by Mary Daheim
Before Judith could protest, Renie entered the living room bearing a tray with three steaming mugs. “Hot chocolate! Get your rich hot chocolate here! Hurry, hurry!”
The diversion seemed to fluster Mrs. Carr. She plopped back down on the sofa and eyed Renie with something akin to alarm. “Oh! Cocoa! My! Well, perhaps just a taste…”
If Renie’s entrance had detained Mrs. Carr, it also silenced her. She blew on the cocoa, tested it with her tongue, blew again, and finally took a sip. But she said nothing. Judith, meanwhile, cudgeled her brain, trying to come up with words that would unlock their guest’s flow of speech.
It was Renie who finally spoke: “You know,” she said from her place in the deep armchair, “all this isolation isn’t good for people. Have you and Cilla thought about moving to the city?”
The cocoa mug shook in Mrs. Carr’s hand. “My, no!” she exclaimed in a horrified voice. “Cities are dreadful places! I’d be afraid to leave the house! Why, Ketchikan was almost too big! That’s one of the reasons we left.” Her voice grew calmer as she set the mug down on the coffee table. “That, and…other things. Now I must be going.” Though she seemed unsteady, Mrs. Carr stood up and headed for the back door.
Judith hurried after her. “Let me see you down the stairs,” she insisted.
“I can manage,” Mrs. Carr said stiffly.
Judith wouldn’t be deterred. She held on to Mrs. Carr’s arm with one hand and the rail with the other. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Judith asked if her guest felt capable of walking home alone.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Carr replied. “It’s not really a physically debilitating condition. But I do feel tired and depressed and nervous and anxious and…yes, irritable most of the time. And I forget things and just suddenly feel that the whole world is against me.” She uttered a weary sigh.
“If you have all those complaints, you should see a doctor,” Judith said in her most compassionate manner. “I’m sure someone can recommend an excellent physician right here in the Santa Lucias.”
Mrs. Carr’s eyes were very bright in the glow of the fairy lights. “I know the best doctor in the Santa Lucias. I wouldn’t ask him to help me if I were dying.” Her mouth set in a grim line. “How could I? He already killed my sister.”
With a flap of her mismatched slippers, Mrs. Carr scurried across the turnaround and down the dirt road.
FIFTEEN
JUDITH’S HOT CHOCOLATE had grown cold by the time she returned to the living room. Renie was back on the sofa, complacently eating the last of the popcorn.
“We’ve got to talk to Cilla first thing tomorrow,” Judith said, collapsing next to Renie. “Why didn’t I figure this out sooner? Why did I think it was Marcia Barber?”
“Huh?” Renie turned to look at her cousin. “Why did you think Marcia Barber was what?”
Judith faced Renie. “Somehow I kept thinking that because Marcia was adopted, she might be Doc and Francesca’s daughter. But I’m not even sure how old Marcia is. Cilla’s about twenty-five, which is the right age for her to be the Wicker girl. If Rowena Carr meant what I think she did, then she’s Cilla’s aunt, not her mother.”
“Oh, brother!” Renie let out a big sigh and leaned back against the sofa pillows. “Where did this wild idea come from?”
Judith told Renie what Mrs. Carr had said at the bottom of the stairs. Renie listened at first with skepticism, but became more credulous as Judith spoke.
“So,” Renie finally said, “you think Mrs. Carr was referring to Doc Wicker when she mentioned the best physician in the islands? And the sister who died was Mrs. Wicker? Are you sure you’re not building something out of nothing?”
“Well, no,” Judith admitted. “I can’t be positive. But it makes sense. Remember how Cilla said her mother fell apart and got sick whenever somebody stirred up old memories? That’s what she did when she heard about H. Burrell Hodge. Why did Rowena Carr react that way unless she knew him?”
“That doesn’t mean Rowena knew him on this island,” Renie objected. “What about Ketchikan? Doesn’t Adhab own a facility in Alaska?”
