September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  Despite the rumors, Judith was surprised. Was it June Hennessy who had told her that Elrod Dobler was a land czar? Judith should have believed Miss Hennessy. Unlike the Chavez Island residents, the schoolteacher didn’t feel a need to lie or evade.

  After the cousins had expressed both awe and amazement, Ella continued with her tale. “It’s a typical example of one man’s folly being another man’s fortune. At one time, the Danfields owned the whole island. By the Danfields, I mean Bates’s grandfather. Then along came his parents, who weren’t very lucky in the financial department. They poured money into Stoneyhenge, which was actually built—physically, I mean—by Elrod Dobler’s father, Brigham Dobler. He was a builder from the mainland. That was in the early twenties.”

  Ella paused to take another sip from her drink. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She gave an incredulous shake of her head. “Oh, well. Anyway, along came The Crash in twenty-nine. Arthur and Clarice Danfield suffered big losses. They couldn’t afford to pay off Brigham Dobler and had to default. Brigham got Stoneyhenge, but he didn’t want to live there—he had a virtual castle on the mainland. His only son, Elrod, was just a kid, so Brigham put the property in trust and allowed the Danfields to live there until Elrod was twenty-one. But Elrod was never your normal kind of guy—he didn’t want a big fancy house. I’m told Elrod despised his father’s ostentation, and, after Brigham died, his son sold off the castle. About that same time, Elrod came of age. He allowed the Danfields to stay at Stoneyhenge since he preferred something more modest, specifically, what’s now the Carr house, which he bought from Arthur and Clarice. And there he stayed, even after he married and had his family.”

  “Fascinating,” Judith remarked. “But that doesn’t answer who had the cabins.”

  Ella gestured at Judith with her glass. “I’m getting there. Arthur and Clarice Danfield drowned one night about thirty years ago, just after I moved to Perez Island. Believe me, it was almost enough to make me think twice about living in the Santa Lucias. They’d started out on what seemed to be a beautiful, calm night, and then suddenly a storm came up when they were halfway between Chavez and Perez. The launch was overturned and their bodies were never recovered.” Ella shuddered at the memory. “It was awful. In fact, it happened just about this time of year.”

  Judith glanced at Renie. “‘Remember September,’” she murmured. Renie gave a faint nod.

  “The cabins were built by Arthur and Clarice back in the late thirties,” Ella continued. “It was their attempt to bail themselves out of their money troubles. It was the tail end of the Depression, and, unfortunately, nobody had much money. Tourism in the Santa Lucias wasn’t exactly a booming business. Just after World War II broke out, Arthur and Clarice were forced to sell the cabins—as well as the property on which they stood—to Elrod Dobler. He’d just turned twenty-one, and of course they were grateful that he hadn’t thrown them out of Stoneyhenge. After the war, the cabins did fairly well, but Elrod wasn’t much of an innkeeper. Neither was his wife, Flora. They didn’t need the money, so they just sort of bumped along, and if lodgers showed up, fine, and if not, that was even better.”

  Judith couldn’t help but consider the luxury of indifference in the hostelry business. In her own case, it wasn’t an option. With or without a husband, Judith had always earned her way in the world. “Why didn’t they just tear them down?” she asked.

  “Elrod doesn’t like change,” Ella responded. “After Flora died, he solved the problem by talking his brother-in-law, Duane, and his wife, Jeanne, into buying the property. They got it for a song, and I’m assuming that’s how they managed to build such a gorgeous house. Although I was in the real-estate business twelve years ago when all this happened, I didn’t handle the sale. Elrod’s son, Simon, had founded Perez Properties in the early seventies, so he was the agent.” Ella lifted both hands in a gesture of conclusion. “Now you know everything that I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Judith shrugged. “It’s a matter of record, isn’t it?”

  Ella nodded. “But it’s still not a subject of casual conversation around these parts.” From across the table, she leaned closer to the cousins. “As I mentioned, Simon Dobler prefers keeping his empire a secret. Never mind that most of the old-timers know the truth. They’re not the ones who’re buying property in the Santa Lucias. Besides, you have to understand how it is in a small, isolated community like this. Secrets are gold. They’re power. They’re what make us important and alive.”

