by Mary Daheim
She caught up with Renie at the only stoplight in Laurel Harbor. “Where are we going?” Judith asked.
“To a cobbler,” Renie answered. “I can’t explore Perez Island with one sandal.”
Sam the Shoemaker was located between the drugstore and the bank. It took less than five minutes to reattach the sandal strap. Unfortunately, the repair cost about three times as much as Renie would have paid on Heraldsgate Hill. She was still griping when Judith saw copies of the Laurel Harbor Merchant being delivered to a newspaper box at the nearest corner.
“Let’s grab a cup of coffee and read all about it,” Judith suggested.
After purchasing a latte for Judith and a mocha for Renie at an espresso stand by the ferry terminal, the cousins found another bench, this one perched at the edge of the bluff overlooking the bay. A long line of vehicles was gathering in the loading area, presumably for the three-fifty ferry.
“This isn’t half-bad,” Judith said as she skimmed the first of two front-page articles about H. Burrell Hodge’s murder. “You’re right—I suspect Ned Grainger does a heavy rewrite job on Abu’s copy.”
The straight news account was not only grammatical, but accurate. Judith, however, wasn’t pleased to see her name in print. “‘The body was discovered by Judith Flynn, who has temporarily taken over the running of Chavez Cove for owner Jeanne Barber.’” Judith made a face. “I hope this story hasn’t gotten into the city papers.”
Renie was reading over Judith’s shoulder. “Good. They don’t mention me at all. Or is that because I’m one of the suspects?”
“Abu or Ned Grainger probably got my name off the forms Lulu McLean filled out,” Judith said, hoping to console her cousin. “Look, this other story gives some background on Burrell. Somebody did their homework.”
According to the sidebar article, Harold Burrell Hodge was fifty-one years old, and the owner and manager of The Addiction and Rehabilitation Institute, otherwise known as Adhab. He had founded the organization some fourteen years earlier, starting with the mountain facility. Since then, he had established nine other centers throughout the Pacific Northwest as well as in Alaska and Hawaii. Some were devoted exclusively to patients who were addicted to alcohol, others focused on drugs, one was nicotine-oriented, two treated all aspects of substance abuse, and another specialized in sexual dysfunction.
“I wonder what that means,” Judith murmured.
Renie raised her eyebrows. “Functioning all of the time? Functioning some of the time? Functioning none of the time? All of the above?”
Judith returned to the article. “‘The late Mr. Hodge felt he had a mission in life,’” she read aloud. “‘As a young man, he had suffered from alcoholism. After his recovery at the age of twenty-six, he realized that not only did he not need to retreat from the world, but that he should step up and contribute to helping others who had sunk into a morass of addiction.’”
“Hmm,” Renie murmured. “That sounds like a press release. The Merchant probably got it from Burrell’s headquarters.”
“Could be,” Judith agreed, then continued reading out loud: “‘Mr. Hodge, who had had a brief failed marriage while he was still drinking, left no survivors. In his own words, he felt he belonged to anyone and everyone who suffered from the disease of addiction. At his request, there will be no services, but memorials may be sent in his name to The Addiction and Rehabilitation Institute at…’” Judith emitted an odd little laugh. “He sounds so altruistic. I suppose he was. But face-to-face, he was kind of awful.”
“A dry drunk,” Renie declared. “They’re the very worst kind. They spend their whole lives not drinking and making everybody else pay for their deprivation.”
Judith gave Renie a slightly reproachful look. “That’s not really fair, coz. I’m not even sure it’s the right definition. Anyway, Burrell spent much of his life helping other people.”
Renie didn’t say anything, but she didn’t appear convinced. Judith let the subject drop. “The main story only alludes briefly to Burrell’s presence on Chavez Island. ‘…Exploring the possibilities of opening another center in the Santa Lucias.’ Not much help there.”
“It’d be interesting to find out what Burrell did to the environment at those other sites,” Renie remarked. “We’re not talking about toxic waste here. But building anything can screw up an ecological system if you’re heedless. I envision Burrell as barreling ahead, paying no attention to the concerns of others. That’s what he did with us when he wanted our prawns.”