“That’s true,” Judith agreed. “But if there’s one thing we’ve learned in the last few days, it’s that everybody on Chavez Island seems connected. Why else would Rowena and Cilla Carr move here? Cilla said her mother got a letter telling them about the Lowman property. Who sent that letter to the Carrs? They tried several other out-of-the-way places after they left Ketchikan, but they didn’t stay. Now they’re here, and they bought a house.” Judith suddenly snapped her fingers. “How do they support themselves?”
Renie made a wry face. “If cleaning three cabins and a house can pay the freight, I’m giving up the graphic-design business and buying a new mop. Investments, I suppose. Mrs. Carr’s retirement. An inheritance?”
“Mrs. Carr isn’t any older than we are,” Judith said in a thoughtful voice. “According to Cilla, she’s early, maybe mid-fifties. How much retirement would she get as a bookkeeper with a fish cannery? How could she sock away any big investments with a daughter to raise? An inheritance is possible. But there are other ways people can make money.” Judith shot Renie a sly look.
“Blackmail?” Renie gasped.
“I don’t think Mrs. Carr would call it that,” Judith said. “But let’s face it, these people have secrets. Maybe they’d pay to keep them quiet.”
Renie was definitely dubious. “Who?”
Judith turned equivocal. “I don’t know. The Danfields don’t have any money. Rafe’s secret—as far as we know—isn’t exactly criminal, and if Elrod Dobler has anything to hide, he’d shoot whoever threatened to spill the beans.”
“That leaves Doc,” Renie noted.
“Not blackmail then,” Judith mused. “Payment for services rendered.”
“You mean because Rowena raised Francesca? Or Cilla, as she’s known?”
“Support money. That’s straight up.”
“Where does Doc get it? Even at those inflated prices, he can’t make much off the store.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Judith sighed. “Maybe Cilla isn’t the Wicker baby.”
“You make her sound like a toy,” Renie said with a little laugh.
Judith, however, wasn’t smiling. “I suspect Cilla doesn’t know the truth. If it is the truth.”
“Why keep her birth mother a secret?” Renie wondered aloud.
“I don’t know.” Judith frowned. “Why was Doc calling on the Carrs tonight?”
Renie shrugged. “Why not?”
“If only Doc would talk. He knows everything. Including the truth about Harry Hodge.”
“He’s not the only one,” Renie noted.
“What do you mean?”
“You already said it—Elrod Dobler. Shall we put on bulletproof vests tomorrow and pay him a call?”
Judith’s first duty in the morning was to go with Cilla and make sure that the cabins were presentable for the incoming guests. Cilla was her usual bouncy self, humming a merry tune as she led the way along the trail. Judith started to ask if she knew her mother had been at Chavez Cove the previous night, but thought better of it. There was no point in spoiling the young woman’s buoyant mood.
“I thought we’d put the guests in Fawn and Doe,” Judith said as they came out on the flagstone path. “If these people have heard anything about Mr. Hodge’s death, I wouldn’t want to have them in Buck where he stayed.”
“Good idea,” Cilla said. “Time heals all wounds. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about what happened to my mallet?”
Judith shook her head. “Not a word. Lulu McLean is keeping her own counsel.”
Cilla emitted a little snort. “She’s probably waiting to catch me off guard so that she can arrest me. I’ll bet whoever killed Mr. Hodge just happened to wander onto the island. A drug addict, maybe. You know, someone that his rehab center couldn’t cure and who wanted to get back at him. That’s probably who Mother saw the night he was murdered.”
They had reached the cabin called Doe. Judith regarded Cilla with curiosity. “Your mother really did see somebody Monday evening?”
Cilla’s eyes grew wide. “Sure. She doesn’t really imagine things, she just magnifies them. But she said it was a woman. That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”
In Judith’s experience, anything—and anybody—was likely when it came to murder. The fierce human emotions that drove young people, old people, gay people, straight people, middle-aged people, rich people, poor people, and just plain ordinary people to destroy the lives of other people were universal. But Cilla was young, and maybe a little naive.
“It’s hard to say,” Judith replied ambiguously. “Did your mother recognize whoever it was?”
“No.” Cilla let out an exasperated sigh. “She won’t admit it, but my mother needs glasses. She won’t see an eye doctor. I think I’ll buy her a pair of those magnifiers at the drugstore in Laurel Harbor and glue them on her. Anything would help. She can hardly see the TV, let alone read.”
