September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  “All done,” Cilla announced. “I’ll do your place next. Unless your cousin’s still asleep.”

  “She’d better not be,” Judith averred. “We’re due to leave for Laurel Harbor in about twenty minutes.”

  “You’re going with Rafe?” Cilla’s face softened at the mention of his name.

  Judith nodded. “I wonder—does he pull into Chavez Cove, or should we go down to his place?”

  “He’ll pull in at your dock—Jeanne’s dock, I mean.” Cilla averted her gaze. “Rafe likes to keep his private world private. It’s a darling little house on stilts. He’s got all these stuffed birds and old bones and tusks and even an umiak that hangs from the ceiling. Sometimes he takes care of sick animals or birds. He knows so much about nature. I enjoy talking to him about Alaska. He spent quite a bit of time there.”

  “Doing what?” Judith asked.

  Cilla’s brow clouded. “Something with ships. He was a sailor. Not like in the navy, but oceangoing vessels. I think. Rafe doesn’t talk about that much. But he likes to show off his souvenirs, especially the stuffed seabirds.”

  “It seems you’re welcome at his hideaway,” Judith noted, as they came out of the woods by the Barber house.

  “I love to visit the animals,” Cilla replied a bit stiffly.

  Judith recalled Rowena Carr’s disapproval of her daughter keeping company with Rafe St. Jacques. But it was none of Judith’s business. Cilla was a grown woman, though her insular life prompted Judith to think that, emotionally, she was still quite young. It was still none of Judith’s business.

  Renie was not only up but dressed. She was just clearing away her breakfast dishes when Judith and Cilla arrived.

  “I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Renie said in a miffed tone. “Some people have no respect for others. All that loud talk put me on edge.”

  “You slept for over nine hours, you lazy twerp,” Judith chided. “Let’s head for the dock. Rafe should be along in a couple of minutes.”

  Leaving Cilla to her chores, the cousins descended the stairway to the cove. The fog was lifting, allowing Judith and Renie a partial view of the water. The sailboats were gone, but a large cabin cruiser was moving at a stately pace, while several noisy gulls flew in its wake. At the far end of the dock, a heron stood majestic and motionless. He took wing only when the bow of Rafe’s boat nosed into the cove a few minutes later.

  Rafe assumed the role of tour guide during the first half of the trip. He spoke with affection of the orca whales, the sea otters, the cormorants, the kingfishers, the seals, the dolphins, the murres, even the ubiquitous gulls.

  Feeling the sea spray caress her face, Judith listened attentively. “You mentioned that Eagle Lake was a bird sanctuary,” she said as the cruiser bobbed on the open water. “But we didn’t see many birds. Just some ducks, as I recall.”

  Rafe’s profile turned grim. “It used to be a bird sanctuary. It will again, I hope. God knows, I’m doing my best to keep it hospitable for all kinds of birds.”

  “What happened?” Renie asked as the brisk breeze whipped at her chestnut curls.

  Rafe was slow to respond. “It was one of those terrible misfortunes. Seven years ago, almost to the day.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was much lighter. “Where do you plan to have lunch in Laurel Harbor? I’d recommend The Green Grill. They have a wonderful vegetarian menu. Be sure to try their zucchini omelet. Of course they don’t use real eggs. That wouldn’t be healthy.”

  Renie’s horrified expression indicated The Green Grill might as well serve live germs. “We’ll think about it,” Judith hedged. “Say, Rafe, speaking of greenery, I understand you and Burrell had a bit of a dustup about ferns. Why would he be against them? Ferns are lovely.”

  From his place at the helm, Rafe glanced over his shoulder. “Ferns? You must have misunderstood. I never discussed ferns with H. Burrell Hodge. Or anything else, for that matter. The only time I saw him was when he came over from Laurel Harbor with the two of you Monday morning.”

  Judith exchanged puzzled looks with Renie. “Oh,” Judith said in a small voice. “I guess I didn’t hear right. Someone told me you’d called on him at his cabin Monday afternoon.”

  Rafe had turned back to face the bow of the boat, but Judith thought he tensed ever so slightly. “No, it wasn’t me. I never saw Mr. Hodge after he arrived.” The statement seemed final.