  Renie was twirling a swizzle stick in her fingers. “I understand. As I mentioned in my brief biographical sketch, my husband and I lived in a small town when we were first married. Bill—my husband—makes a comparison between small-town dwellers and people who live in huge cities like New York. Even though they’re at the extreme ends of the population scales, Bill says that in each case, the inhabitants have to fight for their own identities. In New York, for example, they do it by being overly contentious and aggressive. They assert themselves in ways that aren’t always appropriate or necessary. As for the small towns, individuals have…”

  “…All the answers,” Judith interrupted with a kick for Renie under the table. Getting sidetracked wasn’t going to help ferret out information about the residents of Chavez Island. “I mean, I still don’t know who sold to Doc Wicker or the Carrs. Was it the Danfields or Elrod Dobler? And why does Elrod now live in Stoneyhenge’s guesthouse?”

  Their waitress had reappeared, inquiring if the women would care for another cocktail or prefer to order. The three women unanimously agreed that they were ready for food, though they hadn’t made their choices. Could they have another two minutes? With a smile, the waitress said she’d be back.

  Mulling ensued. At last, Judith and Renie succumbed to Ella’s suggestion that they try the house special, which was sockeye salmon cooked over an alder fire in the Native American manner.

  “You’ll love it,” Ella declared. “They do it outside, in an enclosed area. It has a smoky flavor that’s irresistible.”

  Renie was already salivating, but Judith was keeping to the conversational matter at hand. “Doc Wicker? The Carr house?” Her eyebrows lifted in an inquisitive manner.

  Ella waved a hand. “The Carr house is an easy one to answer. After Mrs. Dobler died, Elrod couldn’t bear to live there without her. He’s a crusty, cantankerous old coot, but he was devoted to Flora. Elrod rented out his place to a series of people, the last couple being Tom and Peggy Lowman. Then, for reasons that elude me, when Rowena Carr and her daughter arrived last spring, he sold the place outright. I didn’t handle the sale—Simon did—but I gather they got it below market value. Of course by then Elrod had been living in the guesthouse at Stoneyhenge for several years. After all, Esther is his daughter. Not that she’s proud of it—in fact, Esther isn’t proud of anything except the facade of genteel wealth.”

  “But,” Judith pointed out, “it’s not a facade. Esther Dobler is a rich woman. It’s her husband, Bates, whose family lost almost everything.”

  Three Caesar salads appeared, accompanied by the flourish of a peppermill. Ella didn’t continue speaking until the waitress had left their table. “Esther doesn’t have a dime. Elrod turned everything over to Simon. He and Flora had some very archaic ideas about girl children. A husband and a family, that was every young girl’s goal, as far as they were concerned. Esther got both, so that was enough.”

  “She also got the house,” Renie noted between large forkfuls of romaine. “Who pays for the upkeep?”

  “Simon,” Ella replied. “Or Elrod, whichever you prefer. Simon manages the money. Elrod doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  “And Doc?” Judith prodded.

  “Doc.” Ella put her fork down and sighed. “What’s now the store and his apartment was once a stable and later a storage shed. The Danfields still owned it, about all they had left on the island except for Hidden Cove, the cemetery and some acreage in the woods. Doc showed up one day—this is hearsay, tho
ugh I was living in Laurel Harbor at the time—and insisted on buying the land from Bates and Esther. They needed the money, I guess. Doc bought it and renovated it and set up his store. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I wasn’t in real estate then.”

  “That sounds simple enough,” Judith said, wondering why it also didn’t sound quite right. “The same for Hidden Cove?”

  “Yes. I got in on that deal with Rafe St. Jacques because Simon and his wife were off on a three-month tour of Europe,” Ella explained. “It was a cash sale, twenty grand.” She paused to allow the cousins a moment to absorb the amount. “Even four years ago, that was cheap for water-front property. Of course that old boathouse was almost falling down. The place was abandoned after that drunken idiot who holed up there was run off the island twenty years ago.”

