by Mary Daheim
“Fine,” Judith said, dialing the state B&B association’s number. “I’ll do the salad after I shanghai some paying guests.”
Getting a recorded message, Judith remembered that Ingrid Heffleman closed down the state association’s office at five. Judith had Ingrid’s home phone number. The director answered almost immediately.
“Judith,” Ingrid finally said after listening to the woeful tale at the other end of the phone, “how do you keep getting mixed up in these debacles? I hate to tell you this, but there are some members of the association who don’t feel you should continue serving on the board.”
“Really?” Judith couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice. She’d only agreed to join the board after a great deal of coercion, mainly from Ingrid. Meetings were always tedious affairs, accompanied by weak coffee and limp cookies. “If you insist, I’ll step down.”
“I don’t insist,” Ingrid responded. “I’m pleased to have you serve. But there are others in the hostelry business who don’t approve of the notoriety that you’ve brought to us upon occasion. They certainly won’t like this latest catastrophe!”
“Pretend it’s really Jeanne’s,” Judith said. “Which it is. She just doesn’t happen to be here. Do you think we can place any guests between now and Monday?”
“I don’t know,” Ingrid replied dubiously. “It’s short notice, and the season’s basically over. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I appreciate it,” Judith said warmly. “So does Jeanne.”
Ingrid emitted a little snort. “If Jeanne appreciates it so much, why doesn’t she stick around?”
“It’s because of Duane,” Judith said. “She needed a break after the trauma of his sudden death.”
“I don’t mean that,” Ingrid countered. “I mean, why is Jeanne selling the Chavez Cove B&B? The deal’s been in the works since before Duane died.”
Judith put a hand to her head. “I didn’t know that,” she said dully. “Has she found a buyer?”
“Not yet. It won’t be easy. Not everybody wants to get stuck out on a little island like Chavez. But don’t tell anybody I said so,” Ingrid added, dropping her voice. “Okay, Judith, my husband just got home from work. I’d better see what kind of pizza he wants me to order. I’ll let you know if I come up with any reservation possibilities. Take care and try to keep the body count down. See you.”
Furious, Judith flung the guest registration across the kitchen. Renie, who wasn’t used to such a display of temper from her cousin, jumped. “What’s wrong now?” she asked in a mild tone.
“Everything! I hate everybody on this island! It’s nothing but a big rock full of stupid secrets! I wish—I really do—that Jeanne had told us we could leave. Now it turns out that Jeanne is trying to sell this place. I don’t blame her in a way—maybe she’s sick of these people, too.” Judith began to simmer down. “Now I’ll have to call Mother. She may not remember anything, but at least she’ll tell me about it.”
“Huh?” Mystified, Renie looked up from the potatoes she’d been peeling.
Judith paid no heed. The phone rang in the toolshed seven times before Gertrude picked up the receiver. “How was bridge?” Judith asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
“Whose bridge?” growled Gertrude. “My partial plate’s loose. Can you take me to the dentist tomorrow?”
“What?” Judith’s false cheer faded. “No, of course not. I’m not coming back until next Wednesday.”
“Coming back? Where’ve you been?”
“I’m up here at…Oh, Lord,” Judith said, briefly turning away from the mouthpiece. “Where do you think I am?”
“In your kitchen, where else? It’s almost suppertime. In fact, it’s past my suppertime.” Judith and Joe’s six o’clock dinner hour was a long-standing bone of contention between mother and daughter. “What are we having?”
“Mother,” Judith said carefully, “I’m not at home. I’m at Chavez Cove in the Santa Lucias. Renie and I left yesterday morning. Do you remember that?”
“You’re crazy,” Gertrude declared. “Why are you calling me on the phone when you could move your fat tail about twenty yards from the house to my suitcase-sized apartment? You get lazier by the day, Judith Anne. How about beans and wienies for supper?”
“Why not?” Judith answered in a weak voice. “I’m hanging up now, Mother. I’ll see you soon.”
“You’d better,” Gertrude said in a warning tone. “I’m half-starved. Sophie O’Dell served us slop-on-a-mop for lunch. At least that’s what it tasted like. No substance. No flavor. No pro-tein.”
