by Mary Daheim
“We’re leaving,” Judith said to Jack. “Are you sticking around?”
“No,” he said, also getting to his feet. “I was on my way out when you two showed up. I don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re here.”
“Betsy invited us,” Judith replied, noting that Jack looked puzzled. “Quincy’s sister. How do we get out of here? We came in the side door.”
“Follow me,” Jack said, going out the way they’d come into the parlor, but turning to his right. “There’s the front door. May I?” He opened it and followed the cousins outside. The fog had lifted, so that they could see the beach, if not the bay. “I don’t suppose,” he mused, “you’ve heard anything new about the homicide case?”
Judith paused at the bottom of the steps. “Check later with the sheriff’s office,” she replied. “Did you come here to question the Quimbys about the murder?”
Jack looked pained. “I lied.”
Judith was taken aback. “About what?”
“I’m not a reporter,” he said, looking sheepish. “I’m not from the Midwest. I’m a private investigator from Portland. Becca Bendarek is my sister. She was designated a week ago to find a PI to look into the senior Quimby’s shenanigans with the property sales here. She found a Joe Flynn, but he turned down the case . . .” Jack chuckled. “You know why.”
Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad. “Is that the reason you came to the B&B?”
Jack shrugged. “I had to stay somewhere overnight to do background in the city. I worked with Joe a couple of times when he was still on the force. When I realized you were his wife, I thought I could get information about the island from him, but he’d already left town. I decided I didn’t want to blow my cover. You never know who’s connected to who, even in a city as large as your hometown. My hunch was right. You did have ties to Whoopee Island. I almost turned tail and took off when I recognized you outside the café.”
Renie couldn’t contain herself. “You used my cousin? That’s a cheap shot. It serves you right that she doesn’t know zip about the case.”
“Hey,” Jack said, holding up his hands, “it’s my job.”
“Then you’d better do it,” Renie snapped. “So long, Jack.”
Judith followed Renie down the walk. “That was sort of mean of you,” she said, but sounded more amused than upset.
“I knew you wanted to call Jacobson,” Renie said. “In fact, here he comes now. Do you want to talk to him?”
Judith paused at the road’s edge. “I’m worn out. Let’s go back to the house. I’ll call him from there. Right now I need a cocktail.”
The deputy came to see the cousins an hour later. Judith explained everything in detail. He listened stoically, asking only a few questions. When Judith had finished, he sadly shook his head.
“Mistaken identity from over thirty years ago,” he murmured. “Incredible. Of course Quimby’s death saves the county the cost of a trial, though I doubt it would’ve come to that. He sounds deranged.”
Judith nodded. “Yet cunning. And ruthless. He would’ve preferred killing all of us and himself rather than being exposed as a criminal.”
“Nonagenarian jealousy,” Renie said, “and without a real reason. Judith’s father never knew Blanche had fallen for him.”
“Jealousy,” Jacobson asserted, still faintly incredulous, “is always a strong motive—along with revenge. That vacant lot was a symbol to both Quimbys of someone who had thwarted them in different ways. But I marvel that the old guy had the strength to commit the crime.”
“He was stronger than he pretended,” Judith said. “We’d heard he could walk, but preferred being pushed around by his son and daughter-in-law. Of course adrenaline gives people extra strength.”
“That’s true,” the deputy agreed. “I still don’t understand what set him off after all this time.”
Judith made a face. “I’m not sure either. Maybe everything had been festering for so long that it suddenly erupted.”
Renie burst out laughing. “Coz! What’s wrong with your mighty brain? Quimby saw you arrive Friday. That triggered the memory of Blanche’s infatuation with your dad. Blanche may’ve taunted her husband about finding a new man. Quimby was obviously jealous. He went back thirty years when your parents came here to look at the property. Didn’t I always say you look like your mother?”
Judith wondered if she should have another drink.
The cousins packed up later that afternoon and headed for the ferry. They stopped first at the Sedgewicks’ house to say good-bye, but Jane and Dick weren’t home, probably having gone to grocery-shop.
They reached Cliffton in time to catch the three-thirty ferry. The line of vehicles took up only a lane and a half, but Judith noticed there were two security guards with sniffer dogs on duty.
“I hope the ferry schedule isn’t still disrupted,” Judith said.
Renie shrugged. “It looks as if the incoming ferry’s arriving on time. I think I’ll go up for popcorn again.”
“I’ll stay here,” Judith said. “I may take a quick nap. This wasn’t a very restful weekend.”
“No kidding.” Renie grinned at her cousin. “You must be worn out. Usually you want even the loosest of loose ends tied up. I gather you don’t care about Frank’s illegal crab pots or the French coins or Edna’s icy demeanor or any of the other strange doings on The Rock.”
“I’ll leave all that to Auntie Vance,” Judith said. “It’s clear that everyone seems to like and respect her. I’m an outsider on her turf. Yes, I finally fingered the killer. Our aunt and uncle like living at Obsession Shores. It’s a flawed community, but human beings are flawed. When they had to act, they banded together in a common cause against Quentin Quimby’s injustices. That speaks well for them.”
