September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  The cabin was compact, but comfortable. The living room was furnished in the same cheerful, airy decor as the main house. The stone fireplace was smaller, and the kitchenette was separated by a counter. The bath and the bedroom were off a narrow hall. Judith set Hodge’s basket on the counter, then decided to write a note about securing his other meals. Renie, meanwhile, wandered into the bedroom.

  “He hasn’t unpacked, except for a briefcase,” she reported, coming back into the living room. “What an impatient jerk—it looks like he used a crowbar to open the briefcase. I suppose he couldn’t find the key.”

  “Oh?” Judith signed her name and stuck the note between a packet of Irish breakfast tea and a box of sesame crackers. “What do you mean?”

  Renie was admiring Judith’s handiwork with the fruit basket. “It’s a very handsome leather case, the kind that a lot of the CEOs I work with carry around. It had a couple of fresh scratches in it, as if H. Burrell Hodge couldn’t be bothered looking for the key.”

  Judith grew thoughtful, then headed for the bedroom. “You’re right,” she said, examining the briefcase which bore two one-inch gouges by each of the locks. “Let’s hope it was Hodge who did it.”

  “Oh, come on,” Renie urged. “Don’t look for trouble. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  Judith ignored the remark, but it was all she could do to resist the temptation of trying to open the briefcase. “He definitely came here to work,” she observed, reluctantly leaving the bedroom. “Maybe his job requires seclusion. His registration lists an address in town, but no business information. But then I don’t suppose Jeanne offers a corporate rate. I don’t, either.”

  Outside, the bright sun was glistening off the water. Judith and Renie paused to admire the view. A dozen small boats, probably pleasurecraft, could be seen about a half mile away. Farther out was a large commercial vessel, possibly a tanker. Only a narrow ribbon of beach was visible from the bluff, but the slap of the waves against the sand could be heard as the tireless, rhythmic tide edged ever closer. The air was tinged with salt and evergreens and the wild roses that grew around the cabins. A faint breeze stirred the trees behind the cabins and ruffled the long grasses.

  “The Santa Lucias may be farther north,” Renie said, “but they have a milder weather pattern than we do in the city. It’s because of the warming current that comes through the strait. Still, my dad always warned me never to travel by sea during the vernal and autumn equinoxes. The weather can be very unpredictable then, even dangerous, especially on the water.”

  “It doesn’t seem dangerous now,” Judith said. “It’s lovely. Quiet. Peaceful. Soothing. I can almost forget my car’s a wreck and my mother’s going batty and my husband is probably being sexually assaulted by his ex-wife.”

  Renie said nothing. Judith understood that the silence didn’t imply complaisance, but sympathy. The cousins were still taking in their agreeable surroundings when they heard voices behind them.

  Rafe St. Jacques was leading three people down the path to the cabins. A woman, who was almost as tall as Rafe, was talking in overloud clipped tones. The young couple who trailed behind were holding hands and grinning as if they knew a delicious secret.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” Rafe called in his deep, mellifluous baritone, “I’ve brought Ms. Hennessy and the Estacadas.”

  “That’s Miss Hennessy,” said the tall woman with the short gray hair, and then uttered a hearty laugh. “All this P.C. business! Not conducive to accuracy! Miss June Hennessy, Ed.D., high-school history teacher, and headmistress of Laurel Glen Academy. Howdjdo, Mrs. Flynn.” Her shrewd gray eyes swerved in Renie’s direction. “And you?”

  “Just plain Jones,” Renie replied. “My family was too poor to give me a title.”

  Miss June Hennessy blinked twice at Renie, but Judith quickly intervened, lest her cousin go off on one of her whimsical tangents. “You must be the Estacadas, from Stockton,” Judith said warmly. “You’re in Fawn.”

  “We’re in love,” the female half of the Estacadas said in a small, slightly dismayed voice. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

  Judith winced at the misunderstanding, but kept smiling. “I mean, the name of your cabin is Fawn. Miss Hennessy is in Doe.”

  “The cabins look very nice,” the bride said, her large brown eyes never leaving her husband’s face. “Don’t they, Rob?”

  “Real nice,” Rob replied, squeezing his wife’s tiny waist. He was a dark-haired young man of average size, with pleasant if undistinguished features, and a stolid demeanor. “Is there any place we can rent a canoe?”