“That’s a shame, Mother. Bye, now.” Judith winced as Gertrude banged the phone down in her ear. “I think I’ll have another drink,” Judith said, sounding dazed. “Maybe I’ll take up smoking again. Do you have any heroin with you, coz?”
“That bad, huh?” Renie poured cold water over the potato slices. “Did she mention your fragile health as a child?”
“She doesn’t remember that I ever was a child.” Judith corrected herself: “No, she doesn’t remember that I grew up.” Forlornly, Judith gazed at Renie. “Which is it, coz?”
Renie shook her head. “As somebody wise once said, ‘When did the child become the mother? And when did the mother become the child?’ It’s tough. What’s worse, is that it’s not just our present. It’s our future, too.”
With a sad little smile, Judith faced the liquor cabinet.
To the cousins’ surprise, the rest of the evening was peaceful. No one dropped in, no one telephoned, no bodies were found at the bottom of the stairs. After dinner, Judith and Renie made hot chocolate and watched a video. Then they each selected a book from Jeanne’s library and read for an hour. Around eleven-thirty, Renie decided she would adjourn to the loft. Judith could have the master bedroom to herself.
“You’re not nervous?” Judith inquired.
Renie shook her head. “Not really. I think whoever killed Burrell has no reason to do ditto to us. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do,” Judith replied. “Snipers are random killers. So are serial murderers, in a way. But not the kind of person who does in H. Burrell Hodge. Burrell strikes me as the type who invites murder.”
The thought stayed with Judith as she prepared for bed a few minutes later. She had read somewhere that the victim almost always held the key to the killer’s identity. The trick was to study every facet of the dead person’s life history, attitudes, and habits. Judith knew some of the facts about Burrell, but not enough. Despite his overbearing manner, he ran a small empire that was devoted to doing good. He had failed at marriage and lived alone. He was apparently well-off, bent on expansion. He despised drink, and, presumably, drugs. And, what struck Judith as most important, he had been to Chavez Island before the day he died.
Sitting on the edge of the bed facing Jeanne Barber’s tidy desk, Judith was certain that somehow Burrell was connected to at least one person who lived on the island. Which one? Or was it all of them? When had he come to Chavez before Monday? Why had he come?
Judith’s gaze fell on Marcia Barber Andersen’s wedding picture. She was pretty, in an insipid sort of way. She didn’t look at all like Jeanne. Maybe she resembled Duane. There was a picture of him on the desk, too, with his arm around Jeanne. They were both wearing resort clothes and had leis around their necks. Hawaii, Judith was sure; perhaps a silver anniversary trip. Duane was fair-haired, with a pleasant face and just a slight bulge around the midsection of his flowered shirt.
But Marcia didn’t look like him, either. She was dark and petite. Judith recalled Jeanne’s angry remark: “Why don’t you ask if we ever met Marcia’s real parents?” Or something very like that. Marcia must have been adopted. Judith stared at the picture for a long time before she turned off the light.
An idea took root. Judith thought it might blossom into a motive for murder.
TWELVE
THERE WERE NO muffins to bake or baskets to deliver the next morning. Judith and Renie bo
th slept in. When Judith awoke shortly before eight-thirty, Renie was still asleep. Letting her cousin slumber on, Judith finished breakfast and was having a third cup of coffee when Cilla Carr arrived with her cleaning equipment.
“I hate Lulu McLean!” Cilla declared as she hurtled into the living room. “Do you know what? She thinks I killed that Mr. Hodge! Isn’t that stupid?” Grasping a can of furniture polish, Cilla started spraying every wood surface in sight.
Judith eyed Cilla with curiosity. “Because of the mallet?”
“That’s right. I hardly know her, but for some reason she’s never liked me. According to her, I’m the only person in the whole world who owns a mallet. And if I don’t know where it is, then it must be the murder weapon. So I did it.” Cilla waved her hands above her head. “I never even met that guy! Why would I kill him?”
