by Mary Daheim
“No, Jeanne, this is no joke,” Judith broke in, gaining momentum from Jeanne’s aggravating digression. “Mr. Hodge was killed when someone hit him in the head. It wasn’t an accident, according to the sheriff’s department. It was a premeditated homicide.”
The silence at the other end of the line indicated that Jeanne Barber was now taking Judith seriously. “Oh, good grief!” she finally exclaimed. “I can hardly believe it!”
“It’s true,” Judith averred. “Lulu McLean is in charge, and she seems capable. But I must ask you—as she may later on—if you have any idea who might have wanted Mr. Hodge dead.”
This time the silence went on much longer. “No, of course not. How could I? I’d never met the man before in my life.”
The insistent note in Jeanne’s voice disturbed Judith, but she wasn’t sure why. “Jeanne,” Judith began somewhat wearily, “I’ve got a million things to ask you about what I should do regarding insurance and the business aspects of what happened. But I have to say this—I’m convinced that H. Burrell Hodge had been to Chavez Island before yesterday. Please don’t try to lead me down the garden path. I’m on the spot here, and I’m trying to do what’s best for you—and for me. I’d appreciate your candor.”
“About what?” Jeanne now sounded cross. “Don’t bother yourself. I can call my insurance company and my attorney and whomever else I need to contact from here. All I expect from you is to take care of the guests who are still alive. They are still alive, aren’t they?” The words dripped with acrimony.
“Certainly they are,” Judith snapped. “You might at least tell me why Mr. Hodge came to Chavez.”
“I’ve no idea.” There was a pause, and then the frost melted slightly in Jeanne’s voice: “He didn’t tell me, because I never spoke with him. Someone else made the reservation. A woman, as I recall. It was about a month ago, right after Duane died. I wasn’t exactly at my best. Excuse me, Judith, I must make those phone calls. Don’t call me—I’ll call you.”
“Wait!” Judith cried into the phone. “Are you sure you know nothing about why Mr. Hodge would have called on Bates Danfield?”
An impatient noise erupted at the other end of the line. “I do not.” Again, there was a pause. “I swear, Judith, on my late husband’s soul, I never heard of H. Burrell Hodge until last month. Now do you believe me?”
Judith said she did. She had no choice.
Jeanne hung up.
NINE
JUDITH WAS ANGRY with herself. By the time the cousins had changed clothes, started the washer, and finished lunching on tuna-salad sandwiches, Renie was angry with Judith, too.
“Cut it out, coz,” she ordered. “You’re not losing your mind. You’ve had too many things to think about in the last twenty-four hours, that’s all.”
“But it was the perfect opening to ask Rafe about his argument with H. Burrell Hodge,” Judith contended for the fifth time in the last hour. “Lulu McLean was outside, Rafe and I were talking about Burrell, and Rafe was insinuating that we might be involved in the crime. That’s when I should have thrown his lie back in his face.”
“You’ll have another chance,” Renie said in a reasonable voice as she closed the dishwasher and flipped the switch. “We aren’t going anywhere for a while, remember?”
Judith made a face. “I can remember that part—but not much else. I wonder if I should call Mother?”
It was Renie’s turn to make a face. “If you do, then I’ll feel obligated to call my mother. I was hoping to put that off until tomorrow.”
“How,” Judith asked with a lift of her eyebrows, “did you manage to forestall her so long?” Aunt Deb expected her only daughter to check in at regular intervals, approximately four hours apart, like a medical dosage.
Renie sighed as she climbed back onto one of the counter stools. “I told her the communications facilities were very primitive. It’s not exactly a lie. In fact, it’s sort of like one of your famous fibs. You know—skewed.”
Judith did know. “I should have told a bigger one—like we were totally incommunicado.” Reluctantly, she dialed her mother’s number in the converted toolshed. Since Gertrude wasn’t inclined to pick up the receiver immediately, the phone rang eleven times before Judith started to fret. “I hope she hasn’t fallen…Maybe Carl and Arlene asked her over to lunch…She could be in the bathroom…It’s not impossible that she’s being ornery and not answering…” On the nineteenth ring, Judith hung up. “Damn—it always worries me when I can’t get hold of her. I wonder if I should call Arlene.”
