Clam Wake

by Mary Daheim

  “Oh. I thought they might be back today. Sorry.” She hung up.

  “Now, what’s that all about?” Judith murmured.

  Renie was pouring more coffee. “Who was it?”

  Judith repeated the brief conversation with Becca. Her cousin looked stumped. “Something about not digging up Blanche or valuable French coins?”

  “I don’t know.” Judith picked up her car coat. “Let’s visit the Sedgewicks. We can brave the heavy fog.”

  Renie scowled at her cousin. “I’m still in a fog. I need more coffee. What do you think happened to those coins?”

  “I bet they’re still in the Quimby house, maybe with Blanche and her box. I’d love to see Mr. Moffitt get hold of those. Payback for losing his family home to the Quimbys. Maybe after we get home I’ll call the old dear and put a flea in his ear.”

  “Good idea,” Renie said. “I wonder if Mr. Moffitt would find me comely in my tiger stripes?”

  “How about terrifying?” Judith shrugged into her car coat. “To quote your husband, ‘Let’s boppin’!’”

  Renie growled. But five minutes later, the cousins were calling on the Sedgewicks. To Judith’s bewilderment, the couple’s welcome lacked its usual warmth.

  “We’re about to take off for the grocery store,” Jane said. “The fog’s starting to lift.”

  Dick’s usually jovial expression seemed forced. “This area’s always the last to clear up. The fog gets trapped in the bay. We should expect sunshine once we get out on the main roads.”

  “Are the Bendareks going with you?” Judith asked.

  Jane’s hazel eyes were wary. “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s up,” Judith asserted. “Becca let it slip. Does it have to do with Ernie’s murder?”

  Judith thought both Sedgewicks looked relieved. “No,” Dick stated in a firm voice. “That’s up to the sheriff’s department.” He looked at his wife. “What the hell, Jane. Vance will end up telling them.”

  Jane hesitated, then shrugged. “Come into the kitchen. It’s after eleven thirty. Almost time for a prelunch cocktail. What’ll it be?”

  “Got any of that hot toddy mix left?” Renie asked.

  Jane laughed. “Maybe enough for you two. That’s about it. Dick and I will settle for a shot of Scotch. You do the honors, lover boy.”

  Dick busied himself with the drinks. The three women sat at the kitchen table. “The whole thing started with Vance,” Jane said. “A while ago, Quincy Quimby engaged Kent Logan to represent the family in a lawsuit against Tank Hilderschmidt, Hank’s brother.”

  “The boathouse remodel?” Judith asked.

  “Right,” Jane said. “Did Vance tell you about it?”

  Judith shook her head. “We did some research. Tank was liable and it was settled out of court.”

  “Yes. But,” Jane went on, “Kent had looked deeper into some of the Quimbys’ property sales and how they’d been conducted. Vance helped him because she was savvy about real estate, since both she and Ellen worked for that big law firm after the war. In fact, one of the senior partners was elected governor, as I recall.”

  “True,” Renie said. “He and his wife came to Aunt Ellen and Uncle Win’s wedding. Uncle Corky took home movies of the future governor imbibing strong punch at the reception. Aunt Gert wanted to give the film to the local newspapers because the guy was running as a Republican and had publicly announced he was a teetotaler.”

  Jane shook her head. “Your family. They’re a caution. Naturally, Vance was able to point out some of the irregularities in the real estate contracts, especially the freehold section. She also consulted Ernie Glover, who had been an auditor for the state. He agreed that there were irregularities in the agreements that didn’t conform to Revised Code of Washington requirements. Kent wasn’t as knowledgeable as your aunt when it came to that kind of expertise. His practice was confined to other fields.”

  Judith was puzzled. “Why hadn’t Auntie Vance figured that out when they bought in here?”

  “She had,” Jane said with a wry smile. “That’s why the Webers—and us—are the only ones in the development to not sign such a contract.”

  Renie rocked in her chair. “Only she could pull that off.”

  Dick set the hot toddy mugs in front of the cousins and sat down. “Sheer brass on her part. But with that mouth of hers—not to mention her brain—she can get away with it. The only thing bigger than her bazooms is the heart that beats under them.”