“Maybe your mother knew him,” Judith said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
Cilla, however, wasn’t laughing. “That’s dumb! Why would my mother know Hodge?”
Judith lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know much about you or your mother. Did she work? Are you from around here? What’s your background? Those are the kind of questions that Lulu McLean is bound to ask.” Judith had been wanting to ask them, too.
“My mother and I lived in Ketchikan, Alaska, for over twenty years. She was the bookkeeper at a fish cannery. When she decided to take early retirement five years ago, we moved to the Lower Forty-Eight. Oregon at first, then Idaho. Finally here. Alaskans don’t like cities.” Cilla lowered her voice as well as her eyes. “Mother’s had her emotional problems. People make her nervous. She likes Chavez. It’s remote, quiet. It suits her.”
Judith gave Cilla a probing look. “And you?”
Somewhere in the reaches of the high ceiling, a voice barked a command: “Pipe down!” Gazing up, they could see Renie’s face peering through the loft’s railing. “Somebody’s trying to sleep up here!”
“It’s nine-thirty,” Judith called. “Most people are up.”
“Most people are stupid,” Renie retorted, then disappeared.
Judith smiled at Cilla. “My cousin’s not a morning person. Why don’t we go out into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee? You don’t have to clean the cabins today.”
“But I do,” Cilla protested. “Miss Hennessy and the Estacadas didn’t check out until yesterday afternoon.”
“There’s still no rush,” Judith pointed out. “I don’t have anyone coming today. That I know of. Let’s sit for a while. Then I’ll come along and give you a hand with the cleaning.”
Sitting at the trestle table, Judith steered the conversation back to the Carrs’ choice of Chavez Island. “How did you hear that there was a place for sale? It seems kind of chancy that you found an available house here.”
Cilla shook her blond curls. “Not really. Earlier this year, my mother got a letter from somebody who knew we were looking for a setting like Chavez Island. It turned out to be perfect.”
“You bought from a couple named Lowman, I understand,” Judith said in what she hoped was a conversational tone.
Cilla shook her head. “Not the Lowmans. They were renters.”
“It must have cost a lot,” Judith said rather vaguely.
“Not really,” Cilla replied, her attention diverted by a full-grown raccoon which was standing on its hind legs at the screen door. “My mother says we got the place for next to nothing. I suppose most people don’t want to be so isolated.” Rising from the bench, Cilla went to over to look at the raccoon. “Isn’t he adorable? It’s too bad we’re not supposed to feed them. I don’t see how anything so cute can be so mean.”
“Appearances are deceiving,” Judith murmured. “With people as well as animals. Cilla,” she went on in a more normal voice, “are you acquainted with Jeanne’s daughter, Marcia? She must be about your age.”
“I’ve never met her,” Cilla said, bending down to make cooing noises at the raccoon. “Mother and I didn’t move here until last spring, remember?”
Given her recent track record of forgetfulness, Judith was pleased that she had, in fact, remembered. “But,” she added, rising from the trestle table, “I thought you might have met her when she came to visit her folks. Or when her father died.”
The raccoon gave up its fruitless begging and lumbered away. “I did see her at Duane Barber’s funeral in Laurel Harbor,” Cilla said, straightening up after retying one of her tennis shoes. “Marcia was there with her husband. But I didn’t actually meet her. Mother handled all the condolences for both of us.”
“Duane Barber was too young to die,” Judith remarked, taking the coffee mugs over to the sink. “I know the loss was hard for Jeanne. It must have been tough on Marcia, too. My own dad died when I was twenty. He had a rheumatic heart. Sometimes I feel as if I never really knew him.”
“Same here,” Cilla agreed. “I never knew my father when I was growing up. I was a love-child.” Cilla showed her dimples. “No one used to talk about things like that. But now it’s common. And I don’t mind, not really. Especially now.” For a moment, the young woman’s face clouded over. Then she lifted her chin and her elfin features again became animated. “It’s stupid to be ashamed of falling in love. Sometimes things just don’t work out. There must be good reasons why not. I think my mother was very brave.”
