by Mary Daheim
“There must be an obit,” Renie said.
“There is. Hank was only twenty-six. Private services, memorials to Medic One and the firefighters retirement fund. No wife or kids.”
“No wonder Hilda’s a bit odd,” Renie murmured. “Who’s next?”
“Frank Leonetti,” Judith replied, typing in the name. “Nothing. Maybe it’s Francesco?”
Renie shrugged. “If not, try Franco.”
Her cousin’s suggestion paid off. “There are several references, all related to the family produce business. After the elder Leonetti died in 1982, his three sons turned it into a wholesale company. They later expanded the line of grocery products. Two brothers, Antonio and Claudio, were running the business along with Franco as of 2000.” Judith kept scrolling—and gasped. “In October 2003, the brothers drowned while fishing in the Santa Lucia Islands.” Judith skimmed the article. “A storm came up, overturning their inflatable boat.”
Renie chomped on another piece of honeycomb. “Infwadubel bo in Akdobah?” She swallowed. “That’s not very smart. We were lucky with the weather when I went with you to B&B-sit your old pal’s inn, but that was in September. To quote Uncle Vince, it really can get choppy up there later in the fall.”
“I suppose,” Judith murmured. “I’ll check their obits. Several people at Obsession Shores have had their tragedies.”
“A lot of them are old,” Renie said. “Nobody who lives to retirement age gets a pass on the bad stuff.”
Judith clicked Obituaries again, then entered Leonetti. “It’s a single article about the brothers—and it’s long.”
Renie dug a chocolate-covered raisin out of the bag. “Condense it.”
Judith scanned the two columns that ran a good six inches. “Background on the family business. Antonio was sixty-eight, Claudio was sixty-six.” Judith skipped down to the survivors. “Brothers never married. Survivors are Frank and two nieces, Angela Leonetti Burke and Maria Leonetti Jordan. They must be Frank’s daughters.”
“Even I could figure out that much,” Renie said. “That’s it?”
“More about the business’s earlier expansion. The usual affiliations, activities and hobbies along with the funeral and burial info. Memorials to their parish school’s scholarship fund. This explains the comments Gina’s brothers made about Frank’s bad luck. You want to read it?”
“No. Just asking. Did they collect coins by any chance?”
Judith ate another cheese-covered cracker before answering. “Both brothers fished, hunted, and liked music, especially Italian folk songs. They made a pilgrimage to their father’s hometown of Terracina, Italy, in 1990. I wonder if Frank went with them.”
“Why?” Renie inquired. “You figure Frank wanted the business for himself and tried to push Tony and Claud off the Amalfi Drive? When that didn’t work, he put a hole in their inflatable boat? Get real.”
“No,” Judith said with a scowl. “Though especially as business partners, brothers can have a falling-out.”
Renie’s expression was impish. “The brothers did fall out of their boat. Check Hank Senior. Maybe he’s been arrested for window peeping.”
“Hank’s name drew a blank,” Judith said, after finding no references. “He bought up all those old corner grocery stores, remember? I suspect that Tank probably took over from there with demolition and replacement. I’m guessing he built houses.”
Renie had a quibble. “Tank’s a subcontractor. Somebody else probably built the places. Still, the Hilderschmidt brothers made money off of Hank’s real estate savvy.”
“No doubt.” Judith drank more water. “Let’s see what I can find on Kent Logan.”
There were at least a dozen references going back for the past three years. All of them pertained to personnel moves within his law firm except for one that caught Judith’s attention.
“Listen to this, coz,” she said, noting that Renie’s eyes looked rather glazed. “Kent was involved in a lawsuit last March where he represented Quincy Quimby suing Helmut—that’s Tank—Hilderschmidt for building-code violations in connection with work done on the boathouse. They settled out of court.”
Renie looked mildly interested. “So Quincy stabs Ernie Glover because he remarked that he didn’t think Tank did such a bad job?”
