September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  “Oh, good grief!” Judith exclaimed. “The man’s impossible! I hope the other guests aren’t such jerks!”

  “You’ve had worse,” Renie pointed out, as Judith paused to inspect the sports equipment which sat in an orderly manner next to the woodpile. Badminton and horseshoe paraphernalia flanked a croquet set which was organized by color. It occurred to Judith that although Jeanne Barber might seem muddleheaded in some ways, she appeared to take her hostelry duties seriously.

  “Well?” Renie demanded. “What about the guy in the loincloth who wouldn’t use the stairs and went in and out of the second-story window on a rope? Or the woman who dressed up like Cleopatra and fell on her asp? Not to mention a couple of your more unfortunate visitors who checked out permanently.”

  Judith didn’t want to be reminded of past pests, particularly those who had met their demise during or shortly after coming to Hillside Manor. Coping with all facets of human behavior was an occupational hazard. As far as Judith was concerned, travelers didn’t leave their troubles behind them.

  “Skip it,” Judith said, tight-lipped.

  “So who are the guests moving into the other cabins?” Renie asked in a relatively mild tone.

  Judith thought back to the guestbook at which she’d only glanced. “A woman with an Irish name. A couple with a Hispanic name. Or Italian, maybe. I suppose Rafe is bringing them back from Laurel Harbor. Now what do I do about feeding H. Burrell Hodge?”

  “What about feeding Renie? It looked to me as if there was plenty of food in that kitchen. Let’s eat.” Renie started for the flagstone walk.

  They got as far as the parking area of the main house when an older man appeared at the head of the dirt road. He was short, wore wire-rimmed glasses, was inclined to stoutness, and had wisps of white hair peeking out from under a Greek fisherman’s cap.

  “Aha!” he called in a jovial voice. “You must be the caretakers. I’m Doc Wicker, proprietor of the Wicker Basket, provisioner for Chavez Island, postmaster, and first-aid attendant. How’s it going?”

  Doc Wicker’s friendly manner was in such contrast to H. Burrell Hodge, that Judith broke into a big smile and vigorously shook the newcomer’s hand. “We’re off to a rocky start, I’m afraid,” Judith confessed after introducing herself and Renie. “We didn’t expect Jeanne Barber to take off so quickly.”

  Under the brim of his cap, Doc raised his fluffy eyebrows. “In a hurry, was she? Well, now.” His fine gray eyes shifted away from Judith. Up close, Doc looked younger than Judith had first thought, closer to sixty than to seventy. “Left you stranded, eh?” he remarked after a pause. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “We’ll get along,” Judith replied, “but one of our guests expected Mrs. Barber to introduce him to somebody named Danfield. Do you know who that is?”

  Taking a Meerschaum pipe out of the pocket of his loosely knit cardigan sweater, Doc chuckled. “Mrs. Flynn, do you realize there aren’t but seven people living year-round on this island? And that counts Jeanne Barber. There’s Bates and Esther Danfield, Rafe St. Jacques, and the Carrs—Rowena and her daughter, Priscilla. But then you must know about Cilla.”

  Judith’s confusion had returned. “Cilla? No, Jeanne didn’t mention her by name.”

  Doc shook his head. “Looks like Jeanne left you in the lurch. Cilla Carr helps out at the cabins. Part maid, part carpenter, part just about anything you can name that needs doing. Cilla and her mother haven’t been here long, but their coming was timely. I don’t know what Jeanne would have done without Cilla after poor old Duane died. You give Cilla a call. Her number’s Five.”

  “Five?” Judith was still confused.

  Digging his pipe out with a small tool, Doc nodded. “The Barber house is 1, the Danfields are 2, I’m 3 and 4, depending on whether you ring me in the store or upstairs in my living quarters. Rafe’s 6. Oh, we’re connected to the outside world like regular phone customers, but here on Chavez we’ve got this setup kind of like a tie-line. The cabins don’t have phones.” Doc undid the strings of a small leather tobacco pouch. “You want to stroll over and check out the Wicker Basket?”

  Despite Renie’s show of reluctance, Judith agreed to go along with Doc. “Where do these other people live?” she inquired, as they headed down the dirt road.

