by Mary Daheim
On the mantel, the tapers flickered and danced, apparently caught in a draft. The wind could be heard in the chimney, and the trees that surrounded the guesthouse seemed to moan. Elrod sat back down on the sofa, his weathered face now drained.
Judith cleared her throat. “What became of the child?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Damned if I know,” Elrod responded. “Doc finally got hold of the coast guard, and they came to take him and the baby to Laurel Harbor. He came back the next day, askin’ if his missus could be buried on the island. Seems he couldn’t stand the idea of takin’ her back wherever he come from. Bates was feelin’ pretty bad by then—as well he might—so he said okay. That’s the last we seen of Doc until about three years later, when he showed up and settled in. I guess he couldn’t stand bein’ far from his missus. That made sense to me. I’d never leave my Flora. That’s why I don’t go off Chavez, not for no reason. Funny, ain’t it? Those two women who never knew one another in this life are lyin’ up there together at Eagle Lake. And here Doc and I stay, a couple of old duffers just spinnin’ out our days till we see ’em again in the next world.”
To her chagrin, Judith realized that there were tears in her eyes. Reaching into the pocket of her slacks, she pulled out a crumpled tissue. “That’s a very moving story,” she said, trying to smile in sympathy. “I take it Harry left soon after the tragedy?”
Elrod nodded. “Bates got rid of him. I reckon it was his way of makin’ up for bein’ a horse’s behind. But at least Bates was sober. Then again, maybe that makes it worse. Bates knew what he was doin’ when he turned Doc down. Harry didn’t. It was Doc who had that helicopter thing put in after he moved here. He never said nothin’ about why he done it, but we all knew. Nobody’d ever get stuck on Chavez again.”
Judith discreetly blew her nose. “This is a sad place in many ways,” she remarked. “Is anyone happy here, except Cilla?”
“Cilla?” Elrod’s mouth turned down. “Cilla Carr oughtta get out while she still can. If she waits much longer,” he added in an ominous tone, “it’ll be too late.”
The wind blew out the tapers on the mantel. Flora Dobler’s portrait faded into the shadows. Her husband put his head in his hands. Judith was sure that he wept, too.
SIXTEEN
RENIE URGED JUDITH to get a grip on her emotions. “It’s very sad, it’s very moving, but you and I know it’s not healthy to dwell on past tragedies. Grovers don’t wallow in what-might-have-been.”
Judith dabbed at her eyes as they walked back down the road. “At least we know what happened with Harry and the Wickers. It’s just about what we figured. Part of the puzzle that’s missing is Cilla and her mother. I wish,” she went on in a wistful voice, as the Victorian gingerbread facade of the Carr house appeared before them, “that we could really talk to Rowena. But I don’t think it’d do much good.”
“Probably not,” Renie agreed, though she slowed her step to match Judith’s as they approached the picket fence.
Judith sighed. “We’re still guessing that Rowena is Francesca Wicker’s sister. I got the impression that Elrod didn’t know of any connection, but I should have asked anyway. Maybe he’d know if Rafe is really Cilla’s father.”
The Carr house looked quiet, though the wind stirred the tall dahlias and the mountain ash trees. “You know,” Judith said, her voice suddenly eager, “we’ve never seen Hidden Cove. It’s not yet eleven. Rafe won’t be back from Laurel Harbor for a while. Let’s go have a look.”
Renie didn’t argue. Five minutes later, the cousins were trying to find the way to Rafe’s hideaway. Rowena Carr had told them that the path started near an old cedar stump somewhere between the cabins and the Eagle Lake trailhead. Close inspection showed several cedar stumps, no doubt left from a stand that had been cut when the land was cleared to build the cabins.
Renie, however, noticed that one of the larger stumps had an old gouge covered with oyster fungi. “This could have been the original blaze for the path,” she said.
Sure enough, on the other side of the exposed roots, a narrow trail dropped sharply downhill. Here, in the heavy shade of the evergreens, the ground had little chance to dry out. Judith and Renie trod carefully as they made their way among the ferns, salmonberries, and what looked suspiciously like nettles.