“Of course not,” Judith replied, mildly exasperated. “But it shows contention between the Quimbys and the Hilderschmidts, with Kent on Quincy’s side. Of course that makes sense because as far as we know, Kent’s the only lawyer here at Obsession Shores.” She waited for Renie’s response, but her cousin merely popped more chocolate into her mouth. “Okay,” Judith muttered. “I’m checking Ernie next.”
Renie got off the sofa and walked over to the window. “It’s clouding up. I’m going to rescue the clams. We might as well get them cleaned.”
“Fine,” Judith said, scowling. She was about to enter Ernest Glover’s name when she heard Renie talking to someone outside. A minute or so later, her cousin staggered inside with the bucket of clams.
“I would’ve dumped the water out,” Renie gasped, “but some bozo was down below the deck. He wanted to know if the Webers were home.” She set the bucket down and rummaged in the cupboard.
“What did you tell him?” Judith asked, fingers poised on the keyboard.
“That they were killed in a tragic hot-air balloon accident,” Renie replied. “He was probably trying to sell them something. He looked like a salesman. Who else would wear a trench coat up here?”
“A private detective?”
“I exaggerated. It was a regular raincoat.” Renie hauled a big metal kettle out of the cupboard and began filling it with water. “Come to think of it, maybe the Quimbys hired someone to follow up on the old man’s suspect as the killer. But why call on the Webers?”
“Maybe the guy’s checking all the residents,” Judith suggested.
“I doubt it. His Nissan was parked by the mailbox. He took off.”
Judith set the laptop aside and got up from the sofa to join her cousin in the kitchen area. “What did he look like?”
“Oh . . .” Renie paused to put the kettle on the stove and turn on the heat. “About forty, fairly tall, sort of blond hair, average in every way. Help me toss clams into the kettle. I refuse to lift the bucket again.”
Judith complied. “I wonder . . .” she murmured, more to herself than to her cousin.
“What?” Renie inquired, using a metal bowl to scoop clams out of the bucket.
“When we were in Langton, do you remember me telling you I saw the reporter who stayed at the B&B?”
“Vaguely. Eeek!” Renie made a face and rubbed her right eye. “One of those clams just spit at me.”
Judith laughed. “They don’t want to be boiled.” She quickly grew serious. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity. Why is Jack Larrabee hanging out around here? Granted, he said he was heading north, but I thought he meant straight up the freeway to Canada. He’s doing a series on vacation spots in the Pacific Northwest.”
Renie shrugged. “Whoopee Island is a vacation spot.”
“So it is,” Judith agreed. “But it’s off the beaten track for anybody who isn’t a local.”
“I suppose that’s why he’s here,” Renie said, dumping the last of the clams into the kettle. “He’s avoiding all the usual tourist stops.”
“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t explain why he’d want to talk to Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince.” Judith wiped her hands off on a towel. “Now I wish you’d let him come in. There’s something odd about his coming here. I have his cell number, but it’s at home. I wonder if Arlene and Carl are at the B&B. They could look it up for me.”
“Oh, coz!” Renie exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’ve got the hots for this guy. He’s really kind of average-looking.”
Judith gave Renie a disgusted look. “I’m only curious. It’s my nature. The only reason I can think of is that Auntie Vance seems to be the go-to person for reliable information around he
re.”
Renie looked miffed. “She sure kept a lot of that information to herself when it comes to what really goes on at Obsession Shores. I’ll admit she didn’t know there’d be a murder, but still . . .” Her voice trailed off as the cousins heard a pounding noise from somewhere outside.
“The back door?” Judith said.
“I’ll go see,” Renie offered, heading for the hall. “Betsy, maybe.”
Judith turned down the water under the boiling kettle. A glance out to the deck showed a few raindrops splattering the picture window. She gave a start as she heard Renie talking to someone. A moment later, her cousin came out of the hall with a teary-eyed Nan Quimby.
“Mrs. Quimby is seeking sanctuary,” Renie announced in a bemused voice. “She’s afraid of being killed. Do we have enough steamed clams for three?”