Judith suppressed a smile. Only Renie could compare sharing her shellfish with clear-cutting a stand of two-hundred-year-old Douglas firs. “It seems we have two people involved in environmental disasters,” Judith noted. “Burrell, with his plans for expansion, and Rafe St. Jacques, who was first mate on the Petroleum Monarch.”
“One has regrets, the other didn’t give a hoot,” Renie said. “Or so we’re led to believe.”
Out beyond the jutting arm of land that wrapped around the far end of the bay, a superferry could be seen heading for Laurel Harbor. Judith was always amazed that the huge, bulky four-deck vessels could maneuver so agilely through the narrow passages indicated by the buoy markers. Of course there was the occasional mishap, when a ferry rammed the dock or went aground. Rarely was anyone hurt, since the big boats were always inching their way so close to shore.
The cousins watched for a few moments in silence. Gulls swarmed and circled above the ferry, which had slowed to a crawl upon entering the narrow channel. September’s golden haze cast a filter across the horizon, a sign that summer was fading into fall. More cars and RVs and trucks and even a bus had now pulled into line. Foot passengers, many with bicycles, were preparing to board at the slip. At the sound of the ferry’s first blast on the whistle, a dozen or more people emerged from various storefronts on the main street and began hurrying back to their vehicles. Judith, who was always an ardent people-watcher, sat back to enjoy the minor spectacle.
“What about Doc?” asked Renie, who was never as intrigued as Judith by observing the foibles and fancies of her fellow human beings. “Have you figured out if he has a motive to kill Burrell?”
Judith didn’t answer right away; she was too busy watching a pudgy young man who had locked himself out of his car. “What? Oh, you mean with regard to Doc’s tragedy? No,” she added as a ferry official came to the young man’s assistance, “I don’t see how that ties into Burrell.”
The ferry let out another blast on the whistle, a low, moaning sound that reverberated off the bluff. Like a huge white beetle negotiating a pile of pebbles, the superferry crept closer to the slip, angling between the pilings until the bow gently bumped against the dock.
“Motive is hard to come by,” Judith murmured, now watching as the ferry crew tied up the vessel with thick braided ropes. “What is there, except for the environment?”
“Not much,” Renie replied, finishing her mocha and rising to throw the paper cup into a trash can behind the bench.
“Though I wonder…” Judith went on, as if she hadn’t heard Renie. “That part in the newspaper article about Burrell retreating from the world—where would you retreat, coz?”
“Huh?” Renie sat down again on the bench. “A five-star hotel, probably in Paris. I’d have to check a Michelin guidebook. The George V comes to mind. Hotel kitchens and restaurants shouldn’t be rated by stars—they should use pork chop symbols. Yes, a five-pork-chop hotel. That would be nice.”
Judith grinned at her cousin. “I’m talking about real people, not my relatives. Well?”
“My turn to take a quiz?” Renie gave a shake of her head. “I don’t know—a cabin deep in the woods? A desert island? Your mother’s toolshed?”
“The desert island comes closest.” Judith’s grin had subsided into a quizzical little smile. “Did you notice what the H. in Burrell’s name stood for? It’s in the sidebar story.” Judith tapped the Merchant’s front page.
Renie snatched the paper out of J
udith’s hand. “Harold Burrell Hodge. So?”
Judith’s little smile remained in place. “Harold—as in Harry. There was someone by that name who worked on Chavez Island. What if Burrell returned to settle here? It makes sense, don’t you think?”
Renie appeared to be thinking. Judith waited for the results, meanwhile watching the foot passengers stream off the superferry. “I think,” Renie said slowly, “that you’re stretching it.”
Judith, however, wasn’t easily swayed. “We know that Burrell had been to Chavez before his arrival Monday. The question is, when? It needn’t be six months ago or even six years ago. Nothing much has changed on the island for at least fifty years. What if Burrell was the Harry who lived down at Hidden Cove?”
The vehicles had started to drive off the ferry, heading up the winding road that led to the heart of town. The ferry official was still trying to unlock the pudgy young man’s car, using something that looked like a long wire. A big beer truck rumbled off the ferry, followed by a bread truck, a produce truck, and a dairy truck. Laurel Harbor was about to be restocked.
“You could ask Doc, I suppose,” Renie said in a doubtful voice.