After about fifty yards, small springs emerged on both sides of the trail, trickling ever downward. As the ground grew even wetter, the cousins were glad to see that a series of wooden steps had been wedged into the earth. They hadn’t gone much farther when a sloping roof appeared before them, and then a glimpse of quiet, dark green bay.
Rafe’s house was three stories high, but very narrow, with the front portion supported by stilts. Like the Barber residence, the waterside was made almost entirely of glass. As Judith and Renie reached the beach, they could see much of the interior. The bedroom was a loft on the top floor, the living room and kitchen were in the middle, and a workshop and den were at ground level.
“It’s a real den,” Renie said in wonder. “Look at all those animals!”
Several varieties of birds roosted not only on perches, but on the furnishings. A ferret wandered between a bookcase and a TV set. Two beavers poked their heads out of a large metal tub. An aquarium hosted various kinds of fish.
“It must be Rafe’s wildlife hospital,” said Judith. “It’s a nice idea, but I’ll bet it smells bad.”
The cousins ambled along the beach, which was narrow and crescent-shaped. The dock was predictably empty. Rafe’s kayak stood on end next to the house. There was also a bucket half-filled with butter clams.
“Mm-mmm,” Renie murmured in appreciation. “I could go for some chowder about now. It’s getting to be lunch-time.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Judith said, tugging at Renie’s arm.
“Do you suppose we could dig clams at Chavez Cove?” Renie inquired in a hopeful voice.
“Jeanne didn’t mention it.” Judith was standing by what appeared to be the only door, located at the side of the house. There was no porch or steps. “I wonder,” she mused, then grasped the doorknob.
It turned easily. Judith stepped inside.
Now it was Renie who protested. “You’re trespassing, coz,” she said in an anxious voice. “Let’s get out of here. Rafe could be back at any time.”
“No, he couldn’t. The ferry didn’t get in until ten-forty-five. He’s got to drop the guests off—assuming they were on that run—and then get over here. It’s eleven-ten. We’ve got a few minutes to spare.”
“But you should be there to greet your guests,” Renie persisted.
“Cilla can help them. Rafe knows the drill. I’m covered. Besides, I really don’t expect them until this afternoon.” Judith was wandering around the workshop, which was filled with tools, books, and what looked like a complete veterinarian pharmacy.
But it was the pictures on the walls that caught her eye. Some were clipped from newspapers and magazines; others were actual photographs, both in color and in black-and-white. Each was hand-labeled with the single word, “VICTIM.” The images of a sea lion, an otter, a whale, a muskrat, salmon, steelhead, sea-run cutthroat trout, and at least a dozen different kinds of birds lined the workshop. But one of the glossy eight-by-tens drew Judith like a magnet: It was a woman. Judith moved in for a closer look.
Above the “VICTIM” tag line, she recognized the morose face of Rowena Carr. “That’s eerie,” Judith murmured.
Renie scrutinized the photo. Rowena’s hair was carefully combed in a French roll and she wore a high-necked dress with a double strand of pearls. “I don’t get it. ‘Victim’ of what?”
“I don’t know,” Judith said in a vague voice. “It looks like a blowup of a smaller picture. Doesn’t it seem kind of grainy?”
Renie, who was farsighted, moved farther away. “I don’t have my glasses. From what I can tell, it looks recent, though.”
“Let’s go,” Judith said, suddenly anxious to get out
of Rafe’s house. “Does any man ever keep pictures of the women he’s wronged and label them?”
“If any man ever did, it’d be Rafe,” Renie said, as Judith closed the door behind them. “That guy has a guilt complex about a lot of things.”
Judith frowned. “So Rowena Carr is the only woman he seduced and abandoned?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Renie said, poking Judith in the arm. “Here comes the cruiser.”
“Damn!” Judith breathed. She and Renie were standing in plain sight at the foot of the steps which led to the trail. The cruiser had nosed alongside the dock, with Rafe on the deck, making ready to tie up. He seemed startled to see the cousins, but lifted a hand in greeting.
There was nothing to do but wait for Rafe. “What’s our story?” Renie asked out of the side of her mouth.
Judith sighed. “How about the truth?”
“Which is?” asked Renie.