  “So what happens now?” Judith asked, still in awe of her aunt.

  Jane frowned. “Kent called a special meeting a week ago Friday night at the grade school outside of Cliffton. They didn’t dare hold it here. Vance and Vince were there. In fact, Vince stayed awake for almost the whole thing. At first, some of the younger people like the Crowleys thought it was all a distraction to avoid discussing the sewer issue. But they caved, especially since they were leaving town this weekend.”

  “You mean,” Judith said, “the Friday meeting was a setup?”

  “Right.” Dick chuckled. “Originally, it was to be the real deal because Quimby and his family knew the sewer question had to come to a vote. That’s why Vance wanted you two on hand to cast your ballots for them. But that afternoon Ernie got killed.” Dick’s voice dragged a bit and he took a sip of Scotch. “We all lost heart. Frankly, we were scared.”

  Jane put her hand on his arm. “We still are. But Kent has put everything together for the confrontation with old Quimby and his offspring. We’re waiting for the rest of the information Kent has ordered from the county courthouse. Then we’ll sound the alarm.”

  “Literally?” Renie asked.

  “Of course,” Jane replied. “It’s the one we ring during the summer to announce the cocktail hour.”

  Judith thought the bell sounded like it should have been a death knell.

  Chapter 23

  I feel like a dupe,” Judith declared after she and Renie had taken their leave.

  “A dupe or a dope?” Renie asked.

  “Both, maybe. No wonder I felt we were watching a play.”

  “What about the hidden treasure and the French coins and the phony ones Brose collected? Fact or fiction?”

  “French coins, probably real,” Judith replied, stopping at the road’s edge. “The other coins seem like a scam Brose dreamed up. Maybe it’s a ploy to get Fou-fou back.”

  Renie looked skeptical. “Why? She’s a real twit.”

  “So’s he. They make a good pair. Hey, if it gives these folks something to do, why not?” Judith sniffed at the damp, foggy air. “The fog’s lifted enough so that I can see almost to the Quimby house, but I can’t tell if Jacobson’s arrived. Let’s find out.”

  Renie groaned. “Why do I think more sleuthing is a bad idea? You were talking earlier about leaving. Worse yet, we had prelunch cocktails, but no lunch. Those cornflakes weren’t very filling. I’m hungry.”

  “You had breakfast less than an hour ago,” Judith reminded her. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “You really are annoying sometimes,” Renie grumbled.

  “And you really like to complain,” Judith retorted as the outline of the grim old house loomed up ahead of them. “No cruiser in sight. Maybe he’s come and gone.”

  “We could be gone if we turned around,” Renie muttered.

  Judith stopped near the Quimbys’ fence. “I wonder if . . .” She grew silent, seeing Betsy step out from behind the house.

  “Hello,” Betsy chirped in greeting as she approached the cousins. “How are you? I am fine.”

  “That’s good,” Judith said with a smile. “Are you going for a walk?”

  Betsy grimaced. “I’m not sure. I have to take some pills.”

  “Well,” Judith responded, “you could take the pills now and then go for a walk.”

  “No, no, no!” Betsy looked annoyed and stamped her foot. “I have to take them first. Then you can take them. Like before.”

  “You mean when I to
ok the other pills for you?” Judith asked.

  Betsy brightened and nodded. “Yes. Please. I hate pills. People shouldn’t have to swallow them. They aren’t at all tasty. Sometimes they make my tummy hurt and I get so sleepy.” She whirled around, pointing toward the house. “Maman is leaving. I’m glad.”

  Judith frowned. “Mam—”

  Renie interrupted. “Your mother is going away?”

  Betsy nodded. “I’m glad.” She wrinkled her snub nose. “Do you want to say good-bye to her? I mean, adieu.”

  “No,” Judith said in what she hoped was a kindly tone. “We don’t want to intrude. We’ve never been farther than your front door.” A bit of a stretch, she thought, but does the basement really count?

  “I see,” Betsy said, tapping a finger against her cheek. “I’ll let you in the back door. Then I’ll start taking the pills. Come through the gate.” She scampered away, heading for the opposite side of the house.

  “We,” Renie announced, “are not following her.”

