Clam Wake

by Mary Daheim

  Renie rolled her eyes. “It was prophetic. I’d forgotten all about that nickname.”

  “We’re stuck here. Maybe we should go sit in Uncle Vince’s boat.”

  “I’d rather sit on that log,” Renie said. “If it rains really hard, the overhang from the ground above might keep us from getting soaked.”

  “Good idea,” Judith agreed. “The seagulls are diving and swooping all over the place. That’s always the sign of a storm. I hate to walk off and leave him lying here alone.” She chewed her lower lip as she studied his inert body: navy all-weather jacket, tan pants, sturdy brown walking shoes, blue rainproof cap lying near his head. “I wonder how long he’s been here?”

  “That’s up to the experts,” Renie said. “Keeping a vigil won’t matter to him, but it matters to me if I get pneumonia from standing over a stiff. Let’s go. Or, as Bill would say, boppin’!”

  Yet both cousins moved with dragging feet to the big log. “We should’ve worn boots,” Renie muttered. “It’s cold, too. We need mittens.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear mittens,” Judith said, wiping moisture off of her face.

  “That’s because I don’t have any.” Renie made a face. “I’m too old to wear mittens. Mom finally let me stop wearing them when I was twenty-two. Have you forgotten I had horrible sinus infections as a kid?”

  “No, but you outgrew them when you were twelve. Why didn’t Aunt Deb let you stop wearing mittens then?”

  “Mom wanted to be sure,” Renie retorted. “Besides, I stopped growing then. That’s why I’m so much shorter than you are. You know how she’s always worried about me.”

  “Do you think she’d worry more if she knew we were sitting twenty yards away from a corpse?”

  Renie shook her head. “That kind of thing doesn’t bother her. She’s used to it by now. So’s Aunt Gert.”

  Judith didn’t comment. The rain was falling harder. The overhang protected them except when the wind blew the hard, cold drops into their faces. “Do I hear a siren?” she asked, raising her head.

  “No. It’s a seagull.” Renie checked her watch. “I called at two ten. It’s now two twenty. They should be . . .” She paused. “Now I hear sirens. We’d better make sure they can see us.”

  A minute passed as the sirens—at least two of them, Judith realized—grew louder before they stopped. The cousins stood up, hurrying toward the staircase. Before they covered the last ten yards, the EMTs came racing down the steps and onto the beach. They were carrying their kits and a gurney. The cousins waved their hands.

  The three medics looked very young. Judith wondered if they were volunteers. The taller of the trio asked if they could show them the victim’s location. Judith indicated the driftwood and what appeared to be a pile of rags, but, alas, was not. The medics trotted off just as four firefighters came down the stairs.

  “Guess they don’t need our help,” Renie said, grimacing into what had become a downpour. “The overhang doesn’t help with the wind blowing from the northwest. What’s the point of getting soaked?”

  Judith frowned as she brushed water off of her face. “We can’t just walk away.”

  “I can,” Renie declared. “But,” she added after a pause, “I won’t, because you may need help getting back up the stairs.”

  “Go without me,” Judith said. “To quote your mother, ‘Don’t worry about me.’” She made clucking noises with her tongue.

  “Oh, for . . .” Renie dug into the damp sand, setting her elbows on her knees and propping her chin on her hands. “Fine.”

  Judith was craning her neck to look back at the steps. “Where are the cops? Don’t they always come with the medics and firefighters?”

  “Only when they get called to your house,” Renie said in a grumpy voice. “Or somewhere else in your cul-de-sac.”

  One of the firefighters approached the cousins. “Are you the ones who called in?” he asked, stopping a yard or so away from the log.

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “The poor man is dead, right?”

  The firefighter, who looked closer to forty than thirty and had keen blue eyes, nodded. “I’m afraid so. Heart attack, maybe, though we don’t like to guess. Do you know him?”

  Judith shook her head, noting that his nametag read BREWSTER. “We don’t live here. We’re staying at our aunt and uncle’s place.”

  Brewster nodded once. “Okay. We’re not needed, so if you want, you can ride with us back to your relatives’ place. After we get there, I can take your names and contact numbers just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Renie asked.