“Try the old girl again in a few minutes,” Renie suggested. “I’ll call my mother now and get it over with.”
Aunt Deb, who adored the telephone as much as her sister-in-law loathed it, answered before the first ring had been completed. Renie reached for her glass of Pepsi and settled in for the long haul:
“Yes, we’re fine, Mom…No, it’s too warm to wear a coat. Or mittens…Yes, it’s a nice house…Yes, there’s a roof. And doors. With locks. Windows, too…Well, when I said ‘primitive,’ I meant the telephone system, not the house itself…No, it’s not at all like the family cabin…Yes, a real indoor toilet, two, in fact…Yes, running water and electricity and a dishwasher and a TV and a VCR and a CD player and a Jacuzzi…What? It’s a bathtub, with jets that sort of massage you while you’re…Yes, you could call it ‘The Lap of Luxury,’ I suppose…Yes, we’re very lucky…Yes, you might say ‘spoiled’…” Renie rolled her eyes at Judith. “No, I’m not going anywhere by myself…No, I won’t talk to strangers…No, I don’t have a cold—it’s the transmission on this phone. I told you it wasn’t…Yes, as a matter of fact, she just tried to call Aunt Gertrude…” Renie mouthed something that Judith couldn’t understand. “Substituting for Sophie O’Dell? Yes, I know Aunt Gertrude would play cards even if she were completely paralyzed and on life support…Yes, I realize bridge is more important to her than God our Father…No, I don’t know if God plays bridge…Yes, if He doesn’t, she will be disappointed when she finally gets there…You know, they may not have telephones in heaven, either…Well, of course I don’t know it for a fact…Of course I appreciate what a comfort the phone was to you when I was little and sickly and you were alone while Dad was off to sea and you couldn’t drive and Aunt Ellen would have to spend the night to keep you company…Yes, I did puke a lot…Yes, I’d turn positively green…Yes, I remember Dr. Llewellyn’s house calls…Yes, he couldn’t have repeatedly saved my life unless you’d been able to call him on the phone…”
Renie had slumped onto the counter, her Pepsi drained along with her endurance. Judith, now assured that her mother was out somewhere happily engaged in a marathon of bridge, was studying the refrigerator for dinner possibilities. Steak appealed to her. She knew Renie wouldn’t turn it down.
Judith was removing two thick New York cuts from the freezer when someone knocked at the front door. She could see an unfamiliar figure through the glass panes, a dark-complexioned young man with a shock of jet-black hair that stood almost straight up on top of his head.
“Yes?” Judith said, opening the door just enough so that she could be heard.
“Hallo?” The young man flashed a big, engaging smile. “I am Mansur, Abu Hamid Mansur.” He bowed.
“Ah…” Judith glanced at Renie over her shoulder. But Renie was now facedown on the counter, still listening to Aunt Deb. “How can I help you, Mr….Mansur?”
“You may be calling me Abu,” the young man replied, still beaming. Except for his hair standing on end, he wasn’t quite as tall as Judith, and was on the lean side, with marked cheekbones accentuating limpid dark eyes. “You may be answering questions. And so forth.”
“About what?” Judith wondered if the young foreigner could somehow be attached to the sheriff’s office.
“About allegedly dead man.” The grin disappeared and Abu inclined his head, apparently indicating respect for mortality. “He die here, precise?”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, st
ill holding the door firmly in place. “I can’t discuss the matter with strangers.”
Abu shook his head. “Not strange. I of Laurel Harbor. I Merchant.”
“I can’t buy anything,” Judith asserted. “Excuse me, I must get back to…work.”
“I, too. Tell about dead man. You see him die?” Abu seemed energized by the concept.
Judith’s patience was running out. “If you want to discuss this, contact Deputy McLean at Laurel Harbor. If you’re a local merchant, you probably know her. Have a nice…”
Somehow, Abu had managed to get his foot inside the screen door. “No, no. I not selling today, I reporting. And so forth.” He dug inside his well-cut corduroy slacks and brought out a business card. “I journalist. I press. I writer-man.”
Judith gaped at the card. Sure enough, the printing read, “Abu Hamid Mansur, staff reporter, Laurel Harbor Merchant, a weekly newspaper serving the Santa Lucia Islands since 1910.”
