September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  Renie didn’t look as if she thought there was anything funny about H. Burrell Hodge, dead or alive. Shrugging into her bathrobe, she headed for the Jacuzzi. Judith finished dressing and returned to the living room just in time to see running lights approaching the dock down below.

  “That’s probably the emergency crew,” Doc said, getting to his feet. “They’ll come in through the front way. Let’s go out on the deck.”

  As darkness settled in over the island, and the wind blew off the water, Judith could feel the first hint of autumn. Watching the bobbing flashlights, she shivered and wished she’d put on a jacket.

  “Goodness,” she said, as the newcomers were temporarily lost from view on their ascent from the dock, “how will they get Mr. Hodge out of here?”

  “The same way they’re coming in,” Doc replied. “They’ve probably brought a gurney.”

  Three husky young men appeared first, carrying various types of crime scene and medical equipment, including a collapsible stretcher. They were followed by a tall, strapping figure wearing what looked like a regulation sheriff’s hat. The quartet paused on the path, looked up at the house, and, after a barked command from the person in the hat, hustled forward.

  “The lawman seems to be a take-charge type,” Judith said in approval. “I’m glad it didn’t take him and the medics forever to get here.”

  Doc’s usually genial aspect had deserted him. “That’s no lawman,” he said in a vexed tone. “That’s a lawperson. Deputy Lulu McLean, to be exact. She’s one tough customer.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable sounded very small.

  Lulu McLean was very large. She stood well over six feet and probably weighed in at two hundred and twenty pounds. There was no fat on her, however—just well-toned muscle adhering to big, strong bones. Judith’s first impression was that McLean probably ate raw tiger meat for lunch. After she’d wrestled the tiger to the ground, of course.

  A clipboard dangled carelessly from McLean’s left hand. “All right,” she said in a resonant contralto, “where’s the body?”

  Doc gestured to the rear of the house. “At the bottom of the back stairs.”

  McLean surveyed Judith and Doc. “Wicker? Good, I know you. Who’s this?” She jabbed a thumb in Judith’s direction.

  Doc explained that Judith was filling in for the absent Jeanne Barber. McLean looked Judith up and down with a critical eye. “Barber’s the recent widow, right? How many stiffs are we going to have to haul out of this place, Doc?”

  McLean didn’t expect an answer, and none was forthcoming. She strode across the deck and went into the house, the three young men dutifully following her. One wore the dark blue jacket and pants of a county medic, but the other two were dressed in a uniform similar to McLean’s. Doc joined the emergency crew, but Judith held back. She’d seen enough of H. Burrell Hodge’s corpse. Indeed, she was still picturing his wounds in her mind when Doc and the deputy returned to the living room.

  “There’ll be an autopsy over at Laurel Harbor,” McLean announced, setting the clipboard on the coffee table and shoving her hands into the pockets of her dark green uniform. “It looks like he died from a blow to the head. Two blows, maybe.” She turned to Judith, pinioning her with probing hazel eyes. “Well? Tell me about it.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Judith said with a helpless gesture. “I was in the kitchen.”

  “So how do you know what happened?” McLean was pacing the width of the living room in a deliberate fashion. “Well?”

  “I heard Mr. Hodge cry out. And then a sort of…thud. Or crash.” Judith swallowed hard at the memory. “When I went to the back door, I could see Mr. Hodge lying at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t moving. By the time I reached him, he appeared to be dead.”

  “And?” McLean pressed on, retrieving the clipboard from the coffee table. She made a few quick notes, though her eyes never seemed to leave Judith’s face.

  A faint smell reached Judith’s nose. She sniffed experimentally, but couldn’t quite identify what it was. “Ah…well…I guess that’s when I called 911. And then Doc Wicker.”

  “What time did the accident occur?” McLean’s pen was poised above the clipboard.

  Judith considered. Hodge had mentioned the time, at least twice. Six-oh-five and six-oh-six. But how many minutes had elapsed during the melee with Renie? “Six-ten, six-fifteen,” Judith finally answered.

  McLean turned to Doc. “When did you get here?”

  “Six-twenty-three,” Doc replied promptly.