Judith gave Cilla an understanding smile. “My mother drives me nuts sometimes, too. She’s getting very forgetful. But,” she added, “so am I.”
Cilla smiled back, displaying her dimples. “You’re probably just too busy. I get that way when I have a lot of things on my mind. Which reminds me, I want to check out the toilet in Doe. The plumbing in these cabins is really old.”
Judith nodded. “I’ll take the welcome basket to Fawn. Do you need my key for Doe?”
Cilla shook her head. “One key fits all. I can take that basket in for you.”
Judith handed over the collection of goodies. “By the way, Cilla, you haven’t found any of the things our recent guests were missing, have you?”
Cilla looked puzzled. “Like what?”
Judith ticked the items off on her fingers. “Mr. Hodge’s briefcase. Rob Estacada’s credit cards. And Miss Hennessy’s brooch.”
“No.” Cilla shook her head. “I remember the briefcase disappeared, but I didn’t know about the credit cards or the brooch. Gee, that’s weird. We’ve never had anybody steal anything since I’ve been on Chavez. Are you sure those things weren’t misplaced?”
“It seems like too much of a coincidence that all three sets of guests would lose something,” Judith said. “Though I can see Stacie Estacada mislaying the credit cards, and while Miss Hennessy insists she’s not careless, she was in a big hurry to get out of here the other day. The briefcase, however, is another matter.”
“Maybe,” Cilla said, her eyes widening, “whoever killed Mr. Hodge took it. The briefcase might have contained that person’s history as a drug addict.”
Judith tried to conceal her doubts. “Anything’s possible,” she said vaguely. “I’ll go check on Fawn.”
As expected, everything in the cabin formerly occupied by the Estacadas was now in order. Cilla, however, had insisted upon dusting and airing out the cabins. Judith left the door open, then went outside to wait.
The morning haze was thicker than usual, and the air had grown quite chilly. Judith reminded herself that the first day of fall was now less than a week away. Aimlessly, she wandered around the grassy area between the flagstone walks. Seeing the barbecue pit, she checked to make sure that the bags of charcoal briquettes were covered. She also took a quick inventory of the sports equipment: badminton racquets, a tin of birdies, the net and poles, a set of horseshoes, the rack of croquet mallets with the colored balls, pegs, and wickets lying in a box on the ground. Judith started to walk away.
She stopped. With an eager step, she ran back to the croquet set. The red, green, blue, yellow, black, and orange mallets weren’t lined up exactly with the balls. The red mallet was sitting behind the orange ball. Judith knew that the equipment was always stored by color. Jeanne Barber—or someone—had seen to that. What if…? she thought.
“Cilla?” Judith had rushed to the front porch of Doe. “Cilla?”
There was still no answer. Feeling a rush of panic, Judith went inside. Relief swept over her as Cilla came out of the bathroom.
“That stupid toilet’s backed up again,” she complained. “Now I’ll have to get my tools. I’d better check the lines in Buck and Fawn, too. You’re lucky that the Barbers put in first-rate pipes. At least they help with the crummy water pressure we have here on Chavez.”
Judith wasn’t particularly interested in the island’s plumbing problems. “Cilla, do you know if anybody’s played croquet since Monday?”
Cilla dimpled at the question. “Not that I know of. The Estacadas played badminton. But I don’t think they tried croquet or horseshoes. Don’t honeymooners prefer other games? Purple passion and all that?”
Judith, however, wasn’t thinking romantic thoughts. “I’d better head back to the house,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”
“Sure,” Cilla replied cheerfully. “I’ll be there in a while to do your cleaning. You don’t have to stick around—I’ve got my key.”
“Fine,” Judith replied vaguely. Her mind was racing as she hurried down the trail. Why hadn’t she noticed those croquet mallets earlier? But of course she had—she simply hadn’t considered the possibilities. Were there other things she also hadn’t noticed or taken in or understood? Judith had the disturbing sense of missing quite a bit. Indeed, just now Cilla had said something that she felt was important. Badminton? Dusting? Keys? Plumbing? Passion?