  “I am,” Judith declared. “Betsy’s harmless. This is our big chance.” She moved quickly to the gate.

  “Coz . . .” Renie shut up, knowing that arguing was futile. She followed her cousin into the yard and around to the side of the house, where Betsy was standing by two sagging wooden steps that led to an entrance behind a battered screen door.

  “The back door’s not in back,” Betsy said. She laughed merrily, then paused after opening the screen door. “Where did Hansel and Gretel go? I thought Quincy let them out. Oh, well.” She tugged at the doorknob. “Stupid thing.” Betsy launched a big kick. The door creaked open. “Come in, come in,” she called to the cousins. “Let’s play hide-the-pills.”

  Judith went up the two steps. Betsy ran off down the gloomy hall, calling to the Rottweilers before disappearing out of view.

  “Are you coming?” Judith asked Renie.

  “Do I have a choice?” Renie muttered, joining her cousin just inside the doorway. “Where did Looney Tunes go?”

  “Down the hall,” Judith replied. “Maybe we should leave the door open. I think Betsy’s going to let out the dogs.” She peered into a room off to her left. “That’s the pantry. It probably leads into the kitchen. What’s on the other side of the hall?”

  “A wall,” Renie said. “Not uncommon in most houses. Why are we here instead of just about anywhere else I can think of?”

  “Stop bitching.” Judith started down the hall. “Where did Betsy go? The pantry’s the only room . . . There’s a door on the right. Let’s check it out.” She turned the knob. “It’s locked.” She started to move on, but saw that Renie was leaning against the door. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sleuthing,” Renie said. “I hear running water, so I deduce this is a bathroom. No wonder the door’s locked.”

  They moved on, pausing at double doors that revealed storage for linen and china. Turning the corner, they saw two more doors, one straight ahead and the other on their left. The latter was ajar. Judith pushed it open, revealing a cluttered, windowless room where a single lightbulb dangled on a frayed cord from the ceiling. What had probably been used as a study was jammed with piles of books, newspapers, magazines, photo albums, and file folders.

  “Firetrap,” Renie observed. “Nan must not like housecleaning.”

  “I hope the rest of the place doesn’t look like this,” Judith said. “No wonder they don’t encourage visitors. You’re right. This wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. It smells musty in here. I wonder why the light’s on. Let’s go before I start sneezing from all the dust.”

  A rustling sound made the cousins jump before they could get to the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” a raspy old voice said.

  Quentin Quimby rolled his wheelchair out from behind a stack of books and albums. He had a cigarette lighter in his hand. “Blanche isn’t going anywhere either. At least not without me.” He made as if to flick the lighter. “We’re all going to hell, where the flames will burn forever.”

  “Don’t,” Judith said sharply. “There’s something you should know.”

  The agatelike eyes stared at her as his hand faltered slightly. “There’s nothing I don’t know,” he growled. “I saw you from my window when you arrived Friday at the Weber house. That’s when I knew your husband had to die. Now you know too much, snooping all over my property. You and your smarty-pants husband! I fixed him. Stupid schoolteacher man. Who’s to say the lot wouldn’t perc? I say it does. Pshaw!” He spat on the floor.

  Judith opened her mouth to speak, but clamped it shut. She felt Renie’s arm brush against her elbow. The empathy they’d shared since childhood often allowed them to read each other’s mind. Judith knew Renie also understood Quimby’s delusion.

  “He died a long time ago,” Renie said. “He had a heart attack.”

  The old man’s sagging jowls seemed to droop even more. “No! That’s a lie!”

  “Why do you say that?” Judith asked, hoping Quimby didn’t notice the quaver in her voice.

  “I know because I watched him die,” he said with a twitch of a smile. “I told you, I know everything. I own everything. I am Obsession Shores.” He flicked the lighter.

  Judith sucked in her breath; Renie let out a little gasp.

  Nothing happened.

  Quimby clicked and clicked, using every cussword in the English language and a few more in French. His wrinkled face was turning purple. Judith was certain that he was apoplectic. But instead of collapsing, he dropped the lighter, heaved himself out of the wheelchair, and staggered toward the cousins.

  “Hansel! Gretel!” he howled, clenching his fists. “Kill!”