Renie nodded. “Now that Quimby’s dead, maybe they can work through the property issues. But I suppose they’ll go back to quarreling among themselves, having affairs, arguing over sewers, and shooing pesky deer into each other’s gardens.”
“Human beings are . . . human,” Judith said, noticing the ferry was almost in the slip. “I’d like to think that removing Quimby from the equation would ease tensions in the community.”
“Let’s hope so,” Renie remarked, leaning forward in her seat. “Just be thankful we aren’t smuggling illegal Dungeness crab across the Sound. A security guy is making the driver in front of us open his trunk.”
“We don’t even have clams,” Judith said. “We ate them. Looks as if the driver doesn’t have anything of interest either. Just routine.”
“The ferry’s in the dock,” Renie noted. “There still aren’t many cars waiting. Our turn to be possible terrorists.”
The fair-haired security guard stopped on the passenger side and asked Renie to open the door. “May I look inside your purse?” he asked.
“Sure,” Renie replied. “Don’t swipe my gum. I can’t get to sleep without it.”
The guard didn’t crack a smile. “Fine. Thank you.” He came around to the other side of the car and made the same request of Judith.
“I don’t have any gum,” she said with a smile.
He didn’t smile back as he opened her purse. “You don’t have any gum,” he said sternly, “but you have a gun. May I see your carry permit?”
Judith gaped at the guard. “I . . . forgot . . . it’s not mine . . . I don’t even know if it’s loaded!”
The guard remained stoic. “This weapon isn’t registered to you?”
“No, of course not,” Judith said. “It belongs to . . . let me explain . . .”
He cut her off with a wave of one hand. “Would you please step out of the car and put your hands on the top of your head. You’re under arrest for unlawful possession of a handgun. I’ll read you your rights before turning you over to the on-duty officer for this part of the island.”
Judith looked at Renie. “I guess we’ll have to catch a later ferry.”
“Darn,” Renie said. “They bette
r not be out of popcorn by then. Now I’m really hungry.”
AUNTIE VANCE’S BEEF NOODLE BAKE
(as she would tell you how to make it)
Before you start messing with this, boil a lot of GOOD egg noodles. Don’t go cheap. Life’s too short.
1 lb. hamburger—skip the lean stuff; get the grade with the most fat or you might as well eat a cardboard box
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup cut-up celery
½ cup green, red, yellow or orange sliced pepper—green isn’t as good for you as the other three—so what if they cost more?
1 can tomato soup
½ cup water
Dash of Tabasco—BIG dash, don’t skimp—nobody lives forever
Dash of Worcestershire sauce—see above. You got eyes, right?
1 tbsp. or 2 of soy sauce
Salt & pepper—plenty of it—you got something against flavor?
Heat a skillet, a frying pan, whatever you call the damned thing, and melt 1 tbsp. of butter. REAL butter. Forget you have arteries. Add hamburger and brown—briefly. Add onion, celery, and pepper. Add everything else and cook until heated. Grease* a baking dish big enough to hold this stuff. Add the noodles (don’t forget to drain them . . .) and all of the above. Bake in a 350º F oven—you can tell when it’s done. If you’re too dumb to figure it out, you shouldn’t be reading this. Meanwhile, make a green salad. You need those greens, right? Some crusty French bread goes good with all this. When it’s ready, wake up your husband/partner/whoever and serve. It tastes better than it looks.
Author’s Note
The story takes place in January 2006.
About the Author
PHOTO BY JEFFREY ENGELSTAD
MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM is a Seattle native with a communications degree from the University of Washington. Realizing at an early age that getting published in books with real covers might elude her for years, she worked on daily newspapers and in public relations to help avoid her creditors. She lives in her hometown in a century-old house not unlike Hillside Manor, except for the body count. Daheim is also the author of the Alpine mystery series, the mother of three daughters, and has three grandchildren.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Mary Daheim
Just Desserts
Fowl Prey
Holy Terrors
Dune to Death
Bantam of the Opera
A Fit of Tempera
Major Vices
Murder, My Suite
Auntie Mayhem
Nutty as a Fruitcake
September Mourn
Wed and Buried
Snow Place to Die
Legs Benedict
Creeps Suzette
A Streetcar Named Expire
Suture Self
Silver Scream
Hocus Croakus
This Old Souse
Dead Man Docking
Saks & Violins
Scots on the Rocks
Vi Agra Falls
Loco Motive
All the Pretty Hearses
The Wurst Is Yet to Come
Gone with the Win
Credits
COVER DESIGN BY RICHARD L. AQUAN
COVER ILLUSTRATION BY BILL MAYER
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CLAM WAKE. Copyright © 2014 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-231772-8
EPub Edition July 2014 ISBN 9780062318084
1415161718OV/RRD10987654321
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* Use Watkins Cooking Spray. It’s a Canadian product, but so what? You want to start a border war?