  “The Carrs are about a quarter of a mile from here on the southwest side of the island,” Doc answered, now attempting to light his pipe even as he walked at a brisk pace. “They moved to Chavez last spring, bought their place from Tom and Peggy Lowman, who’d come here to get away from the city. Too far away, as it turned out, once their kids got to be school age. They found themselves a house on Perez Island, where there’re schools and other youngsters. Isolation isn’t for everybody.”

  “You must like it, though,” Judith said, as the road curved to allow a glimpse of the strait between the trees.

  “Mmmm.” Doc sucked on his pipe, but didn’t directly address the comment. “Rowena Carr likes it real well. She’s practically a recluse. Couldn’t be much different from her daughter. Cilla’s wonderful, an outgoing girl, packed with fun and energy. The Danfields have a big fancy place on the south side. Rafe’s not far from me, just on the other side of the helicopter pad, by Hidden Cove.”

  “There’s a helicopter pad?” Judith evinced surprise.

  “It’s only for emergencies,” Doc replied, then gestured with his pipe at a green roof that rose above a small stand of Douglas firs. “There’s the Wicker Basket. You need anything?”

  Doc’s store was small, but surprisingly well stocked. The shelves were crammed with canned goods, beverages, pharmaceutical items, fishing tackle, hiking gear, housewares, and even a few articles of clothing.

  “Rafe delivers fresh meat and produce and dairy products just about every day,” Doc explained, moving behind the wooden counter with its glass case containing candy, gum, cough drops and cigarettes. “He brings the mail, too. Depending on how many guests are staying at the cabins, sometimes he makes four or five trips a day.”

  “Has he been here long?” Judith inquired.

  Doc shrugged. “Three, four years. He showed up one day from out of nowhere and the next thing we knew, he was living in the abandoned boathouse in Hidden Cove. Six months later, he had the place all fixed up and snug as can be. Duane Barber and I’d been doing all the fetching and carrying ’til then, but neither of us were as young as we used to be. We were both glad to turn the task over to Rafe. You sure there’s nothing you need?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Judith replied. “Jeanne left us in pretty good shape.”

  Apparently, Renie didn’t agree. Unnoticed by Judith, she had been foraging in the food section of the Wicker Basket and now appeared at the counter laden with hot dogs, buns, potato chips, soda pop, cheddar cheese, sweet pickles, carrots, bananas, and three boxes of microwave popcorn.

  “This’ll do for now,” she said, unloading her hoard on the counter. “How much?”

  “Coz…” Judith began.

  “I’ll eat it here,” Renie announced, as Doc began ringing up the items on his old-fashioned cash register.

  “Coz!” This time Judith spoke sharply.

  Over her shoulder, Renie gave Judith a sheepish look. “Okay, okay, so I’ll wait until we get back to the house. But I’m not taking any chances. It’s been a while since noon, and I’m about to pass out from hunger.”

  “That’ll be thirty-two dollars and twenty-three cents,” Doc informed Renie.

  “What?” Renie’s jaw dropped. “This stuff would come in under twenty bucks at Falstaff’s!”

  Doc gave Renie a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know what Falstaff’s is, but you’re on Chavez Island. It costs a bundle to bring merchandise to an isolated place like this. I’m afraid prices are a bit steep. Take gasoline—it’s at least 20 percent more on the islands than the mainland. That’s because when deliveries are made, they have to come over on a special ferry run in the middle of the night, and afte
r they unload, the boats are completely washed down to make sure there’s no spillage. The environment, you see. We’ve suffered enough from careless sea captains around here. I don’t sell gas because nobody drives much on Chavez.”

  The rationale was lost on Renie. Grumbling, she counted out the required amount and handed it to Doc. Judith decided it was time to get her cousin out of the Wicker Basket.

  “Thanks so much, Doc,” she said, moving toward the door. “It’s a comfort to know that you’re close by. You may see H. Burrell Hodge. He’s the one who’s looking for the Danfields.”

  Doc’s smile evaporated. Indeed, Judith thought that he suddenly looked stricken, but the storekeeper quickly recovered his aplomb. “Hodge, eh? Right, I’ll keep my eye out for him. Good luck.”

  Songbirds vied with bluejays as the cousins made their way back along the dirt road. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, creating filmy shafts of light and dancing off a lazy creek that meandered among huckleberry, salal, and Oregon grape. The small world of Chavez Island seemed infinitely peaceful, a square mile of rustic calm.