  Judith sat up at full attention. “What drunken idiot?”

  Ella shrugged. “Some young guy who was supposed to do a lot of the stuff Rafe St. Jacques does now. He was there about a year, a year and a half. It didn’t work out. He drank. There was an incident—I’m not sure what, I was in the middle of my divorce. Anyway, he had to leave.”

  Judith fixed her dark eyes on Ella’s placid face. “Do you remember his name?”

  Ella lifted one plump shoulder. “I’m not sure…As I said, my own life was a mess at the time…It was…Harry. But I don’t remember his last name. Breaking up is hard to do, even when your husband is a louse. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Judith guessed that Harry’s last name was Hodge.

  FOURTEEN

  THE ALDER-SMOKED SALMON had been delicious. Renie raved about it all the way back to the Laurel Harbor marina. Ella Stovall didn’t mind taking credit for her recommendation. She and the cousins parted company with effusive compliments all around.

  But as soon as Ella had dropped off her companions, Judith’s mood turned ruminative. “It was Burrell,” she declared, shivering a little as the evening breeze came off the water. “Didn’t I tell you that Chavez Island would make an ideal retreat from the world?”

  “I could retreat there if Charlie G.’s delivered,” Renie replied in a dreamy voice. “Or I could dig a pit and cook the sockeye myself. I could have it every day, with toast for breakfast, on bagels for lunch, then spread all over crackers for hors d’oeuvres, and at dinner, in oh, so many ways…”

  “Stick it,” Judith muttered, keeping an eye on the dozen or more lights which twinkled out beyond the bay. It was almost eight o’clock, and Rafe should be arriving any moment. Despite the imminent change of seasons, the marina was busy, with every conceivable type of boat, from luxury yacht to little runabout.

  “If only,” Judith was now saying, more to herself than to Renie, who still seemed to dwell in a haze of alder smoke, “Ella hadn’t been dumping her husband twenty-some years ago. Otherwise, she’d have known the details we’re missing. She has a knack for noticing what goes on around her. So many people don’t.”

  “New potatoes,” Renie murmured. “That’s the thing. Why do some people serve rice with salmon? It doesn’t work. Those new potatoes at Charlie G.’s had just enough parsley, a touch of garlic, and something else…What was it? I couldn’t quite place the flavor.”

  “Tom, Dick, and Harry,” Judith said, pacing the width of the dock which swayed just a bit on the tide. “Tom was Mr. Lowman, Dick was Doc Wicker, and I’m absolutely convinced that Harry was Harold Burrell Hodge. It explains so much, including why he knew the island.”

  “Now buttered baby carrots are always nice, but these had a trace of rosemary,” Renie rhapsodized. “Talk about tender! They actually did melt in my mouth. I think I swallowed them whole.”

  “Most of all,” Judith went on, stepping aside for two young couples who had just come off a sleek sailboat, “it could explain why he was killed. What awful thing did the young, drunken Burrell do that might have caused someone to wait over twenty years to get revenge?”

  “Getting back to the salad,” Renie began, “I’m good with anchovies. Not that I’d like to make a meal of them, but one or two in a Caesar, and I…”

  Judith heard an engine cut less than a hundred yards from shore. She watched the lights approach as the boat veered toward the dock. “It’s Rafe,” she announced. “Let’s go.”

  Rafe St. Jacques asked several polite questions about the cousins’ visit to Laurel Harbor. But when he reached the point of inquiring about dinner, Judith cut him off, lest Renie again start lauding the local cuisine.

  “I didn’t realize,” Judith said in her most sympathetic voice, “what you went through with the Petroleum Monarch. No wonder you gave up the sea. As a commercial venture, I mean.”

  Since Rafe’s back was turned as he stood at the helm, Judith couldn’t see his face. But she noted how his shoulders tensed and that there was a long, awkward pause before he responded.

  “It sounds as if you’ve been investigating me,” he finally responded in a tight, even voice. “I have to ask why.”