Chapter 18
A tremulous Nan Quimby followed Renie into the kitchen area. Her thin hands clutched at the drawstrings of her brown cloak. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said, dark eyes zigzagging every which way as if she expected an unseen attacker. “The only person I trust is your aunt.”
“She is trustworthy,” Judith declared. “What’s wrong?”
Nan grimaced, the hood slipping off her graying brown hair. “I only found out she was gone when that nice man brought Betsy home. I couldn’t say anything to you when you came to the house. I’m sorry.” She grabbed the back of a kitchen chair before sitting down. “You won’t make me leave, will you?”
“Of course not,” Judith said quickly, though she caught Renie giving her a warning look. “Would you like something to drink?”
Nan shook her head. “No, thank you.” She rubbed her hands together. “Something strange is happening. I wish I knew what it was.”
Judith sat down at the table. “Is it about Betsy?”
“No. She’s always been as she is now. I don’t blame her. She can escape into her own little world. I can’t.”
Renie, who had retrieved her candy bag, remained standing. “Can’t your husband help you?”
Nan rubbed at her left eye. “He doesn’t want Père to disinherit him,” Nan replied.
“Père?” Judith echoed.
Nan nodded. “Quincy’s mother—Blanche—was French. His parents were always called Maman and Père.”
“Does your father-in-law speak French?” Judith asked.
“Not really,” Nan replied. “Blanche spoke excellent English. She’d gone to school in England before the war. Her parents were what she called la crème de la crème. She and her family fled to England before the Germans invaded. They were all killed in the Blitz—except Blanche.”
“That’s so sad,” Judith said. “How old was she?”
Nan had to think for a moment. “Twenty, twenty-one, I think. She joined the Red Cross. That’s how she met Père.”
Renie, who had eaten all of her chocolate, tossed the empty bag into the garbage and sat down. “How,” she asked, “did you meet Quincy?”
“We went to high school together here on the island,” Nan replied, her eyes in shadow. “We didn’t date until later. After a year he proposed. I hadn’t yet met his parents.” She looked down at her hands, which were in her lap. “Père was opposed to the match, but Blanche overrode him. We had a simple ceremony at the county courthouse in Cooptown. Blanche, you see, was Catholic. Père isn’t. He and Blanche were married in a London registry office. She’d hoped to have the marriage blessed by the Church eventually, but that was the one war she couldn’t win. It made her very bitter.” Nan finally looked at the cousins. “In the thirty-odd years I’ve lived in that house, it’s never been a happy place.”
“But you stayed,” Judith said, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “That’s remarkable.”
“You must think I’m insane to have done that,” Nan said.
“Of course not,” Judith assured her.
“Nothing else would explain it,” Renie declared.
“Coz!” Judith glared at Renie. “That’s unkind.” She turned her gaze back to Nan. “My cousin doesn’t always think before she speaks. What she means is . . . unf!” She winced as Renie kicked her under the table. “Leg cramp. Sorry. But I assume you had your reasons for remaining with your father-in-law. Do you and Quincy have children?”
Nan grimaced. “We wanted to, but I had several miscarriages. I felt I was cursed. Then I realized it wasn’t me—it was the house.”
“Was the house new when you moved in?” Judith asked.
“No,” Nan replied, “but it was the only house here back then. The original family home was razed by Père’s father after the war to build on the same site. His family had homesteaded here over a century ago. They had a small farm and raised cows, chickens, and goats.”
Renie finally sat down. “Were things any better when Blanche was alive?”
Nan sighed. “No. It was just a different kind of unhappiness. After she died, we wondered if Père could live long without her. He’s had several serious illnesses over the years, but he always rallies. Quincy talked of moving away, but Père would threaten to leave all his wealth to the county to build a memorial to him and Blanche. I hate saying it, but Quincy has never really worked except to handle this swath of land. It’s as if he’s chained to Obsession Shores—and his father.”
“But,” Judith pointed out, “you’re finally rebelling. Why now?”