  “That was odd,” Judith remarked, breaking the tranquil mood. “Didn’t you notice Doc’s reaction when I mentioned Hodge’s name?”

  “I noticed I got screwed on these groceries,” Renie retorted. “What else do I need to know?”

  Judith started to expand on her observation, saw her cousin’s pouting lower lip, and thought better of it. Renie would be more reasonable once she’d eaten. Or maybe Judith was being overly sensitive. As a fascinated student of human nature, she sometimes let her imagination get the better of her.

  Upon reaching the house, Judith realized that she hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind her. “I suppose it’s safe up here,” she said, resuming her perusal of Jeanne’s instructions. “With so few people in such a remote place, I can’t imagine there’s any crime.”

  “Are you kidding?” Renie was unloading her groceries. “Doc Wicker just robbed me blind. Want a hot dog?”

  “Why not?” Judith had her head in the refrigerator, studying the items that Jeanne had provided. “There’s plenty here—for us. How about prawns and fusilli? Lamb chops and baked potatoes? Rib steak and fries? Salmon with fettuccine?”

  “Sounds good,” Renie replied, dropping four hot dogs into a kettle. “All of it.”

  Judith shot Renie a wry look. “Let’s concentrate on the prawns. They’re fresh, and…”

  A single knock on the back door interrupted Judith’s inventory. Before she could reply, a cheerful voice called out:

  “Yoo-hoo! Hey, hey! It’s me, the truly excellent housekeeper-handywoman!”

  A small blond dynamo in her mid-twenties charged into the kitchen pushing a bucket filled with mops, brooms, and other cleaning utensils. “Hi! I’m Cilla Carr. Where’s the dirt?” Her big smile revealed deep dimples and sparkling green eyes. “You must be Flynn. One of you, anyway.” Her elfin expression grew uncertain as she saw Renie eating sweet pickles straight from the jar.

  Judith put out a hand. “I’m Judith Flynn, and the pig at the counter is my cousin, Serena Jones. Don’t talk to her until she’s full.”

  Cilla Carr’s laugh was as genuine as it was musical. “I didn’t know there were two of you! Does it really take twice as many hostesses to replace Jeanne Barber?”

  Judith made a face. “Well…probably not. But Renie—Serena—is just along for the ride. Moral support, as it were.”

  Cilla shot Judith an enigmatic look which didn’t jibe with her exuberant personality. “That depends, I guess. How well do you know Jeanne Barber?”

  Judith blinked at Cilla. “We went to high school together. Actually, I haven’t seen her much over the years except at…what do you mean?”

  Cilla grabbed a mop, clutching it as if it were a dance partner. “Oh, nothing!” She began to sway in tune to a song only she could hear. “Dum-de-dum…la-la-de-da…deedle-um-dee…I didn’t mean anything, really. Jeanne’s great. She’s just…strange sometimes. Moody. Shall I start with the bathrooms?”

  That was fine with Judith, though the house looked quite clean already. “What about the cabins?” she asked, following Cilla out of the kitchen.

  “I did them first thing this morning,” Cilla replied, opening the door to the red-tiled guest bathroom under the stairs. “All the weekend guests left on Rafe’s first trip to Laurel Harbor.” Uttering Rafe St. Jacques’s name seemed to provoke Cilla’s dimples.

  “The other newcomers should be here soon, I imagine. How many ferries are there to Laurel Harbor every day?” asked Judith, who was studying a duck decoy that sat on one of the shelves that housed the TV, VCR, stereo, and an eclectic variety of videos, tapes, and compact discs.

  “This time of year, there are four—the one you must have come on, the twelve-thirty, the three-fifty, and a seven-fifteen. The schedule changes with the seasons, and it isn’t the same from year to year. It’s confusing, even for people who live in the islands. Plus, the state ferry runs don’t always make the same stops. You have to ask when you board to make sure you can get where you’re going. There’s an independent ferry, though, sort of a water taxi, that goes between several of the medium-sized islands. But it doesn’t stop here because the Chavez Cove channel’s too narrow and rocky.” Cilla bustled around the bathroom, her neat little figure a whirlwind of activity with cleanser and rags.

  “So if someone wanted to leave the island,” Judith said, making calculations in her head, “they’d have to get off Chavez no later than six-thirty, right?”