  The fog had lifted by the time they arrived in Laurel Harbor at eleven-forty-five. Rafe had errands in town which would take at least a couple of hours. When did the cousins want to return to Chavez Cove?

  Judith had hoped to spend the entire afternoon on Perez Island. She hemmed and hawed until Renie spoke up.

  “With no guests, we’re bored to tears. Could you come back for us around eight? Or do you have running lights?”

  Rafe seemed unruffled by the request. “Of course. I often make trips in the dark. Eight o’clock right here then?”

  Agreeing on the appointed time and place, the cousins allowed Rafe to point them in the direction of The Green Grill. As soon as he had disappeared, Renie grabbed Judith by the arm. “Anything but vegetarian food! I’d rather eat a brick!”

  Judith laughed. “How about House of Grease across the street? It’s not called that, but I’ll bet it lives up to the name.”

  The Beef Reef provided the cousins with all the deep-fried selections that a clogged artery could desire. Judith chose the Reuben; Renie went for the beef dip, rare. Salads slathered in Roquefort dressing and baskets of french fries completed their entrees.

  “Rafe told a foolish lie,” Judith said, her eyes roaming around the restaurant’s rough-hewn interior. Horse collars, cowbells, shovels, and pitchforks hung from the unvarnished cedar walls. Despite the potential view, there were no windows. Illumination was provided by red, green, and amber lanterns that looked as if they’d been stolen from a railroad line. The dozen or so customers sat on low-backed chairs at bare wooden tables. But the place was clean, and the food was hearty. “Everybody who lives on Chavez Island lies,” Judith continued after sinking her teeth into the Reuben sandwich. “Either that or they don’t say anything.”

  “I suppose,” Renie mused, “that Rafe didn’t want anyone to know he’d quarreled with Burrell. Still, it doesn’t mean Rafe killed him. Ferns aren’t usually a strong motive for murder.”

  “Hey,” Judith reminded Renie, “you’re the one who figured that the ferns were part of a bigger picture—Adhab versus The Environment. Think about it. You also said that these people on Chavez don’t like other people. To a nature lover like Rafe, what’s a human life compared to saving the ecology of the Santa Lucias?”

  Renie grew thoughtful. “Put like that…Maybe. I can kind of see Rafe bashing in Burrell’s skull with that mallet. If the mallet was the weapon. But I can’t envision Cilla or Mrs. Carr or Esther doing the dirty deed.”

  Judith arched an eyebrow. “Cross all the women off the suspect list? Come on, coz—you bashed him first.”

  Renie winced. “Okay, okay—but I used a domestic item. A woman’s weapon, as it were.” She gobbled up three big french fries before continuing. “That ‘misfortune’ Rafe mentioned—but didn’t elucidate—that was another September disaster. I wonder what it was? Something about the Santa Lucias back then rings a bell with me. What do you remember from seven years ago?”

  “I remember trying to salvage the rest of my life after Dan died,” Judith responded dryly. “I’m afraid I was kind of self-absorbed back then.”

  Ten minutes later, the cousins were absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of Laurel Harbor. Set on a hill above a curving bay that was large enough to encompass a much smaller island known as Little Perez, the town sloped upward and receded into the forest. Judith guessed that there were probably no more than two thousand full-time residents. There were commuters who worked on the mainland, and, Judith had heard, some Hollywood types who retreated to the Santa Lucias when they weren’t actively involved in movie
making. On this golden September afternoon, the main street which ran parallel to the harbor was fairly busy. Apparently, quite a few visitors lingered on Perez Island. The salt air was tinged with gas fumes and food smells. Sporting goods, hobbies, bicycle and boat rentals, souvenirs, clothing, food, drugs, and sundries were featured in the stores housed in an architectural range that ran the gamut from Victorian gingerbread to California contemporary. There was a movie theater, a hotel, two coin laundries, and at least five restaurants and four taverns. Signs pointed to various churches, schools, and the hospital. Laurel Harbor seemed to have something for everyone.

  “Aha!” Judith exclaimed, pointing to a window that was filled with small colored photos of every size, style, and price range of houses. “It’s Perez Properties. Shall we?”