“Because of the murder,” Nan said without hesitation. “A decent man like Ernie Glover is killed. That shows how evil this place really is. I don’t care who killed him—I mean, I care, but it’s like a symptom of the disease that comes out of the very ground. I hate this place. I hate Père and sometimes I almost hate Quincy, who refuses to understand why I loathe living here. All he can think of is his stupid inheritance. Why can’t he think about me?” Nan burst into tears.
Judith paused before speaking. “Quincy is at the mercy of his father, who is obviously a control freak. Your husband can’t fight that this late in life. How old is . . . Père?”
“Ninety-six, come February twenty-ninth.” Nan grimaced. “He only has a birthday every four years, so Père insists he’s only twenty-four.”
Renie’s face expressed irritation. “Your complaints are justified and all that, but I don’t see how we or Auntie Vance or anyone else can help. Face it, you’re stuck. So why the sudden urge to unload?”
Nan’s dark eyes revealed a spark of defiance. “Because I feel threatened. So does Quincy, if he’d admit it. Even Père is a bit put off by what’s been happening around here lately.”
“You mean,” Judith said kindly, “Ernie’s murder?”
Nan shook her head. “Not just that. I can’t explain it. People are behaving oddly. It’s like . . . you know that sudden eerie calm before an earthquake?” She saw the cousins nod. “That’s how it feels.”
“It’s hard for us to understand,” Judith admitted. “Renie and I have never stayed here for more than a day at a time until now. But I admit there’s something strange about the atmosphere. Could it have a connection to the rumors about buried treasure?”
Nan looked alarmed. “You’ve heard about that?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “Of course Brose Bennett found some old coins, but we understand their authenticity is questionable.”
Nan frowned. “Why?”
“By chance,” Judith responded, “we stopped in at Mr. Moffitt’s coin shop yesterday.”
Nan sniffed. “He would say that since he’s never forgiven Père for buying up their property when the Moffitts defaulted during the Depression. It was sold off long ago after the end of World War Two. I’ll say this much for Père—he’s very canny about money, as was his father before him.”
“Since when,” Renie inquired, “is parsimony a virtue?”
“It’s called thrift,” Nan declared—and lowered her head. “At least that’s what Père calls it.” She suddenly scrambled out of the chair. “I must go. Quincy will wonder where I am. I ne
ver stay more than twenty minutes when I visit Vanessa. Père considers your aunt a troublemaker.” A sly smile touched her thin lips. “I think he’s secretly afraid of her. She does tend to speak her mind.”
Not waiting to be shown out, Nan rushed to the door and left.
Judith had stood up, but Renie remained seated at the table, resting her chin on her hand. “Nan’s not as crazy as Betsy, but she’s not exactly all there either.”
“She’s a victim,” Judith said.
“Victims often have no one to blame but themselves,” Renie declared. “Nan must have had her eyes shut tight when she married Quincy. Or else she figured she’d end up rich.”
Judith resumed her place at the table. “I don’t see it quite that way. Nan and Quincy were married over thirty years ago when old Quimby was in his sixties. The house probably seemed like a logical stopping place until he died from one of his medical problems. Nan couldn’t know the ornery codger had an iron constitution. I’ll bet she has no idea of how these properties were handled. Quimby didn’t start selling the lots until around the time his son got married.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “Dick Sedgewick told us the idea was Blanche’s. Obviously, Quimby went along with it.”
Judith’s dark eyes danced. “Blanche has been a shadowy figure so far. I think we need to do more digging, and I’m not talking about clams.”
Five minutes later, Renie was eating clams out of the shell. “These aren’t enough for dinner,” she announced. “One bucket of clams does not a dinner make. Let’s go to that French restaurant in Langton.”
“Cabaret?” Judith said. “We should get a reservation.”
“They don’t take reservations. They don’t have a menu either. You love a mystery. Why not try it?”
“Oh . . . sure. But it’s only a little after four. And what do we do about the clams?”