“I intend to,” Judith retorted, sipping at the last of her latte. “Let’s invite Doc to breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Renie looked alarmed. “Breakfast? Morning? Like before ten? Do I have to be there?”
“Suit yourself,” Judith replied, now fixed on the steady stream of vehicles which were coming off the ferry. “Do you suppose any of these people need a place to stay tonight? Maybe I should be down on the dock holding a sign.”
“Check in with the Chamber of Commerce,” Renie suggested. “It’s on the other side of the bank.”
“That’s a good idea,” Judith said, getting up from the bench. “I should have thought of it myself.”
Three minutes later, the cousins were at the Chamber of Commerce office, but it was closed. A hand-printed sign indicated that whoever staffed the premises would “Be back soon.”
“Drat,” Judith exclaimed. “It sounded like a good idea.”
“It was,” Renie noted. “Don’t lose heart. Here comes Ella Stovall. Maybe she’s got some hot news.”
The real-estate agent from Perez Properties was hurrying across what had turned into a busy street with the superferry’s arrival. “Mrs. Flynn!” she called. “Good, you’re still here!” Huffing a bit, Ella reached the sidewalk. “Doc Wicker just called me. He thought I might be able to run you down.” Ella caught her breath and chuckled. “He knows I keep my eye out for anything that moves along the main drag. Some woman named Heffelump or something has been trying to reach you. She finally phoned Doc.”
“Oh!” Judith beamed at Ella. “That would be Ingrid Heffleman, from the state B&B association. May I use a phone in your office to call her?”
Ella said that would be fine. The three women couldn’t cross the street until six cars, a swaying RV, two pickup trucks, and a motorcycle had passed. Perez Properties appeared empty when they arrived. Using her calling card, Judith dialed the long-distance number in the city. Ingrid had two reservations, both married couples from out of state, who were looking for accommodations in the Santa Lucias.
“I could have sent them to Perez or Sanchez,” Ingrid said in a dry tone, “but I felt obligated to help you out. They’re arriving tomorrow, probably in the afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful,” Judith enthused. “Jeanne Barber will be pleased. Can you give me their names and method of payment?”
Ingrid complied. “That’ll be two nights for each of them. If anybody else comes along, I’ll keep Chavez Cove at the top of the list. By the way,” she added slyly, “we’re starting to make plans for the annual state association meeting in February. We need someone to cater the luncheon on the sixteenth. Do you think you can manage that, Judith?”
Judith slumped over Ella’s desk. “Um…er…well, probably. Is it a buffet?”
“That’s right,” Ingrid replied crisply. “A hundred to a hundred and fifty people. Three hot dishes, four kinds of cold sandwiches, five salads, two desserts, and assorted condiments. Rolls, of course, and beverages. I’ll put you down.”
Judith thanked Ingrid, though for what she wasn’t sure, and hung up. “I’m dead,” she gasped, getting out of Ella’s chair. “I should have known there’d be a trade-off. There always is with Ingrid.”
“It sounds,” Ella said in an amused voice, “like you’re a busy woman.”
“Too busy,” Judith murmured, then forced a smile for Ella. “Say, we’re going to have dinner here in Laurel Harbor tonight. Would you care to join us?”
Ella looked very pleased. “I sure would. It’ll make up for not eating out with H. Burrell Hodge. I love to eat, but I hate to cook. Want to try Charlie G.’s? It’s the best place in town. Except that it isn’t—in town, I mean. It’s about a mile from here, at Orca Point.”
“It sounds fine,” Judith said. “Shall we meet you here a little before six?”
The time was perfect for Ella, who insisted upon making reservations. “You never know this time of year. Perez is still pretty busy,” the real-estate agent informed the cousins.
Back on the sidewalk, Judith and Renie wondered how they could kill the next hour and a half. It was almost four-thirty, and the superferry had loaded. Another blast of the whistle signaled its departure. Judith couldn’t help but think what it must be like to be dependent on the comings and goings of a ferryboat to keep in touch with the rest of the world.
“It’s like the pioneers,” Renie said. “Of which I’m glad I was never one. Give me taxis and freeways and a straight shot into downtown. All this isolation would drive me crazy. Of course the people who live here are crazy, or they wouldn’t have come in the first place.”