Judith tried to picture Rowena Carr in the throes of reckless passion. The image was more than a little blurry. But, as she’d just told Cilla, appearances could be deceiving. “So she raised you on her own?”
Cilla nodded, her busy hands wiping up crumbs from the counter. “It was okay, most of the time. It’s only been in the last few years that Mother has been…unstable. She hit fifty, and it was like somebody pushed a button. Bzzzt! She refused to admit she was middle-aged. That’s when she started dyeing her hair and wearing too much makeup. Her emotional state became fragile almost overnight. I used to have these fantasies,” she went on, neatly arranging the phone book, the napkin holder, and a mug full of pencils and pens, “that my father had his own fishing fleet or that he was a trapper or one of those recluses who lives a thousand miles from civilization. He couldn’t be with us because he had to follow his calling. In a way, I guess that’s true. Isn’t it weird how things you imagine often turn out to be right?” Cilla had grown wistful.
The remark mystified Judith. “Are you saying you finally met your father?”
A sly look crept into Cilla’s eyes. “Let’s say I’ve seen the light. Or had it shown to me. Whoa!” Cilla cried, bursting out of the kitchen and into the living room. “I’ve got work to do! The day’s moving right along. Shall I start with the cabins first and come back later when your cousin is awake?”
“That’s fine,” Judith replied. “But I’m going to help with the cabins.” It occurred to her that she could do a little investigating of the premises so recently occupied by her departed guests. Judith winced a bit as she considered that one of them had departed permanently.
The fog was lying in again as Judith and Cilla walked along the path to the cabins. “You know,” Cilla was saying as they reached the three flagstone walks, “I wish I knew how I misplaced that mallet.” She pointed to the woodpile where the badminton and croquet sets were kept along with a stack of horseshoes. “I must have left it here after I set up the net. Anyone could have taken it, I suppose.”
Judith said nothing. Cilla was right—up to a point. The sports-equipment area was literally off the beaten track. Only the game participants would notice an object left lying on the ground.
“Where was the net set up?” Judith inquired. “It’s not there now, it’s next to the woodpile.”
Cilla indicated a grassy section between the nearest flagstone walk and the woods. “You can see the holes.” She moved forward a few steps and bounced up and down. “Here’s one. The other is over there.” She pointed toward Judith.
“It’s a hole, all right,” Judith said, noting the one-inch circle amid the grass
, clover, buttercups, and a few wild strawberry runners. “Do you think you left it by one of the holes or over by the rest of the sporting equipment?”
“I wouldn’t leave it on the ground,” Cilla responded with feeling. “Somebody might trip over it while they were playing. I’m sure I put it back in my tool kit.”
Judith decided to let the matter drop. The two women went inside the cabin that had been occupied by the Estacadas. Rob and Stacie had left the place in considerable disarray. The bed was not only unmade, it was virtually undone. Empty mineral water bottles had been abandoned in every room, including the shower stall. The remnants of Judith’s breakfast basket littered the living room and kitchenette. There were dirty dishes, glasses, and silverware on most of the surfaces, and something had been spilled on the braided rug. The circular area was still damp, as well as discolored.
Cilla shook her head in dismay. “Sometimes people are pigs.” She bent down to sniff at the rug. “Champagne. It ought to come out with a bit of scrubbing.”
It took Judith and Cilla over half an hour to put the cabin straight. They were relieved to find that June Hennessy had left her lodging neat as a pin. Cilla took on the perfunctory cleaning task while Judith searched for the schoolteacher’s missing cameo brooch. Finding no trace of it, Judith went next door to check on Burrell’s cabin. It had been tidied since she and Rafe had searched the premises Monday night. Judith knew that Deputy McLean’s underlings had gone over the cabin with a fine-tooth comb, though they apparently had found nothing of significance. Still, Judith felt obligated to make one last pass.
The effort proved unproductive. McLean’s subordinates had removed all of Hodge’s personal effects, presumably to ship them back to Adhab. For a few moments, she stood quietly in the living room, wishing the walls could speak. Of course she heard nothing, except the wind in the trees. Judith went back outside just as Cilla came out of June Hennessy’s cabin.