It looked pretty easy to me,” Renie remarked. “For now, I’m with H. Burrell Hodge. When’s lunch?”

  Judith sighed. Renie could eat under any circumstances, no matter how dire. Hearing the inboard motor kick in from below, Judith resigned herself to being stuck on Chavez Island. There were certainly worse places to be marooned.

  Maybe.

  THREE

  JUDITH STARTED UP the path. As the cousins drew closer, they were rewarded with a full view of the impressive dwelling built by Jeanne and Duane Barber. The house seemed to grow out of the rocks, though the ground was so uneven that most of the expansive three-level deck was on stilts. There appeared to be no easy access from the front to the rear, except by going through the house itself. At least a third of the facade was glass, huge, tall windows that looked out to the water through the evergreen trees. The exterior was finished in rough-hewn fir and spruce, which had acquired a mellow weathered look over the years. Judith picked up her luggage from the suitcases Rafe had left on the deck and pushed the screen door open.

  “Nice,” she admitted, though still feeling put upon. “Jeanne may not have good sense, but she’s got good taste.”

  The kitchen was large, with a high, open-beam ceiling, bright blue tile on walls and counters, a Franklin stove next to the gas range, and a goose motif that seemed to run amok. Judith had a sudden qualm about Jeanne’s good taste.

  But the rest of the house was both stunning and comfortable. The stone fireplace in the living room also served the master bedroom. Near the back door was a small stone grotto with a waterfall that cascaded through native plants. The loft that overlooked the living room also shared the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were two baths, one with a Jacuzzi, a sunroom off the kitchen, and a compact exercise area.

  “Plush,” Renie remarked, after she had taken her suitcase up to the loft. “What’s in the fridge?”

  The refrigerator was well stocked, as were the cupboards and counters. Jeanne had left three pages of notes. Her first caution dealt with the severe water shortage in the Santa Lucias. While Chavez hadn’t been overbuilt like some of the larger islands, there was only one well and two catch basins. There was, however, no shortage of food: Each guest was entitled to a complimentary bottle of champagne, a fruit-and-cheese basket, and a hand-delivered breakfast of muffins, juice, coffee, tea, and more fruit.

  “Visitors eat in their cabins,” Judith noted. “Here are her muffin recipes.” She tapped the three-by-five index cards that sat on the counter next to the refrigerator. “Plain, poppyseed, and blueberry. I suppose that’s easier than putting on the full-course breakfasts I make at Hillside Manor. The cabins have kitchenettes and guests are asked to bring their own food, especially for dinner.”

  “What about lunch?” Renie persisted.

  Judith glanced up at the round clock which depicted yet another goose. The wings indicated the hours and minutes. “Hold on,” Judith said. “I haven’t finished these instructions. Besides, it isn’t noon yet. I want to have a look at those cabins before the other guests arrive. We also have to deliver Mr. Hodge’s suitcase. Rafe left it on the deck.” Judith removed a heavy key ring from a peg by the front door, then picked up H. Burrell Hodge’s brown leather suitcase. Its weight surprised her.

  “He must have a brick in here,” Judith grumbled.

  “It’s probably his complaint log. Maybe it’s a real log.” Renie grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and followed Judith. A single step led from the kitchen to the living room and rear hallway. Outside the back door was a long flight of covered wooden stairs. Alcoves jutted off the small porch, enclosing a barbecue on one side and a wicker love seat on the other. The narrow, steep steps were entwined with thick tangles of ivy which were decorated with tiny gold fairy lights that, according to Jeanne’s note, were on a timer that turned on at dusk.

  The cousins descended cautiously, hanging on to the wooden rail. At the bottom of the stairs, an open area apparently served as parking place and turnaround. On the right, nestled among the berry vines and vine maples, stood a garage and what looked like a storage shed. A rough dirt road led out of the open space, and on the left was a path that wound through the woods. Between the path and the staircase, hybrid rhododendrons had grown up to a height of at least seven feet. The big, glossy-leafed shrubs almost overshadowed the more modest plantings of azaleas, Oregon grape, foxglove, and Saint-John’s-wort.

  “Let’s try the path,” Judith suggested.

  It was well-worn and came out into another, larger clearing carpeted in long grasses and lined with madrona trees. Three separate flagstone walks led to the trio of identical cabins that sat on the edge of a bluff overlooking the water. The buildings were small, with cedar shake roofs and stout stone chimneys. The exterior shingles had been stained a dark brown; the trim on the casement windows was a vivid red. A barbecue pit, a collection of sports equipment, and a covered woodpile sat next to a carefully cultivated rock garden. As the cousins went around to the front, they noted that each had a porch that ran the width of the cabin. Pristine white lawn chairs sat under the overhang, and flower boxes offered a cheerful welcome.

  H. Burrell Hodge offered no welcome at all. He was sitting in one of the lawn chairs on the front porch of the middle cabin. “It’s about time,” he growled. “Be careful with my luggage. It’s top-of-the-line. H. Burrell Hodge doesn’t travel second-class
. You’d better have my key. And lunch.”

  Hiding her impatience, Judith set the suitcase by the door. While Hodge watched her with a critical eye, she sorted through the keys on the heavy ring. Small pieces of tape were marked Front Door, Back Door, Garage, Storage, and Supplies. A duplicate set read Fawn, Doe, and Buck. Judith assumed that the last three names were those given to the cabins. Sure enough, above the door a slab of polished wood bore the name Buck.

  Somewhat clumsily, Judith finally freed one of the two keys to the cabin called Buck. “Here, Mr. Hodge. I’m sorry about the delay, but we were expecting Mrs. Barber to…”

  “I’m expecting Mrs. Barber, too. Where the hell is she?” Hodge demanded, heaving himself out of the lawn chair. “She’s supposed to take me to meet the Danfields.”

  Judith gave Hodge a puzzled look. “The Danfields?”

  Hodge had loosened his tie and now struggled to take off his suit jacket. “Bates Danfield and his wife practically own this island. If you don’t know the Danfields, you don’t know much. Now where’s that Barber woman?”

  Judith gritted her teeth. Explaining anything to H. Burrell Hodge seemed hopeless. The man wouldn’t shut up long enough to listen. “See here, Mr. Hodge,” Judith began, resurrecting the tone she had used on unruly library patrons by day and raucous barflies by night, “Mrs. Barber has gone away for the week. I’m Mrs. Flynn, and I’m taking over for her. I don’t know anything about the Danfields or Chavez Island. As you’re aware, I arrived here at the same time you did, less than an hour ago. Now explain what you’d like me to do, and I’ll try to accommodate you.”

  Proud of finally having her say, Judith took a deep breath and waited for Hodge to respond. Instead, he picked up his suitcase, turned to the front door, inserted the key, and went inside. The door and the screen both slammed behind him.