Judith didn’t argue. “So what should we do during the next ninety minutes? Talk to Lulu McLean? Browse the shops? Visit Laurel Glen?”
“I’ll take Number Two,” said Renie. “Lulu won’t tell us anything, and I don’t want to see that damned dog again. I’d be forced to bite him. Shops are good. Maybe I can find some new sandals. I don’t think this strap is going to hold very long.”
What began as a desultory stroll among the shops of Laurel Harbor gained momentum when Judith and Renie discovered McBetsy’s, an upscale boutique in a beautifully restored Victorian house two blocks from the main thoroughfare. The fashions were in keeping with the architecture, romantic confections in gauzy chiffon and delicate silk. Judith succumbed to a peach-and-plum floral that fit snug around the bodice and flowed to mid-calf. Renie was torn between ivory pleats and a deep blue drape. She solved the dilemma by getting both. The price tags had made the cousins gulp, but they rationalized their extravagance by contending that such filmy, flirty designs could not be found anywhere in the city, and perhaps nowhere else on earth.
It was ten to six when they left McBetsy’s. Renie had failed in her quest for sandals, but decided she could make do with the remaining three pairs she’d brought along for the trip. Feeling sufficiently exhilarated to keep guilt at bay for at least a couple of hours, Judith and Renie hurried off to meet Ella Stovall.
During the drive in Ella’s comfortable van, the cousins got to see some of Laurel Harbor’s outskirts. Splendid new homes sat cheek by jowl with modest older bungalows, all sharing a water view. There were brick homes, mobile homes, wood-frame homes, and stucco homes. Hand-lettered signs posted along the route to Orca Point offered free kittens, dahlias for sale, and horseback rides.
Charlie G.’s sat at the tip of a promontory high above the water. The weathered cedar exterior, big picture windows, and sharply slanting roof evoked a style popular in the nineteen-seventies. Ella, who not only seemed to know all of the restaurant’s staff, also appeared to be on first-name terms with most of the diners. It took her and the cousins almost five minutes to wend their way to a window table.
Over cocktails, Ella offered a brief account of her life and times: She had been bo
rn and raised in a medium-sized city on the mainland, but had moved to Perez Island as a bride almost thirty years earlier. The marriage hadn’t lasted, though it had produced two children. Her ex had left the island, but she had remained with her son and daughter.
“My son, Allan, works with me. You saw him this afternoon,” Ella explained. “I doubt if he’s going to make real estate his career, but dealing with people is always good training. Now tell me all about yourselves and how you ended up at Chavez Cove just in time for a murder.”
Judith and Renie complied, each giving an abbreviated version of their backgrounds. Ella was a good listener. Judith could see how she managed to win the confidence of her clients.
“So,” Judith said, after explaining that she’d known Jeanne Clayton Barber in high school, “Chavez Cove is on the market?”
“It’s not officially listed,” Ella admitted, “but Jeanne and Duane let it be known early last summer that they were shopping the place. I gather that Jeanne told the state B&B board or whatever you call it that she and Duane would consider a reasonable offer.”
“Why would they sell after all these years?” Judith inquired with a little frown. The issue raised questions in her own mind: Down the road, would she think about getting rid of Hillside Manor? Would running a B&B become too much of a burden as she grew older? What would happen when Joe retired from the police force? Could they manage three flights of stairs after they hit sixty-five?
“…Rather than Jeanne,” Ella was saying, and Judith realized that her musings had made her miss some of the answer. “Duane never really pitched in, as far as I can tell. He had all those damned duck decoys—excuse my French—and he just sort of moldered at Chavez Cove. Then, when he died, Jeanne must have decided it was time for her to move on—literally.”
“So who owned the cabins before the Barbers came along?” Renie asked as their waitress brought them each a second drink.
Ella handed over her empty Manhattan glass and picked up the fresh cocktail. “Now you’re getting into that property ownership thing,” she said with a wry little smile. “My boss, Simon Dobler, has this little conceit. He likes to give the impression that he’s a hardworking real estate guy who’s just plain folks. It’s good for his professional image. But the truth is,” Ella went on with an ironic look for Judith and Renie, “he’s fabulously wealthy. It’s not the Danfields who own everything in sight—it’s the Doblers. Simon and old Elrod are probably the richest men in the Santa Lucias.”