“So it’s come to this,” Judith murmured. “I knew the written word was going out of style.”
“Style?” echoed Abu. “You know AP style? My editor say, ‘Memorize, Abu, study, learn.’ I try. I go to university. And so forth.” The limpid eyes took on a pitiable cast.
“Come in,” Judith relented, opening the door just as Renie finally hung up. “Meet Abu, coz. He’s a reporter from Laurel Harbor.”
“Hi, Abu,” Renie said in a faint voice. She sat up, waving feebly. “Do you have a mother?”
Abu beamed at Renie. “Yes, she in Babol.”
Looking dazed, Renie nodded. “My mother babbles, too.”
“No, no.” Abu wore an expression of dismay. “Babol, my home, it is near Caspian Sea.”
“Really?” Renie was wiggling both index fingers in her ears, as if to clear them of her mother’s lingering voice. “That’s nice. You must not have to call her often. It’s international long-distance. That’s very expensive. Lucky you.” Renie wandered out of the kitchen.
“Look,” Judith said to Abu, “I really can’t tell you much. I’m not the owner here.”
Abu nodded. “Yes, I am knowing that. Mrs. Barber is trading house and cabins. And so forth. She gone to oasis?”
Despite Abu’s fractured English, Judith gathered that he not only knew Jeanne, but was familiar with her whereabouts. “That’s right,” Judith said, suddenly struck by a brainstorm. “In fact, I talked with her only an hour or so ago. I can give you her number in California. It would be much better if you asked her all the questions.”
Abu, however, looked dubious. “But she not here when dead man die. Already one story lost. Now need new story. Merchant print tomorrow. Must have story before go to other job.”
“Doing what?” Judith asked as she wrote the spa’s number on a piece of notepaper.
Abu flashed his big grin. “Drive boat between islands. Get tips sometime. No tips on Merchant. I water-taxi man.”
“That figures,” Judith said, again under her breath. She handed Abu the notepaper and put a hand on his slim shoulder. “I don’t know anything about the murder. I’d never been to Chavez Island until yesterday. Honestly, Abu. I didn’t see it happen. Call Mrs. Barber. Have you talked to Deputy McLean?”
Abu nodded. “Within the hour. She come from here to there. She say murder.” The young man gave Judith a dark look. “Murder better story than hospital. But hospital good enough before murder.”
Judith didn’t try to follow Abu’s logic—or language. Shepherding him to the front door, she smiled encouragement. “I’m sure you’ll get a terrific story out of this. I understand there aren’t very many murders in the Santa Lucias.”
“That is truth,” Abu replied, his expression uncertain as he was steered onto the deck. “Not many hospitals, too. Not for hashish. And so forth.” At the top of the stairs that led down to the path, Abu turned. “You catch murderer, you tell Merchant?”
Judith couldn’t help but smile, though she wasn’t sure why. In the past, catching killers hadn’t been a laughing matter for her. “Sure. You’ll be the first to hear, Abu.”
His face brightened. “Very fine. I write big story, be on talking TV shows, win Mr. Joseph Pulitzer’s prize. And so forth. Bye-bye.” Abu fairly bounced along the path that led to the cove.
Judith could see a small launch tied to the dock. No doubt Abu covered his beat by boat. It occurred to Judith that for all the tranquillity and beauty, life on the islands must be arduous. But, she reflected as she went back inside the house, it wasn’t always tranquil. She and Renie had been on Chavez for only a little more than twenty-four hours. Almost all of them had been disruptive and disturbing.
Nor was there any respite in sight. When Judith went into the living room, she saw Renie letting in a middle-aged woman who looked oddly familiar. The visitor wore a crisp beige linen suit, three-inch sling-back pumps, and a soft black silk blouse. Her pale blond hair was done up in a neat French roll, and she carried a black shoulder bag that matched her shoes. Cosmetics had been liberally, if tastefully, applied to cover wrinkles and take the edge off of sharp features.
“This is Mrs. Carr,” Renie said, giving Judith a puckish look.
“Rowena Carr,” the woman said, holding out a gracious hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
They had, of course, as Judith realized. She could hardly believe that this carefully groomed woman was the same person as the wild-eyed creature Judith and Renie had encountered on their morning walk. On the other hand, Rowena Carr apparently didn’t recall meeting the cousins. Judith decided not to enlighten their guest.