  Renie shrugged. The real-estate offices included one large room with three desks and an inner office. A plump middle-aged woman with a sleek blond pageboy looked up when the cousins entered. The nameplate on her desk read “Ella Stovall.”

  Judith made the introductions. Ella’s big smile faded only a jot when she realized that Judith and Renie weren’t prospective buyers, but the temporary inhabitants of Chavez Cove. “Coffee?” she inquired, indicating a small table with a big urn and several paper cups.

  “No, thanks,” Judith replied, after she and Renie had sat down in the modular vinyl chairs next to Ella’s desk. “We’re doing some snooping,” Judith went on, having decided to be candid. “As you may have guessed, we’re kind of on the spot. You deal with newcomers all the time. You know how suspicion runs in small communities. The local folks probably think we killed Mr. Hodge.”

  “I don’t.” Ella Stovall had grown serious. “But then I’m not from here originally. It’s natural for people to think the worst of strangers. They always make better villains than the neighbors. By the way, I spoke to Lulu McLean about an hour ago. She’d already found out from Adhab’s headquarters what Mr. Hodge wanted in the Santa Lucias. Basically,” Ella continued with a faint show of reluctance, “he was on a scouting expedition. Chavez, Perez, Sanchez, and Salvador Islands all have properties that would have been of potential interest to him. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to meet with him. He was supposed to be here today or tomorrow. Of course, that isn’t going to happen. Lulu also said they were releasing the body today.” Ella now looked downright grim.

  Judith nodded faintly. “So an actual deal wasn’t in the works?”

  “Not officially. But,” Ella added, “Mr. Hodge might have been in private negotiations. You’d be surprised how people try to circumvent real-estate agents. They think they can save the cost of a commission. What they don’t realize is that they can buy themselves a lot of grief.”

  “I’m curious about something else,” Judith said, sensing that she’d reached a dead end as far as the real-estate angle was concerned. “Who actually owns the bulk of Chavez Island? I’ve heard two different versions.”

  Ella’s hazel eyes turned wary as she darted a glance at the closed door of the inner office. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but that’s a question I’m not free to answer. Sorry.”

  Renie leaned an elbow on the desk. “We can check it through the county rolls.”

  Ella gave Renie a faint smile. “That’s what you’ll have to do, I guess.”

  The door to the inner office opened. A stocky man wearing a shirt, tie, sport coat, and slacks saw the cousins and offered a wide smile that stopped just short of his eyes. He was in his late forties, with receding brown hair, an aquiline nose, and a small, almost dainty, mouth. Judith was sure that he was Simon Dobler, though except for the size and stature, she saw little resemblance to the crusty Elrod.

  Ella was quick to make introductions. Simon shook hands with Judith and Renie. He kept smiling, but there was still no warmth in his eyes.

  “We met your father,” Judith said. “He’s quite a guy.”

  Simon’s flinch was almost imperceptible. “Pappy can be a curmudgeon sometimes. He lives in the past, when trespassers and poachers could be stopped by pointing a gun. I try to tell him he’ll get sued one of these days.”

  The phone had rung on Ella’s desk. She picked it up, while the cousins rose and moved a few feet away so that their conversation wouldn’t disturb Ella.

  “You have a sister, I hear,” Judith remarked, as a fair-haired young man came into the office, nodded at Simon, and sat down at one of the other vacant desks.

  “Yes,” Simon answered. “Excuse me,” he gestured at the young man who was sorting phone messages. “I must check in with Allan. Nice to meet you.”

  Judith and Renie looked at each other. It appeared they had outworn their welcome. With a wave to Ella, Judith started for the door. They had gone only a few steps when Ella called after them.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, joining them on the sidewalk. “Look,” she went on, lowering her voice, though except for a couple of older women who were chattering away as they headed into the bakery next door, no one could have heard, “I feel silly being so tight-lipped about who owns what on Chavez. The truth is, I’m not sure myself. But the one thing I do know is that Mr. Dobler doesn’t like his employees talking about it. It seems silly, but there it is.” She gave the cousins a helpless look.

  “That’s okay,” Judith assured the real-estate agent. “What bothered me most was how abrupt Mr. Dobler was just now. Is his sister in a mental home or something?”