  “Right,” Cilla agreed, briskly polishing the oval mirror above the vanity. “Of course the ferry doesn’t actually leave until seven-forty. Depending upon the number of passengers, it takes about twenty minutes to load and unload.” Emerging from the bathroom, Cilla beamed at Judith, displaying those devastating dimples. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting out of here already?”

  “Oh, no,” Judith laughed, a bit weakly. “I was just looking ahead. By the way,” she added, as Cilla started for the master bedroom, “the guest in the Buck cabin somehow got the idea we served regular meals here. Should I tell him to buy food at Doc Wicker’s or make arrangements for Rafe to get a list from Mr. Hodge and pick it up on his next trip to Laurel Harbor?”

  Cilla’s hand tightened on the carpet sweeper. “Mr. Hodge? What Mr. Hodge?”

  Renie was bringing a hot dog and bun to Judith. “H. Burrell Hodge,” Renie said. “The H stands for Horse’s Hind End.”

  Cilla’s green eyes were wary. “Is he a fisherman?”

  Judith hesitated. “I don’t think so. He didn’t mention it, and he’s dressed in a three-piece suit.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Cilla declared. “He must be a businessman. I don’t trust businessmen. They’re all sharks.” Her elfin features were set, then she appeared to relax. “Have Mr. Hodge get what he needs from Doc Wicker. Just make sure he doesn’t put it on the Chavez tab. You can’t trust anybody in business.” Cilla descended the four steps to the sunken master bedroom.

  Judith and Renie went back into the kitchen. “That’s it!” eyeing Jeanne’s notes on the counter. “I haven’t put the guests’ baskets together. Let’s do that, and when we take Hodge’s over to his cabin we’ll tell him about Doc’s store.”

  Hurriedly finishing lunch, Judith found the big fruit baskets in a lower cupboard. Each was lined with a bright linen cloth. Checking Jeanne’s list against the provisions, she filled the baskets with oranges, apples, bananas, pears, grapes, three kinds of cheese, crackers, packets of tea and coffee, smoked salmon, beefstick, and a bottle of champagne.

  “H. Burrell Hodge won’t starve, even if he doesn’t make it to the store,” Judith declared with a satisfied smile. “Maybe this will hold him until I bring the muffins and the rest for breakfast.”

  “Maybe.” Renie sounded dubious, no doubt in consideration of her own ravenous appetite.

  Cilla was now in the loft, humming a perky tune. Judith c
alled to tell her they were heading out to the cabins.

  “Good luck,” Cilla said, leaning over the rail to look down into the living room. “If you see Rafe, tell him I need a new hammer. Standard issue, solid steel. I lost my old standby. Oh—and bleach, the biggest jug they’ve got at Laurel Harbor. I do the laundry, you know.”

  Judith didn’t. “Jeanne’s got it made,” she said under her breath as the cousins went out the back door. “Except for making muffins and filling those fruit baskets, I can’t see that she does much work. I envy her. Even with a cleaning woman, I run my tail off all day long.”

  “What did Duane do?” Renie asked as they trod carefully down the steep back steps.

  Judith wrinkled her brow. “I don’t really know. In fact, I’m not sure how long the Barbers have been on Chavez Island. Ten years at least, but the only time I really had a long chat with Jeanne was at that reunion four or five years ago. We were never close, even in high school.”

  “Do they have kids? I thought Jeanne mentioned a daughter.” Renie followed Judith down the path that led to the cabins.

  “A girl named Marcia, but she’s grown. Married, maybe. I saw some photographs in the master bedroom. One was a wedding picture that looked fairly recent.”

  “Married. Out of the house. No more college tuition.” Renie’s tone had grown morose. “No wonder she can fly off to a ritzy California spa. Lucky Jeanne.”

  “Not so lucky being a widow,” Judith pointed out.

  “No?” Renie snickered. “I’m not talking about Bill, of course,” she added hastily.

  “It wasn’t luck that killed Dan,” Judith said, as they approached the cabin called Buck. “It was gluttony and drinking and self-loathing.” She shook her head at the memory of her first husband’s self-destructiveness.

  Despite the warm afternoon, Hodge’s door was closed. Judith knocked twice, but got no reply. She waited, then knocked again. Still no one answered. Judith got out the extra key and unlocked the door.