  Judith was impressed by his accuracy. But she was diverted by the strange smell which had grown stronger. Suddenly she realized it was the baguette in the oven. With a little cry, she excused herself and rushed into the kitchen.

  The bread, which had been wrapped in foil, was ruined, but at least the oven hadn’t caught fire. Judith checked the stove as well, but somehow she’d managed to turn off the burners, probably just before Hodge had fallen down the stairs. A glance at the table revealed six lonely prawns sitting on each of the blue-and-pink plates. They had grown cold, and somehow struck Judith as pitiful. But everything about Chavez House now seemed pitiful. Two deaths had occurred in its precincts. Unfortunately, one of them had happened while Judith was in residence. She chucked the baguette in the trash, where it fell on top of the broken plate. Judith suddenly wished she had never come to Chavez Island.

  Back in the living room, Doc was filling out a form. “Are we giving statements?” Judith asked.

  McLean shook her head. She had removed her regulation hat, displaying an amazing mass of short red curls. “Not yet. Doc’s filling out the death certificate.”

  Judith regarded Doc curiously. “But…don’t you have to be…” Feeling foolish, she let the question trail away.

  Doc, however, gave Judith a sheepish look. “That’s right. You have to be a doctor. That’s what I am, Mrs. Flynn.” He chuckled, an almost bitter sound. “Why do you think they call me ‘Doc’?”

  Embarrassed, Judith tried to smile. “I’m sorry, I guess I thought it was a nickname, like ‘Cap’ or ‘Professor’ or something. I should have known when I saw your medical bag. Oh, dear—I feel so silly!”

  “No need,” Doc said, putting his fountain pen back into his pocket. “It’s not something to brag about.” Solemnly, he handed the form to McLean. “What else do you need from us?”

  The deputy was looking out the front window. “My assistants and the medic are taking the body down to the launch. We might as well do those statements now.”

  Before McLean could hand them to Judith and Doc, a shuffling sound was heard, followed by a thud and a squeal. All eyes turned to the steps that led into the master bedroom. Renie was sprawled across the threshold, a cockeyed grin on her startled face.

  “I fa’ down,” she said, rolling around on the carpet and trying to gather her bathrobe around her. “I mus’ ’a tripped.”

  “Oh, good God!” Judith breathed.

  “Who is this?” McLean demanded.

  In her distraction over the interview with the deputy, Judith had forgotten about Renie’s submersion in the Jacuzzi. Apparently, she had taken the brandy snifter with her. Indeed, Judith couldn’t see the brandy bottle anywhere. She had left it on the stone hearth by the door to the bedroom. Renie must have snatched it away before getting into the tub.

  “This,” Judith said between clenched teeth as she hurried to help Renie to her feet, “is my cousin, Mrs. Jones. She’s suffering from shock.”

  “I’m not suf’rin,” Renie asserted, wallowing around on the carpet. “I feel swell.”

  Judith had never seen Renie drunk. Borderline tipsy, maybe, in their partying days, but definitely not drunk. She guessed that the combination of the Jacuzzi, the brandy, and the very real shock of Hodge’s death had taken its toll on Renie. Also, she recalled fleetingly, Renie hadn’t had a chance to eat.

  “I’m putting you to bed,” Judith said in a stern voice. As the taller and heavier of the cousin
s, she was able to drag Renie back down the steps and across the room. It wasn’t easy, though; Renie’s arms and legs went every which way, like a floppy doll. “Keep your mouth shut,” Judith hissed. “And stay put.”

  “But I gotta tell ’bout the plate,” Renie protested. “Truth’ll out.”

  “You’re out,” Judith declared, somehow getting Renie onto the queen-size bed. “I told you, don’t say another word.”

  “Mm-mm-mm.” Renie nestled her head into one of the several ruffled pillows. “’Night, Bill. Renie loves Bill. Does Bill love…” Renie faded off into slumberland.

  In the living room, Doc wore a bemused expression, while McLean looked downright incensed. “Who is that peculiar person and why didn’t either of you tell me there was somebody else in this house?” the deputy demanded in an angry voice.