  Judith didn’t know, and felt chagrined at her ignorance. She suggested they ask Doc Wicker. Miss Hennessy, however, was better informed than her hostess.

  “There’s a canoe and a kayak,” she said. “At least there was when I was here last year. He’ll know.” With a long, rangy arm, she pointed to Rafe, who had been delivering the guests’ luggage to their cabins.

  “What fun!” squealed the bride, clapping her dainty hands. “We can paddle all around the islands.”

  In his graceful, catlike manner, Rafe had returned to the little group. “Yes, you can—but you have to be very careful. Unless you’ve had ocean travel experience, I’d avoid the open water. No matter where you go, check the weather conditions first. You’ll have to watch for tidal currents and tide rips. Not to mention changes in the wind. I’ve got some nautical charts which will help.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed the bride, her heart-shaped face registering dismay. “Maybe we should just stick to hiking.”

  Rob gave her another squeeze. “Don’t worry, Stacie. I did some canoeing when I was a camp counselor at Shasta Lake.”

  Rafe’s bronzed forehead furrowed. “I’m afraid that’s not the same thing,” he said in his easy manner. “Lakes don’t have tides. But I’ll do my best to give you a short course in navigating the sheltered waters.”

  Stacie bounced on her sneaker-clad feet. “Oh, that’s too nice of you!” She turned to Judith. “Maybe you can tell us where we can go to picnic on the other side of the island.”

  Again, Judith had to reveal her ignorance. “Well…ah…I’m not really sure…”

  This time, Rafe intervened, though his ironic mien altered almost imperceptibly. “There are no public lands on Chavez Island. It’s all private property. If you want to picnic here, you’ll have to use the barbecue setup or the beach below the bluff. But there isn’t much beach except at low tide. Tomorrow around noon would be a good time to be on what beach there is because we’ll have a minus tide.”

  Stacie Estacada leaned against her husband, as if seeking comfort for her disappointment. “Oh, drat-drat-drat! Does that mean we can’t hike?”

  “As long as you stay on the trails and keep off the posted areas,” Rafe replied, giving Stacie a sample of his engaging smile. “The same goes for the road—there’s only one, and it doesn’t go all the way around the island. But there’s plenty to see, including a bird sanctuary at Eagle Lake.”

  Stacie’s roller-coaster emotions were on the rise again. “A bird sanctuary! How dear! Come on, Rob—let’s unpack.” Dragging her husband by the hand, she all but ran toward the cabin marked Fawn.

  Miss Hennessy’s shrewd eyes followed the couple as they hurried down the flagstone walk. “Honeymooners,” she murmured. “Very sweet. Let’s hope they keep to themselves.”

  “Honeymooners usually do,” Judith said, still smarting from her latest inadequacies as a hostess. “Would you like to have us show you around the cabin?”

  Miss Hennessy lifted one unplucked eyebrow. “Show me what? I’ve been here before, remember? Laurel Glen Academy doesn’t open until October first. I always spend a few days at Chavez Cove before school starts. In the spring, we hold our annual faculty retreats here as well.”

  “How nice,” Judith said, and meant it. “What kind of a school is Laurel Glen?”

  “Private high school.” June Hennessy bristled with pride. “I taught in the publi
c schools for years, standards kept slipping. Particularly discouraging to work with underprivileged students. So much extra attention needed, which wasn’t always possible. I had a dream—a private school catering to their special needs, and at the same time, remove them from insidious city influences.” Miss Hennessy’s face had taken on a glow, and her eyes were very bright. “An aunt of mine died. She left me some property near Laurel Harbor, and a generous monetary sum. I built the school, and I’m able to subsidize tuition costs. Of course I can only accept sixty students each year. But if we can change the lives of those sixty, we’ve changed the world.”

  “That’s very admirable,” Judith said, appreciating the fervor in June Hennessy’s tone. “It’s a boarding school, I gather.”