  Judith involuntarily looked around. She saw no sign of the dogs. But the door opened behind her. The Rottweilers charged into the room.

  And stopped. Betsy was behind them, holding their leashes. “You called, Père?” she asked. “I brought the dogs back in. They had to pee-pee.” She frowned at her father. “You look all funny. Are you sick, mon cher père?”

  Quimby’s eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. He pitched forward, collapsing at the cousins’ feet. The dogs sniffed at his prone body before settling in beside him.

  Betsy frowned. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Judith said.

  Renie knelt down, lifting the hand that had held the lighter. “I can’t feel a pulse. Let me try his neck.” She touched the crepelike skin by his right ear, waited a few moments, and shook her head. Renie crossed herself and stood up. Judith bowed her head, offering a silent prayer.

  “Oh, my,” Betsy said, “if he’s dead, I’ll have to tell the man to go away. Or should I have him see Quincy?”

  “You’d better tell your brother about your father first,” Judith advised, trying to discern any sign of distress on Betsy’s curiously unlined face. “In fact, maybe we should go with you.”

  “No, no, no,” Betsy replied. “Père shouldn’t be left alone. You go. I’ll stay here with the dogs. And Père.”

  Judith realized she had no idea how to get to the main part of the house. “Where does the door at the end of the hall go?” she asked.

  Betsy didn’t answer right away. She was studying the old man’s body in a detached sort of way. “To all the other rooms,” she finally said. “If you see my brother, tell him Père is dead. Quincy will be so happy. Now he’s rich.”

  Once outside of the cluttered room, Judith leaned against the wall. “I need to find my nerves. I know they must be somewhere.”

  Renie rubbed her eyes, then blinked several times. “I thought I’d die—literally. That’s the first time we’ve had a killer croak on us.” She frowned. “The old coot is . . . I mean, was the killer, right?”

  Judith nodded. “I never suspected him until those letters showed up and we discovered Blanche really was dead. All along it bothered me that there was no apparent motive. Nobody commits murder over a proposed sewer. But several people mentione
d that the victim should have been Quimby. Why didn’t I realize that if you flipped that around, the answer was that he was the killer?”

  Renie grimaced. “Because that’s not the way your usual sound logic works?”

  Judith shook her head. “Maybe not. It doesn’t matter now. Let’s find Quincy and Nan. Oh, let’s not forget the visitor Betsy mentioned.”

  “I’ll bet it’s Jacobson,” Renie said as she opened the door at the end of the hall that led to a more narrow, dimly lighted corridor.

  “Maybe not, since Betsy knows Jacobson as Erik, so she’d . . .” Judith stopped, seeing Quincy, Nan, and Jack Larrabee come out of a room up ahead on their left. “What the . . . ?”

  Quincy and Nan both looked startled. Jack seemed bemused.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he remarked as the cousins approached.

  Quincy stared at Jack. “You know these women?”

  Jack grinned. “I’ve spent the night with Mrs. Flynn. She makes an excellent breakfast.”

  The flippant remark helped ease the tension that was still making Judith feel a bit wobbly. “Could we all find somewhere to sit down?” she said to Quincy.

  He looked discomfited. “I suppose. But why? What’s going on?”

  Nan tugged at his arm. “Please, Quin. I told you I had a premonition, even before Mr. Larrabee arrived. Père seemed very odd.”

  Quincy led them into what he termed the parlor, a room with closed drapes, shabby furnishings, and a Persian carpet that was threadbare in places. Judith and Renie sat down on a faded blue settee. The others seated themselves in worn side chairs flanking a fireplace sealed off with a piece of plywood.

  Judith didn’t mince words. “Mr. Quimby is dead, apparently from a stroke or heart attack. Betsy is with him. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Quincy’s jaw dropped. Nan simply stared at Judith. Jack looked mildly curious. In the silence that followed, a mantel clock chimed the half hour on a weak, quivering note.

  Then Nan shot out of her chair and flung herself at Quincy. “We’re rich! We’re free! I love you, Quin! Let’s have a cocktail!”

  After being told where the body could be found, the two Quimbys rushed out of the parlor. Judith stood up, with Renie following suit.