  “She’s my cousin, and she’s not well,” Judith said. While not averse to telling an occasional fib for a good cause, Judith rationalized that this time, her words contained more than a grain of truth. “This episode with Mr. Hodge upset her so much that I had to put her to bed.” Judith still had truth on her side, though it was drifting slightly behind her. “She’s a very sensitive person.” Truth disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of the empty brandy bottle.

  McLean turned to Doc. “Check this woman out. See if she’s really sick. Unless she’s at death’s door, I want to interrogate her. Now.”

  Doc picked up his medical bag and went into the master bedroom. “What’s your cousin’s name?” McLean barked, picking up the clipboard once more.

  “Serena Jones. Mrs. William,” Judith answered, trying to keep from peeking in on Doc and Renie. “She’s a graphic designer. I asked her to come along to help me.”

  McLean looked skeptical. “Help you do what? Design graphics?”

  “No. Just for moral support, really. It’s not easy to take over somebody else’s bed and breakfast establishment. I have my own B & B on Heraldsgate Hill, you see. That’s why Jeanne Barber asked me to fill in for her.”

  McLean’s hazel eyes narrowed at Judith. “Did you know the victim before he came to Chavez Cove?”

  “No. We happened to meet him on the ferry this morning,” Judith answered, feeling on somewhat firmer ground. “I hadn’t even seen the guest list at that point, so I knew nothing about him.”

  “You sure?” McLean looked dubious. “He was a city type—like you. What do you know about Adhab?”

  Judith’s eyes widened. “Is that some kind of Middle Eastern type?”

  “Is that some kind of smart-assed answer?” McLean retorted, but didn’t press the issue. As Doc returned to the living room, she regarded him with an expectant air: “Well? What’s with Mrs. Jones?”

  Doc smiled thinly. “You won’t get much out of her tonight, I’m afraid. I…ah…gave her a sedative. She needs all the rest she can get. I’m sure she’ll be much better in the morning.” He darted a conspiratorial look at Judith.

  The skeptical expression remained on McLean’s face, but she turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Okay, we’re heading out with the body. I think we’ve seen enough. Except for taking photographs, there wasn’t much data to gather. The autopsy report should be ready by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll let you know if you’re right, Doc.”

  Judith’s eyes strayed to Doc Wicker. Apparently, something had passed between the doctor and the deputy while Judith was out of the room. She held her tongue until Lulu McLean had left the house and was headed for the dock.

  “You have a theory?” Judith inquired in a mild voice.

  Doc got out his pipe. “You mind?” Judith shook her head. Joe was fond of an occasional cigar. “It’s not exactly a theory, it’s a puzzle. If you ask me, Hodge’s head indicated two separate blows, and he didn’t suffer them in the same way or with the same object.” The shrewd gray eyes searched Judith’s face. “Do you have any ideas about that?”

  Judith sighed and sank down on the sofa. Renie was right: The truth would have to come out. Doc seemed sympathetic, the kind of person in whom Judith could confide. My cousin cracked him over the head with a dinner plate. Hodge was being impossibly rude. But all she did was raise a lump. That’s what you saw on the top of his head.”

  “I wondered.” Doc seated himself in the rocker. “I figured something was up with you two. You should have told Lulu McLean. The autopsy will prove my findings, and McLean will be furious.”

  “I couldn’t squeal on Renie,” Judith said. “And thank you for your own part in the cover-up.”

  Doc waved a hand. “It was nothing. Your cousin didn’t need a sedative, of course. She was out like a light. But there was no way McLean was going to be able to talk to her. And given your reticence about what happened, I figured I’d better have a word with you before our deputy put the thumbscrews on Mrs. Jones.”

  “It’s very awkward,” Judith admitted. “Renie was willing to talk. Except that she couldn’t. At least not without letting McLean think she was some kind of sot. Honestly, Doc, my cousin doesn’t usually drink like that. It must have been the Jacuzzi.”

  “Hmm.” Doc’s attitude was ambiguous. “So what are you thinking, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “Please call me Judith.” She paused for a moment, collecting her impressions. “He could have fallen.”

  “He could.” Doc nodded, his pipe finally taking hold. “But he couldn’t have suffered that kind of a blow to the back of his skull by hitting it on those wooden steps.”