  Miss Hennessy nodded vigorously. “Yes, indeed. An academy, actually. The students are allowed to go home only at Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas. And summer break, of course.” Her expression changed dramatically. “I hate summers,” she lamented. “The pupils become exposed to so many ugly situations, even within their own families. I’d love to extend the school to a year-round schedule. The students could use the extra classroom time. By high school, they’ve got so much catching up to do. It’s ridiculous for anyone to think we aren’t making an enormous difference. Mrs. Barber has always been a staunch supporter. Where is she, might I ask?”

  “She’s gone,” Judith admitted. “Mr. Barber passed away a few weeks ago. Mrs. Barber needed to…”

  “Yes, I heard about Mr. Barber. We hear a great deal back and forth between the islands.” Miss Hennessy now wore a sour expression, which made her plain face downright homely. She turned away from Judith and inclined her head at Rafe. “Thank you, Mr. St. Jacques. As ever, I appreciate your courtesy. Good day.” With a long-legged step, June Hennessy headed toward Doe.

  Between the warm afternoon sun and her own shortcomings, Judith felt a headache coming on. But she also offered her thanks to Rafe. “I’m afraid I’m kind of a washout as Jeanne Barber’s stand-in,” she said apologetically.

  Rafe’s engaging smile returned. “It’s not an easy job, taking over for someone else.” The smile twisted in irony. “I’ve got an idea that the part you’re going to enjoy most is leaving. September seems to be a hard month around here. See you later, Mrs. Flynn, Mrs. Jones.”

  Rafe St. Jacques’s catlike step took him out of earshot before the cousins could say a word.

  FOUR

  JUDITH FELT THAT the least she could do was explore the island. “If I know what this place looks like, I won’t feel like such a dope,” she told Renie, as the cousins headed down the dirt road. “Maybe Doc can give us a map.”

  But Doc wasn’t in. A “Closed” sign was on the door, with a little cardboard clock that indicated he’d be back at three. There was, however, a map of Chavez Island nailed to a freestanding bulletin board by the side of the store. Judith chewed her lower lip and tried to figure out which way they should go next.

  “If I understand it right, Rafe’s place and the helicopter pad are that way,” she said, gesturing to her right. “The hiking trails go off from somewhere in back of the cabins. Look,” she said, pointing to the map. “The main trail branches off at Eagle Lake. One spur goes over to the north side of the island and the other to the east, by Salmon Gap where there’s another cove and some beach. What do you think?”

  “I think,” Renie said, lifting one sandal-shod foot, “that we should avoid the trails for now and stick to the road.”

  “Why don’t you wear real shoes?” Judith groused.

  “Your Keds aren’t exactly made for rugged terrain,” Renie pointed out. “Besides, don’t you want to meet the neighbors?”

  “True,” Judith agreed. “The map shows two houses, one marked Carr and the other, Danfield. Cilla and her mother’s place looks as if it’s just up around the bend.”

  In less than a hundred yards, the cousins came upon a modest two-story white clapboard house flanked by a profusion of gold, red, orange, and lavender dahlias. The house looked as if it had been freshly painted, and the gray-blue composition shingles on the roof also appeared new. The widow’s walk was old, however, though its iron rails had been painted white to match the house.

  “Shall we see if Cilla’s home?” Judith didn’t wait for an answer but unlatched the gate in the white picket fence and started up the walk. She stopped abruptly just before reaching the four steps which led to the small porch. “Blast! I forgot to give Rafe the message about what Cilla needs from Laurel Harbor. Gosh, coz, I feel as daffy as my mother!”

  “You don’t look that daffy,” Renie said in mock sympathy. “Yet.”

  Judith turned and gave Renie a small shove. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to admit I goofed again.”

  The cousins were going through the gate when a thin voice floated somewhere behind them and over their heads. They turned and looked up. A figure stood at an open upstairs windows, partially concealed by the gauzy curtains that ruffled in the breeze.

  “You’re not wanted here,” the voice said, sounding ethereal and menacing on the afternoon air. “Go away.”

  “We’re doing it,” Renie called back. “Bye.” She scooted ahead of Judith and turned into the dirt road.

  “Mrs. Carr?” Judith shouted, forcing a smile. “I’m Mrs. Flynn.”

  “That’s not my fault.” Mrs. Carr slammed the window shut. Part of the curtain got caught and fluttered above the sill. It seemed to be waving farewell to the cousins.