But Rafe had secured the cruiser and was now heading for shore. He jumped lightly to the ground and offered his most engaging smile. “You must have known your guests weren’t on the ten-forty-five,” he said. “Were you looking for me?”
Judith met his gaze straight on. “We wanted to see how you’d redone the old boathouse. It’s very nice. Did you do the work yourself?”
Rafe nodded. “It took over a year. My main concern was to provide an animal shelter. I’m not a vet, of course, but I’ve studied wildlife problems, especially those related to environmental hazards. Did you see my little family through the window?”
“Yes,” Judith replied, now gazing back at the house’s bottom floor. “Yes, we saw them through the window.”
Rafe stared at Judith for a long moment before his expression became sardonic. “As well as from inside, I’d guess.”
Judith felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well…yes. We were intrigued.”
“I usually lock up during tourist season,” Rafe commented in a placid tone, “but there’s not much boat traffic around Hidden Cove this time of year. “What did you think?” The azure eyes seemed to pinion Judith.
“I think,” she replied carefully, “that you’re a dedicated person. I also think you have a rather peculiar collection of pictures. They struck me like one of those kids’ puzzles—‘Which one doesn’t belong?’”
“You mean Rowena Carr.” Rafe nodded again, though more faintly. “We forget how much people are affected by environmental disasters. Everybody gets excited about the wildlife, the plants, the nonhuman elements. But there are other victims. In Rowena’s case, the Petroleum Monarch ruined her future. Twenty years ago, she put her life savings into the company’s stock. After the disaster, the stock plummeted. I gather she had some kind of mental breakdown. Finally, she had to quit her job. That’s when she and Cilla moved from Ketchikan.”
“I see,” Judith said thoughtfully. “Was it irony that prompted you to write to them about the Lowman property?”
Judith’s guess drew a blank from Rafe St. Jacques. “I didn’t write to them.” His chiseled features were puzzled. “I’d never heard of the Carrs until they moved to Chavez this spring.”
The cousins had to make do with canned clam chowder. It wasn’t bad, but Renie complained that Jeanne Barber’s commercial supply fell far short of Auntie Vance’s legendary recipe.
“No bacon, for one thing,” Renie griped. “It’s not thick enough. And I doubt that these are butter clams. They’re too rubbery.”
“I tell an occasional fib,” Judith said, gazing out through the kitchen window at the overcast afternoon, “but it’s always in a good cause. These people lie for no apparent reason. Cilla’s right—there’s no stigma these days about illegitimate children. Why doesn’t Rafe own up to having fathered her?”
“Horse clams,” Renie declared. “I’ll bet that’s what they are. Or geoducks. I’d write a letter of complaint if they used geoducks. You might as well eat a garden hose.”
“It could be money,” Judith went on, absently crumbling crackers in her chowder. “But Cilla’s too old to qualify for child support.”
Renie waved the soup spoon at her bowl. “Auntie Vance uses real cream. I’ll bet this is some kind of concentrate made from powdered milk.”
“Who else would write to Mrs. Carr? Who else would know them or where they’d gone?” Judith kept staring out the window. “The only other explanation is if Rowena really is Francesca Wicker’s sister. We could find Francesca’s maiden name on the death certificate at the county courthouse.”
“Butter,” Renie said in a firm voice. “Not margarine, not shortening—real butter. You don’t need much because you fry the bacon first in the kettle, and then…”
“Coz!” Judith had finally tuned into Renie’s culinary reflections and found them irritating. “Stop dwelling on food and help me think this through. Would somebody at the courthouse read Francesca’s death certificate over the phone?”
“If you want to be read to, call the library,” Renie huffed. “Sometimes you don’t take me seriously. Auntie Vance’s clam chowder is just as important as Francesca Wicker’s maiden name. It’s Auntie Vance’s heritage, her claim to immortality. When she’s gone—God forbid—we’ll remember how tough she was and how she insulted people and the way she’d criticize everybody up one side and down the other. But that negative part will fade, and what we’ll have left of Auntie Vance is the good stuff—her generosity, her energy, her good heart under that prickly exterior. In other words, we’ll have her clam-chowder recipe, her chicken and noodles, her apple pies, her whole damned legacy of making and baking for other people. Now why is that not important?”