  Judith felt herself turn pale. “Are you suggesting…foul play?” She could hardly utter the question.

  Doc didn’t answer immediately. He was again gazing out through the tall windows, though his eyes didn’t seem to be taking in the view. “That’s a terrible thing,” he finally said. “No, I don’t want to believe it. A freak accident, maybe. Though I don’t understand it. Of course,” he added with an ironic expression, “in matters such as this, I’m out of practice. Literally.”

  “I see,” Judith said, though she didn’t. “You’re retired?”

  “You might say that.” Doc still avoided Judith’s gaze. “We’ll know more tomorrow. September isn’t a very lucky month around here.”

  The phrase rang some bells in Judith’s brain. “I’ve heard other people say the same thing. Rafe. Bates Danfield. Jeanne, too, though I thought she was only referring to the end of the tourist season. What’s wrong with September?”

  Doc frowned into his brandy snifter. “Coincidences, really. Over the years, most of the bad things that have happened seem to have occurred during September. People get superstitious.”

  “Duane Barber didn’t die in September,” Judith pointed out.

  “No. But others did. ‘Remember September.’ It’s a catchphrase around here, and a somber one at that.” Suddenly looking weary, he finished his brandy and stood up. “I’d better head home now. It might be a good idea for you to lock up real tight. Just in case, you know.”

  Judith shuddered. “I’d hate to think there’s a…criminal on this island.”

  “So would I.” Doc went over to the fireplace and emptied his pipe into the grate. Collecting his medical bag, he put a kindly hand on Judith’s shoulder. “Think positive. It was just a terrible accident. They happen. An uncontrolled fall, I believe it’s called. Forget all the things I said about September. Most years have been just fine.”

  “Except this one,” Judith noted.

  Doc tipped his head to one side. “Yes. Except this one. Sorry you were here for it. Good night, Mrs…Judith.” Doc smiled, a ghost of his usual genial expression.

  Judith watched Doc go down the treacherous back stairs. A moment later he had disappeared out of the circle of floodlights. It might be wise to leave them on, she decided, closing the door and securing the double locks. Going to the front of the house, she stepped out on the deck for a breath of fresh air. It was not yet eight o’clock, but full darkness had descended over Chavez Island. Far out on the water, she could see the lights of a single ship, p
assing under the stars. It had grown almost chilly, and Judith hugged herself. She was shivering, though not just from the cold. Autumn was in the air. And so was death. “Remember September,” Doc had said.

  Judith already wished she could forget.

  SIX

  DESPITE DOC’S ENCOURAGING words, Judith knew he didn’t think H. Burrell Hodge’s death had been accidental. Judith didn’t think so, either. Someone besides Renie had bashed in Hodge’s head. But why? Being obnoxious usually wasn’t a motive for murder. Who, Judith wondered as she went back inside, had wanted Hodge dead? The number of suspects seemed limited to the inhabitants and guests of Chavez Island. Judith already knew them, though she had yet to see the reclusive Rowena Carr up close.

  She checked and rechecked the locks to the front door, then made a tour of the windows. When she reached the master bedroom, she shook her head at her cousin’s inert form. Renie was sleeping on her stomach, snoring softly. Judith considered moving her own things to the loft, but decided to stay put. There was plenty of room in the queen-size bed, and Judith felt there was safety in numbers, even if one of them couldn’t be roused by a nuclear bomb. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Judith was uneasy. In fact, she was downright scared.

  As Judith knew from experience, keeping busy was a proven antidote to fear and anxiety. Returning to the kitchen, she was putting the cold prawns in a plastic container when a knock at the back door startled her. Warily, she peered through the spy-hole. Rafe St. Jacques was standing under the fairy lights.

  Judith wasn’t inclined to open the door. She hesitated before asking what he wanted, but called to him after he knocked a second time.

  “I heard there was an accident,” Rafe replied in his mellow baritone. “Are you all right?”

  It seemed unkind to turn Rafe away. He was being solicitous, neighborly. According to Jeanne’s notes, he often acted as Chavez Island security. Judith wondered why she hadn’t called him in the first place, instead of summoning Doc Wicker. Maybe her mind really was going to pot, right along with her mother’s.