  “Well . . .” Brewster looked faintly embarrassed. “It probably sounds silly, but we have to always allow for the possibility of a person’s death being . . . suspicious.”

  Renie burst into laughter. “That’s too funny! I never heard of such a thing!” She nudged Judith with her elbow. “How about you, coz?”

  Judith barely stopped herself from kicking Renie. “You can’t blame the authorities for being cautious,” she said primly. “Yes, thank you. We’ll take your offer of a ride up to the Webers’ house.”

  Brewster signaled to his fellow firefighters. “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way to the staircase.

  At the top of the steps, Judith was faintly dismayed to see the type of fire engine that she remembered from her youth. “This is . . ah . . . ?”

  Brewster looked grim. “We have problems passing bond issues on the island. Very fiscally conservative kind of folks. But this old baby still runs. The hoses and pumps work fine. That’s what matters. It’s got real seats, too. Squeeze in next to each other before I get behind the wheel.”

  “I’ll go first,” Renie volunteered. “Coz needs a boost, Brewster. She doesn’t have all her original parts. Neither do I, but what the hey.” She awkwardly scrambled into the engine’s cab.

  “You,” Judith said under her breath after the firefighter had eased her into a sitting position, “don’t have much trouble with your partial shoulder replacement. Why even mention it?”

  “Why not?” Renie shot back. “It’s like a . . . badge of survival, maybe? More perks of getting old. Sympathy’s nice. I think.”

  “Just try to keep your mouth shut,” Judith whispered as Brewster opened the door on the driver’s side.

  “Okay,” he said, after making sure his fellow firefighters were in position. “Where to?”

  Judith gave him directions. “It’s easy. The Weber house is off this road on the right, almost to the top of the hill.”

  “Got it.” The gears seemed to grind as Brewster started the engine. “This relic was new not long after World War Two. I kind of like it.”

  “Gee,” Renie said, “I was only thirty-five back then.”

  Judith elbowed her cousin, but Brewster laughed obligingly. “Quality lasts,” he said. “You two seem remarkably undisturbed by finding that poor dead guy.”

  “We’re used”—Renie began, but switched her own gears after another, sharper jab from Judith—“. . . car dealers. This antique engine fascinates us.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at the cousins. “You have your own dealership?”

  “No,” Judith replied before Renie could get them any deeper into fantasyland. “She means that we have an interest in older-model vehicles. My husband has a classic red MG.”

  “That’s awesome,” Brewster said. “How close are we?”

  “The next street,” Judith said, noting that a few homeowners had braved the heavy rain to come as far as their porches and decks. Obviously, they were curious about what had brought emergency personnel to Obsession Shores. No doubt, Judith thought, more were staring from their windows. With any luck, maybe nobody would notice their arrival via fire engine.

  The old truck slowed to a stop. “Hang on,” Brewster said. “I’ll help you get out.”

  To Judith’s relief, nobody in the immediate vicinity seemed to be witnessing their return. Thanking Brewster profusely, she moved quickly through the
wind and rain to seek sanctuary inside.

  “Wow,” Renie said, closing the door behind her, “you can almost run when you want to.”

  Judith was taking off her car coat. “I wanted to avoid the thrill-seekers. Besides, I’m cold and wet. Aren’t you?”

  Renie nodded. “I’m just surprised that you didn’t ask more questions, like if the emergency crews knew the deceased. You seem to have left your customary curiosity back on the mainland.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Judith said. “We don’t know most of these people. A name probably wouldn’t ring any bells.”

  “True,” Renie allowed, joining Judith, who had sat down on the sofa. “Unlike your usual encounters with death, it didn’t happen in your home or your immediate neighborhood.”

  Judith gave her cousin a reproachful look. “As you recall, the last case was sixteen years old and occurred in the Thurlow district after I moved from there. The more recent homicide investigation I got involved in happened on the other side of the mountains, a hundred and twenty miles from Hillside Manor.”

  “I sit corrected,” Renie said. “If the dead guy is an Obsession Shores resident, I wonder if they’ll call off the meeting tonight.” She glanced at the phone on the kitchen counter. “I don’t think Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince have an answering machine. They live the simple life up here on The Rock, as the locals refer to the island.”