Judith was taken aback. “I never looked at it that way,” she said, wondering as much at her own lack of perception as at Renie’s eloquent appreciation. “And here I was, just figuring you were fixated on filling your stomach.”
Renie shot Judith a disdainful look. “Everybody has some kind of immortality. Auntie Vance’s is cooking for other people. Mine is eating what people cook.”
Judith laughed. “You’re shortchanging yourself, coz. Some of your design work will live on. A hundred years from now, people will say, ‘See that concept? Serena Jones was the first to come up with it.’”
Renie looked askance. “A hundred years from now everything will be electronic, and substance will replace style. I’m part of a dying breed, like Ned Grainger and his weekly newspaper. It’s Bill who will leave a legacy. It won’t be tangible, but his teaching and his counseling and his very presence among students will affect generations yet unborn. He scoffs, but it’s true.”
Judith reflected on Renie’s words. “You’re right. The same goes for Joe. On a day-to-day basis, all he can see is putting together evidence and making a case stick and getting criminals off the street. But in the long run, a policeman’s job is at the very heart of what makes society work. Otherwise, we’d have anarchy, and…” She stopped, her mouth falling open in astonishment. “Coz! I’ve been a dunderhead!”
Despite Renie’s complaints about the clam chowder, her bowl was empty. She had just picked it up when Judith made her pronouncement. “What are you talking about?” Renie asked.
Judith ran an agitated hand through her silver-streaked hair. “Let me sort this out. In fact, I’m going to call the courthouse first, and then Cilla, and after that, Doc, and we should go see Bates and Esther…”
Judith had dialed Laurel Harbor and gotten a response even before she finished speaking. Since events moved at a leisurely pace in the Santa Lucias, it took three minutes to get connected with someone in the county auditor’s office. By that time, Judith had composed herself, and Renie had loaded the dishwasher.
But except for deaths involving property disputes, Judith was informed that certificates were generally filed with the health department. She waited again to be transferred. At last, a friendly voice who identified herself as Monica readily agreed to pull Francesca Wicker’s death certificate.
“You know,” Monica said after she return
ed to the phone five minutes later, “I remember this tragedy. It happened when I was just a kid, but it made a big impression. In fact,” she laughed in a rueful manner, “I vowed never to have any kids. Now I’ve got three of them. I guess I changed my mind.”
“All I really need,” Judith said patiently, “is the deceased’s maiden name.”
There was a pause. “It’s Carr,” Monica finally said. “That’s C-A-double-R.”
“Ah!” Judith felt vindicated. “Thanks so much. That’s all I needed to…”
“I’m sorry I took so long to find the certificate,” Monica broke in. “But it wasn’t in the file. Somebody came in this morning to ask for it, and it hadn’t been refiled.”
Judith’s triumphant expression faded. “Who was it?” she asked, trying to ignore Renie who was mouthing questions.
Monica giggled. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. My coworker, Katie, is still swooning. I think his name is Rafe. Romantic, huh?”
To Judith’s relief, Cilla answered the phone at the Carr residence. This time, Judith felt compelled to exercise discretion. “Please don’t think me a big snoop,” she began in an apologetic manner, “but I have an odd query for you. Unless I’m mistaken, you just found out who your father was in the last couple of days. Is that right?”
Cilla hesitated. “Yes, it is,” she said in an uncharacteristically strained voice.
“Who told you?” Judith asked.
“I’ll have to take care of that later,” Cilla said in a guarded tone. “Maybe at your house?”
Judith glanced at the goose wings. It was almost one-thirty. “Yes, that’s fine. Half an hour?”
“Around two then,” Cilla said, still in that circumspect tone. “See you.”
Judith dialed Doc’s single-digit number, but before the phone could ring, Renie severed the connection. “Stop it!” she ordered. “What’s going on?”
“I’m tying up loose ends,” Judith said in an impatient voice. “Don’t you see? We’ve been accusing everybody on this island of telling lies. But we were wrong. Oh, there was some misinformation—unintentional, really—and a few misleading inferences, especially with the Danfields pretending to be rich. But only one person has been lying. The irony is that…” Judith stopped as a strange whirring noise filled her ears. “What’s that?” she asked in an unusually loud voice.