  “Cilla’s mother isn’t a bit like her daughter,” Judith said in annoyance. “Doc was right when he said Mrs. Carr was sort of a recluse. She’s also very rude.”

  The road wound among the western red cedars, Douglas firs, maples, and cottonwoods. An occasional madrona, with its red bark and glossy leaves, leaned toward the sea. Just at the point when Renie was beginning to complain that her feet hurt, the cousins glimpsed a black-tail deer. The animal stared at the intruders, then leaped into a thicket and out of sight. The cousins waited quietly, hoping that they might sight another animal. They knew from their experiences at the family cabin that deer often traveled together.

  But the only wildlife in evidence was the sound of birds in the branches overhead.

  “The animals don’t like us either,” Judith groused. “Whatever I told Jeanne I’d charge her wasn’t enough.”

  “Did you get it up front?” Renie asked.

  “No,” Judith admitted. “There wasn’t time. I mean, I didn’t tell her I was coming until Tuesday night and then we didn’t talk again until Thursday and at that point I knew she couldn’t get a check to me before I got here and when I did, she left.”

  Renie sighed. “Sap. I told you to get the money first. She’ll diddle you, just wait and see.”

  Judith was trying to think of a way to defend herself when she caught sight of an imposing stone edifice behind a daunting stone wall. Square, three stories, solid granite, glowering on the crest of a sloping hill that overlooked the water, the Danfield house looked more like a fortress than a home. As the cousins drew nearer, they saw at least three outbuildings made of the same native granite. They also saw a large sign printed in looming black and red letters:

  NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.

  SURVEILLANCE SYSTEM IN OPERATION.

  Judith scowled at Renie. “Oh, shoot!”

  Someone did. The shot sailed just over Judith’s head. Both cousins dropped to the ground, uttering terrified screams.

  “Don’t move unless you want to meet Jesus!” The gravel-voiced command came from behind them. “State your names and your intentions. Do it now, or the next shot won’t miss.”

  Judith found her power of speech, which seemed to have been stifled by fright. “I’m Mrs. Flynn, from Chavez Cove. We’re neighbors, not trespassers. This is my cousin, Mrs. Jones.” She turned her head ever so slightly, trying to make sure that Renie was all right. In the pause that followed, Judith discovered that the fall had jarred her.
She was bruised, and pebbles in the road were poking into various parts of her body. Renie’s brown eyes were beginning to show anger instead of fear. Judith was afraid that her not always circumspect cousin might say something that would further incite whoever had fired the gun.

  “We came to call on the Danfields,” Judith said doggedly. “I guess we should have phoned first.” She shifted her prone form ever so slightly, trying to relieve the pressure of the rocks.

  “Get up.” The abrasive voice conveyed impatience. “Slow, like.”

  The short, squat man with the sawed-off shotgun was at least seventy, as gnarled as a tree trunk, as hard as the granite stones that surrounded the house. His eyes never seemed to blink.

  “I never heard of any Flynns or Joneses around these parts,” he said, lowering the shotgun a trifle. “You got proof?”

  “We didn’t bring our purses,” Judith replied, dusting off her slacks and T-shirt. “I’m taking Jeanne Barber’s place while she’s away. Call Doc Wicker. He knows who we are.”

  The eyes still didn’t blink, but a glimmer of recognition passed across the weathered face. “I heard something about that. Already doffed her widow’s weeds, I’ll bet. She gone off to a fat farm?”

  “Something like that,” Judith said in a weary voice. “Are you Mr. Danfield?”

  The worn old face broke into a fearsome grin. “Mr. Danfield? You’re one dumb broad, lady. I’m Elrod Dobler. I watch out for this place. Anybody who shows up unannounced takes a big chance of leavin’ feet-first.” Dobler waggled the shotgun at the cousins.

  “We wanted to introduce ourselves,” Judith said in exasperation. “If the Danfields aren’t hospitable, then we’ll leave. But I’ve got a guest who has an appointment with them. I feel duty-bound to make sure he’s received with courtesy.”

  At last Dobler lowered the shotgun. “You mean that Hodge fella? He’s been here already. I shoulda peppered him with this.” He waved the shotgun. Then he pulled the trigger and blasted a branch out of the nearest cedar. It fell at Judith’s feet.