  “You’re right,” Judith agreed. “Not long ago, Auntie Vance was bitching about people who have phone add-ons. I told her I had to do that because I was running a business. She told me to go stick my head in the soup pot. She also told me where I could put my computer.”

  “I’ve heard that from her, too,” Renie remarked, then tensed before getting up to look out the window. “Speaking of hearing things, did somebody just let out a yell?”

  “Maybe it was another seagull,” Judith said.

  “I don’t think so.” Renie went outside to the deck, but returned after only a few seconds. “The medic van is parked in front of the second house in from the road below us. I wonder if that’s where the dead man lived.” She grimaced as she brushed some raindrops off of her face. “What’s their opening line? ‘Are you the Widow Whoozits?’”

  “Oh, dear.” Judith stood up to join Renie by the window. “They’re probably informing his wife what happened. I wonder how long he’d been gone before he collapsed.”

  “Not too long,” Renie said. “He didn’t look wet or rumpled. It was as if he’d just fallen down. Maybe he was still warm.”

  “Now who’s being a ghoul?” Judith inquired with a smirk.

  The phone rang before Renie could respond. Judith went to the counter and grabbed the receiver.

  “What’s going on by the Glovers’ place?” Jane Sedgewick asked. “We heard sirens a while ago and now there’s an aid car parked by the house. Have you seen any excitement around here?”

  “That’s Ernie Glover’s house?” Judith said in surprise.

  “Yes. I wonder if something’s happened to Edna or Ernie.”

  Judith swallowed hard. “Ernie’s dead. Renie and I found him on the beach. Apparent heart attack, we were told. Renie called 911. We just got back from there a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, no!” Jane exclaimed. “Poor Ernie! Poor Edna! Maybe Dick and I should go over there. Talk to you later.” She hung up.

  “Ernie?” Renie said. “The guy you saw on the ferry?”

  “Right.” A helpless feeling overcame Judith. “Jane and Dick are going to offer Edna help. Maybe we should . . . No, we’re strangers. We’d be intruding. The neighbors can provide aid and comfort.”

  Renie’s brown eyes danced. “But none of them will ask the right questions because they don’t have your rampant and often grisly curiosity.”

  “I’m not that curious about a guy having a heart attack,” Judith declared. “It isn’t as if he was riddled with bullet holes or had a knife sticking out of his back.”

  “Hey,” Renie responded, holding up her hands, “I can’t help it if you’re disappointed because somebody died of natural causes.”

  “Don’t say that,” Judith snapped. “I quit sleuthing.”

  Renie glanced outside, where the wind drove the rain against the big window. “So what do we do for fun? I’m not playing cribbage. I’ve done my duty with Aunt Gert and gotten my rear kicked in the process.”

  Judith regarded her cousin with a wry expression. “I thought you had work to do.”

  “You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.” Renie grabbed her laptop from the counter and settled in at the dining room table.

  Judith’s watch informed her it was just after three. If she were home, guests would arrive in two hours. She’d be scurrying around, making sure their rooms were ready, overseeing Phyliss’s housecleaning progress, studying hors d’oeuvres recipes, figuring out the dinner menu, looking in on Gertrude, taking new reservations . . .

  She flopped back down on the sofa. Maybe she’d take a nap. Judith rarely had time to relax. But a much-needed nap was necessary in November after she and Renie had confronted a killer. Almost getting killed tended to tire her out. Nor was she as young as she used to be. While still sitting up, Judith was drifting off into sleep when someone pounded on the door.

  “Dammit!” Renie cried, jumping off the chair. “Just when I was about to be brilliant . . .” She yanked open the door. “Hi. Who are you?”

  Judith struggled to her feet, hearing a male voice identify himself as Brose Bennett. By the time she joined Renie, he was introducing his wife, Fou-fou, and asking where the Webers might be.

  “Halfway to Beatrice,” Renie replied. “If you want them, call Aunt Ellen. Wait—don’t call her. She may be in the hospital. Or not. I forget.”