Shaking her head, Judith started up the stairs to the back door. Before she’d gotten to the fourth step, she stopped and turned around. Where had Burrell been standing when he was struck from behind? The thick shrubbery reached just beyond the bottom stair. If he’d paused for any reason—such as hearing an unexpected sound—his assailant could have leaped from a hiding place in the bushes, slammed him in the back of the head, and rushed off. It would have been quite simple, really. It was all in the timing. But who knew that Burrell would be at the Barber house around six o’clock? Everybody, Judith figured. Burrell had been vocal in his insistence on being fed by the cousins.
Or perhaps he’d been followed. By the dinner hour, dusk was already settling in. Burrell was completely self-absorbed. He might not realize that someone was behind him on the trail. Yet, none of these mental gyrations explained how Cilla’s mallet had ended up under the leaves on the other side of the turnaround. Still feeling frustrated, Judith wandered across the open space. She glanced at the closed doors to the garage and storage shed. Had Deputy McLean or her subordinates checked what was inside? The heavy padlocks indicated that they had not. According to Jeanne, Judith had the only set of keys.
“Hey,” Renie called from the top of the stairs, “did you eat all the bacon? I can’t find it.”
Startled from her reverie, Judith turned and looked up. Renie was still in her bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head. “It’s under the link sausages. I’ll be right up.”
The goose clock indicated that it was just after nine. Judith poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the counter. “Let’s play a game,” she said.
Renie, who was breaking eggs in a pan, glanced over her shoulder. “Sure. Let’s call it Breakfast. I’m It. Watch me eat. But don’t ask me to think. It’s too early.”
“All the better,” Judith said. “I’ll say a word, and you say the first thing that comes into your head. Word association. We’ll start with…dust.”
“Bacon,” Renie replied promptly.
Judith winced. “Key.”
“Eggs.”
“Plumbing.”
“Toast.”
Judith sighed. “This isn’t working. Forget it.” Swiveling on the stool, she watched the fog rising out of the trees. Judith felt as if she were in a fog, a thick cloud that covered her brain and made her feel completely ineffectual. “There’s too much stuff going on—or that has gone on—on this island.” She sighed. “And too little that we know.” Watching Renie settle in with her food, Judith noted that her cousin’s eyes had taken on a glimmer of intelligence. �
�Lulu McLean may be chasing the wrong mallet. I’m going to call her.”
The deputy was in. For once, she evinced some interest in Judith’s information. “It could have been a croquet mallet,” McLean allowed. “They’re a little bigger than one of those hammer things, aren’t they?”
“Maybe.” Judith really wasn’t sure. “But I think you should check the croquet mallets for hair and fibers and prints.”
“Well!” McLean now sounded huffy. “Aren’t you the forensics expert! Would you like to set up a lab in your kitchen?”
“Um…I read a lot of detective novels,” Judith said in an apologetic voice. “Besides, we wouldn’t want any of those mallets disappearing, would we?”
“No, we wouldn’t,” McLean said grimly. “Okay, I’ll be over in an hour. Stay put, will you?”
Judith hung up the phone. “Drat. Now we can’t go see Elrod Dobler. McLean’s coming to Chavez Cove to check on the mallets.”
Renie was removing a second slice of toast from the toaster. “We’ll catch Elrod later. There’s no guarantee that he’s going to be any help.”
“Maybe not.” Judith leaned her elbows on the counter and sank into deep thought. She didn’t say a word during the course of Renie’s meal. At last, when Renie was loading the dishwasher, Judith finally spoke: “I’m remembering September. From twenty-five years ago. How’s this for a scenario?”
“What?” Renie unwound the towel from her head and fluffed up her damp hair.
“Francesca Wicker goes into labor while she and Doc are staying on the island. The predicted difficulties arise, complicating the delivery. Doc realizes he can’t handle the situation by himself. Naturally, he’s terrified. He asks Harry Hodge to take him and Francesca to Laurel Harbor. But Harry is drunk. Doc can’t manage the boat alone because he has to cope with his wife. It’s the equinox, and a storm comes up. A helicopter can’t land—assuming there was a landing pad back then. The coast guard may already have had more than it could handle. What happens next?”