  Ella burst out laughing. “Hardly! You just caught him on a bad day. Business always goes downhill this time of year, and he pouts all the way through March. As a matter of fact, his sister is in one of the finest homes in the islands. You know the place—Stoneyhenge. Haven’t you met Esther Danfield?”

  “Oh, well,” Judith said in a lost voice as she and Renie headed for the offices of the Laurel Harbor Merchant, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. If small towns are inbred, why not tiny islands?”

  “Maybe this explains the confusion about who owns what,” Renie suggested. “Both families had property on Chavez, and then they merged.”

  “That’s possible,” Judith allowed, pausing to peer through the newspaper office’s front window. She saw two desks, some file cabinets, and a couple of computer terminals. She didn’t see Abu until Renie opened the door.

  “Chavez ladies!” Abu cried in pleasure. “You be coming in! You be telling Abu much news. And so forth.” He bowed several times.

  “We don’t have much news,” Judith said in an apologetic voice. “What we’d like is a favor.”

  It took five minutes to make Abu understand the request to go through back issues of the paper. There was no index, and previous editions of the Merchant were kept in binders by year.

  “You read stories by Abu?” the young man asked excitedly. “I come to here in August only. Mr. Fernandez, twenty-six, formerly Laurel Harbor, quit and go to big city. Abu make many American dollars here, six each hour.”

  “That’s…grand,” Judith said, keeping her smile fixed in place. “Where’s the editor?”

  “Editor man?” Abu looked at the nearer of the two desks as if he expected someone to pop up from under the empty chair. “Mr. Grainger, fifty-three, of Orca Point, eat middle meal. Return at two. Paper come then, too. And so forth.”

  Judith understood the part about Mr. Grainger being at lunch and assumed that Abu was trying to tell the cousins that the weekly edition of the Merchant would be delivered about the same time that the editor got back. With a friendly nod, she pulled out the volume that was dated from seven years earlier. Renie got stuck with Abu’s guided tour of the previous week’s issue.

  It didn’t take long for Judith to find what she wanted in the September back issues. Mr. Grainger, or whoever had been the editor seven years ago, had used huge black type to proclaim the news that the Santa Lucias had suffered an environmental catastrophe: OIL SPILL MENACES ISLANDS. The subhead read “Sea Life Destroyed in Wake of Tanker Disaster; Loss Could Be in Millions.” There was al
so a somewhat grainy three-column photograph of a large ship in open waters.

  Renie, unfortunately, was still making tactful comments about Abu’s most recent journalistic efforts. Judith gave up trying to catch her cousin’s eye, and began reading the article itself. The story was depressingly familiar: A super-tanker, bound for one of the big refineries on the mainland, had started to leak oil just off Chavez Island. The spillage, ultimately totaling over one hundred thousand barrels of crude, had spread as far as Perez and Sanchez Islands. The damage to marine life, shore-nesting birds, and sea mammals wasn’t yet known, but was estimated to be enormous.

  The story jumped to an inside page with a better-quality photo that was infinitely more heartrending. A fair-haired child stood on a stretch of sand, peering down at three dead terns. Judith continued reading.

  “The Petroleum Monarch’s captain, Lawrence M. Larrabee, has refused to answer questions about what caused the spill. However, his first mate, Rafael St. Jacques, issued a personal, public apology. St. Jacques did not blame anyone in his statement, though he indicated that the facts behind the disaster would come out in a hearing which will be held…”

  Renie had finally finished admiring Abu’s reporting. While Abu answered the telephone, she sidled over to Judith and immediately spotted Rafe’s name. “Wow! So he was involved in that mess! I remember it now—I think it turned out that the captain got fired because he drank or something. It was sheer carelessness. And Rafe was there. I’ll be darned.”

  “Apparently,” Judith said, keeping her voice down, “that’s his deep, dark secret. Maybe he felt he shared the blame. Maybe that’s why he settled in the Santa Lucias—to make amends.”

  “And?” Renie prompted.

  Judith stared at her cousin. “And what?”

  “And what’s it all got to do with H. Burrell Hodge?”

  Judith shook her head. “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe. Except in a broad sense—Hodge was coming to the islands to screw up the environment. Rafe wanted to stop him.”