“Do sit down,” Judith urged, indicating the leather armchair that was positioned in front of the small grotto separating the living room from the stairs to the loft. “May I offer tea? Or a soda?’
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Carr said with a small smile. “I can’t stay. I came to offer my condolences. Doc Wicker told me about the tragedy you had here last night. My daughter and I feel very sorry for both of you. It’s so difficult taking on someone else’s responsibilities, and then having things go wrong.”
“It’s been tough,” Judith admitted. “I talked to Jeanne this morning. Naturally, she’s upset.”
“Naturally.” Rowena Carr’s face was impassive. “By the way, I must presume upon you to ask a favor.”
Judith tipped her head to one side, signaling encouragement. “Yes?”
Mrs. Carr opened her shoulder bag, took out a pair of black kidskin gloves, and slowly began to put them on her thin hands. She didn’t speak again until each of her fingers had worked their way into the tight-fitting gloves.
“If you should learn that Cilla—my daughter—has gone down to see Mr. St. Jacques, would you please telephone me? She’s not allowed to keep company with him.” Mrs. Carr gave Judith a stern, direct look. “Jeanne Barber is always very reliable about passing on information to me.”
“Oh.” Judith exchanged a swift, puzzled glance with Renie. “Okay, we’ll do our best. But frankly, I don’t know how to get to Mr. St. Jacques’s place.”
Mrs. Carr’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “It’s intentionally well concealed. The path goes off behind a large cedar stump next to the Eagle Lake trailhead.”
Judith tried to recall the stump. “You mean by the guest cabins?”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Carr flexed her gloved fingers. “The trail is Mr. St. Jacques’s little secret. He has a great many of them, I’m afraid. Thank you both. I must be off now.” She gave each of the cousins a gracious nod. “Good day.”
Renie followed Mrs. Carr to the back door, waited to see that she reached the bottom of the stairs safely, and then turned to Judith. “That woman’s crazy even when she’s sane. What gives?”
“I don’t know.” Judith shook her head in bewilderment. “At least you were spared most of Abu and his butchered English.”
Renie snorted. “You were spared listening to my mother.”
Judith shrugged. “I still have to call mine later. How shall
we spend the afternoon?”
Renie gazed up into the far reaches of the high ceiling. “Why don’t we just sit here and wait to see who shows up next? It’s kind of like a variety show—there’s a new act every fifteen minutes.”
“That,” Judith declared, “is why I want to get out of here. In fact, I was wondering if Rafe would take us over to Laurel Harbor. It might be fun to explore the town. We didn’t get to see much of it when we got off the ferry from the mainland.”
Renie had her back to Judith and was looking out through the big picture window. “Why not?” she said after a pause. “You can grill Rafe while we’re out in open water. Maybe he’ll throw us overboard. I can’t swim, remember?”
Judith ignored Renie’s remarks. “Maybe we could have dinner in Laurel Harbor. The steaks will keep. I’ll call Rafe.” She went back into the kitchen.
But no one answered when Judith punched in Rafe’s single-digit number. “He should be back from transporting Lulu McLean to Laurel Harbor,” Judith remarked. “Unless he had to wait for deliveries on the mainland ferry.”
“Say,” Renie said, adjusting the blinds as the sun began to hit the front windows, “speaking of deliveries, when do we get mail here?”
“Gee,” Judith replied, frowning, “I’ll bet we have to pick it up from Doc. Let’s go over to the Wicker Basket. Maybe Doc will know where we can find Rafe.”
Doc was inside the store, unloading vegetable cans. “Rafe brought these over this afternoon,” he said, indicating the vegetables and three other cartons which looked to contain fruit, soup, and pet food.
“Who’s got a pet around here?” Renie inquired. “All the animals we’ve seen have been wild.”
“Nobody.” Doc was putting the last two soup cans on the shelf. “But Cilla wants a dog. I promised her I’d stock up before she picked one out. I didn’t expect a whole case of Meaty Beef. There hasn’t been a dog around here since Harry’s drowned.”
“Harry?” Judith looked puzzled.
Doc’s hand seemed a trifle unsteady as he straightened the cans. “That was a long time ago,” he said abruptly, keeping his eyes on the vegetables.