  “Bee Atris?” the small, blond Fou-fou squeaked. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s not a who, it’s—” Renie began as Judith offered her hand.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Judith Flynn and this is Serena Jones. We’re the Webers’ nieces. We’re house-sitting while they visit our aunt Ellen and uncle Win in Beatrice, Nebraska. Do you want to come in?”

  Since the wind was practically blowing the couple through the door, they didn’t have much choice. The cousins stepped aside. Judith suggested they sit on the sofa and offered them something to drink.

  The Bennetts sat down. “Didn’t mean to barge in,” Brose apologized. “If Vance and Vince told us they were taking off, we forgot.” He looked at Fou-fou for confirmation. She shrugged, her bright blue eyes darting around the room.

  “We didn’t know they were going until a couple of days ago,” Judith explained, sinking into a recliner that felt like a bottomless pit. “Aunt Ellen is having shoulder surgery. Maybe you met her the last time they visited from Beatrice.”

  “They have a lot of company,” Fou-fou said in her tiny voice. “Ambrose and I can’t keep track. You must come from a big family.”

  “We sure do,” Renie asserted, dragging a kitchen chair over to sit next to Judith. “Dozens of us, all over the place. Do you want something to drink or what?”

  “Oh . . .” Brose stared up at the ceiling. “Guess we wouldn’t mind an inch or two of Scotch.” He poked Fou-fou in the arm. “You’d be surprised at my little gal. She can hold her liquor.”

  Renie got up to head for the kitchen area. “I hope so. I’d hate to have to hold it for her.”

  “Hey!” Brose said, laughing lustily. “That’s a good one.”

  Fou-fou wrinkled her button nose. “I don’t think it’s funny.”

  Her husband turned serious, his long face beaglelike. In fact, Judith realized, he had unusually long ears as well. “The wife here isn’t much for jokes,” he said in a somber tone. “We stopped by to see if the meeting tonight was canceled. I guess poor ol’ Ernie Glover bought the farm this afternoon. Helluva thing.”

  “We haven’t heard anything about the meeting,” Judith said. “We’re here because the Webers gave us their proxy votes
.”

  “You don’t say,” Brose murmured.

  Fou-fou glared at her husband. “She did, too, say it. I heard her.”

  “Right, right,” Brose said under his breath. His jowls sagged, making him look even more houndlike. “I wonder how Ern would’ve voted.”

  Judith shrugged, reluctant to lead into any reference to the cousins’ discovery of his body. “We never met him.”

  Renie carried a tray with four glasses to the Bennetts. “The drinks are all Scotch except mine. Take your pick.”

  Fou-fou craned her neck to look up at Renie. “I like Scotch with fruit juice. It keeps away wrinkles.”

  “No kidding,” Renie said, turning her head this way and that. “How far away? If they’re outside, they probably blew south by now.”

  Fou-fou looked mystified; Brose frowned.

  Judith forced a laugh. “My cousin’s teasing. She’s a real joker.”

  “Then she should tell us a joke,” Fou-fou piped in a cross tone.

  Brose patted his wife’s arm. “Just take the damned drink, sweetie pie. These ladies are real nice.”

  Fou-fou rolled her eyes, but picked up the glass nearest to her small hand. “Fine,” she grumbled, settling back into the sofa cushions.

  “I don’t suppose,” Brose said, after taking a sip of Scotch and smacking his lips, “you’d tell us how the Webers are voting.”

  “That’s right,” Renie retorted, after handing Judith her glass and sitting down. “For all we know, the meeting’s off.”

  Brose slowly shook his head with its fringe of graying brown hair. “Don’t think Ern’d want us to do that. He was the kind of guy who thought the show must go up.” He made a face. “Or is it on? The curtain goes up, but the show . . . Never mind.” He paused again, shaking his head. “Poor ol’ Ern. He retired about the same time I did, two, three years ago.”

  Judith reached back into her memory, trying to recall any information about Ambrose Bennett. “You were in manufacturing, right?”

  Brose nodded, his long chin almost touching his narrow chest. “You bet. I manufactured the best danged weenie and burger buns in the West. Bet you’ve scarfed ’em down over the years.”