  “Curiosity,” Judith replied lightly. “My cousin remembered something about an environmental disaster in the Santa Lucias about seven years ago. We had some time to kill, so we stopped in at the local newspaper office.”

  The broad shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Rafe said in a low voice. “I’d warned the captain. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “He drank, I understand,” said Judith.

  Rafe didn’t answer. The cruiser cut smoothly through the inky water as the lights from other vessels shimmered like so many stars in the late-summer night.

  “What happened to him?” Judith persevered.

  “Larrabee?” Rafe hunched over the wheel as the cruiser picked up speed. “I don’t know. He was dismissed.”

  “And you quit?”

  “Yes.” Again, Rafe paused. “I had fifteen years in with the shipping line. I was due for a captaincy in the next few months.” Slowly, he turned to look at Judith. In the darkness, his chiseled features grew even sharper and a shade more intimidating. “The sea was my life. But it wasn’t just the adventure of ships. It was the marine life, the plants the animals, the birds, the fish…”

  “Smoked over an alder fire,” sighed Renie.

  Judith shot her cousin a warning glance; Rafe apparently didn’t hear Renie. “The sea,” he went on, “is the cradle of the world. Everything comes from the sea. Many people worship the earth, but they’re wrong. They should worship the sea. I did. I do. And when that drunken moron of a Larrabee failed to exercise even the most elementary precautions…well, I went quite mad. I would have killed him if some of the other crew members hadn’t stopped me. The least I could do was try to make amends. I quit, took my severance pay, retirement, the whole shot—and worked for almost three years, helping to clean up the spill. When I finished—not that it’s ever finished—I decided to live on Chavez permanently. I felt I belonged there, where the tragedy had been felt most deeply. So that’s where I stay, at Hidden Cove, nursing the birds and the otters and whatever other form of marine life I can find.”

  Judith couldn’t help but express her admiration for Rafe. “That’s very commendable. It must mean a great deal of self-sacrifice.”

  Rafe had turned back to observe their course. The night was quiet, except for the constant churning of the sea and the throb of the engine. “We all owe the world something,” Rafe said simply. “Giving back to the environment is the least I can do. I still think there must have been some way I could have prevented Larrabee from acting so recklessly. But I don’t know what.”

  Noting the hopelessness in Rafe’s voice, Judith sought words of comfort. “Maybe you couldn’t have taken any action short of mutiny,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Rafe now sounded weary.

  “I can see why you were so strongly opposed to H. Burrell Hodge’s plan to build a rehab facility on Chavez,” Judith said, in what she hoped was still her most sympathetic tone.

  Rafe said nothing.
The cruiser moved smoothly over the water as Chavez Island loomed up in the darkness.

  “It wasn’t a bust,” Judith averred, kicking off her Keds in the living room of the Barber house. “We found out a lot of very interesting things.”

  Renie, who was finally through dwelling on her sumptuous meal, flipped open a can of Pepsi and yawned. “So where does it leave us?”

  “With more motive,” Judith declared, putting her feet up on the coffee table. “The only problem is, I don’t know what the motives are. We’ve got money, which is always sound. Esther and Bates without any—money, I mean—Elrod—or Simon—with all of it. But I don’t see how it ties into Burrell, unless it has something to do with him buying up what’s left of the Danfield property.”

  “Like the cemetery?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Okay, there’s some woodland, too, I gather. But if the Danfields wanted money, it would be in their interest to keep Burrell alive.”

  “True,” Judith admitted. “I really don’t think that’s it. I have a feeling that the answer lies with Doc Wicker.”

  Renie gave Judith a quizzical look. “As in what happened when his wife died?”

  “Maybe.” Judith frowned in concentration. “Burrell—or Harry Hodge, as he was known in those days—must have been at Hidden Cove about the time that Doc’s tragedy occurred. Now who would know what really happened?”

  Renie wore a dubious expression. “What else could have happened? Mrs. Wicker went into labor, there were complications, Doc didn’t have enough experience—and the mother died but the baby lived. It seems pretty straightforward to me.”