by Joan Hess
I resisted forty-seven times, then finally agreed to take the girls to the lake on Friday and spend the night at Dick’s house, although I was determined to return to Farberville the following morning and sell books for the remainder of the weekend. That I could do so without periodic eruptions from my daughter had as much influence on my capitulation as Luanne’s banalities.
We arrived at Turnstone Lake shortly after six o’clock. Caron and Inez each had a bulging duffel bag and an assortment of overnight cases with their precious hair equipment and makeup. They’d become increasingly apprehensive as we drove down the narrow roads, and their conversation shifted from their anticipated wealth to the possibility that they might be coerced into the woods, where they would be at the mercy of poisonous snakes and ravenous bears.
“That’s the driveway to Dick Cissel’s house,” I said as we drove by the gate and continued toward Dunling Lodge. “It’s just across the cove from where you’ll be staying. You could get there in less than five minutes if you walked along the edge of the water.”
“And managed not to step on a water moccasin,” Caron said, her lower lip quivering with despair. From under a much-crinkled brow, she scowled at her surroundings. “I thought there’d be more houses and stores and less of this forest stuff. How can people stand to stay out here? What do they do all day—gather nuts and berries?”
“They enjoy nature, I suppose,” I said as I braked to allow a squirrel to dart across the road. “Considering your opinion of things that scuttle, scamper, or fly, you might have thought a little harder before you accepted the job.”
“Scuttle?” Inez said from the backseat.
I declined to define my terms and drove down a steep road to Dunling Lodge. A weathered sign proclaimed it to be the headquarters of the Dunling Foundation Bird and Wildlife Sanctuary, founded 1984. Smaller letters acknowledged that escorted tours were available from July through March, but hikers were always welcome and information could be procured in the lodge. Donations were appreciated, but not required. Alcoholic beverages were expressly forbidden, as was littering.
There were several cars and trucks in the rocky parking area. As I rolled to a stop, a quartet of sturdy people emerged from a path into the woods and began to unload gear into a station wagon. Gender was not obvious, but all had sunburned faces, binoculars, bird guides, and bulging backpacks. When a second group emerged, there was good-natured repartee about such curious topics as wigeons and gallinules.
The lodge may have been a romantic honeymoon destination at one time, but from this closer perspective I could see the broken windows in the upper two floors, the bare mortar where rocks had fallen, the obvious tilt of the porch roof above a massive wooden door. Glass sparkled in the ground-floor windows, however, and trellises were thick with honeysuckle on either end of the porch. The yard was untamed, the weeds high, the trees and shrubs allowed to sprawl according to the dictates of nature. Poles of varying heights held aloft bird houses, and at the farthest one, attempted trespassing was being thwarted by squawks and a great deal of fervent flapping.
I was debating whether to mention the bat colony when Caron said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get a job washing dishes at the Mexican restaurant. It pays minimum wage, but I can work twelve hours a day. Maybe they’ll let me make tacos after I’ve been there for a while. Making tacos can be very fulfilling, I hear.”
“Mrs. Verdin wants a baby-sitter on Thursday mornings so she can play bridge,” Inez added. “She doesn’t even pay minimum, though. You’d be baby-sitting for the twins until they leave for college.”
“Forget it,” I said sharply, although I was inwardly aglow with petty pleasure at their distress. “You agreed to this training session, and you’re not going to back out just because you’re not staying at the Hilton. The first floor has been remodeled. You’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
With a screech, Caron slithered onto the floorboard and covered her head with her arms. It seemed an overly melodramatic response to my dictum, and I was about to say as much when I spotted a man near the corner of the house. He was cradling a shotgun, the barrel of which was pointed in our general direction.
“Don’t worry about Wharton Dunling,” I said with a great deal more assurance than I inwardly felt. “He has a problem with a groundhog that’s been ravaging his garden. He won’t shoot us unless we go after his zucchini.”
I waved at him to convince myself, if not the girls, that he was harmless. He was tall and bony, with cadaverous cheeks, protruding ears, and a tight mouth. He was nearly bald, and what hair remained on the sides of his head quivered like white pinfeathers. His days of wearing a crisply starched uniform had passed, obviously. He wore baggy plaid shorts, a stained T-shirt, and moccasins. His legs were hairy and white, his bare ankles gnarly.
In response to my gesture, he stepped out of view.
Caron peeked over the edge of the dashboard. “He must feel right at home in this place,” she muttered as she resumed her seat and twisted the rearview mirror to make sure she hadn’t sustained damage. “He probably was killed in the Crimean War. I can hardly wait to be kept awake all night by rattling chains and guttural groans. There’s not much point in worrying about driver’s ed, is there? In the morning I’ll be found at the foot of the stairs.” She sprawled across the seat, clutched her throat, and widened her eyes in fabricated terror. “Tell my mother”—gurgle, gurgle—“that I forgive her. It wasn’t Entirely Her Fault.” Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands dropped limply to the seat.
“Maybe we should have asked Mrs. Bradshaw more questions,” said a small voice.
I opened the car door. “Get your luggage. Let’s hope Mrs. Dunling is here. Perhaps she has cookies and milk waiting for you in her cozy kitchen.”
Livia Dunling was hovering in the doorway when we extracted the luggage and staggered to the porch. She was wearing the same skirt and sweatshirt, and apparently had been wearing her hat earlier in the day, since her hair stuck out at odd angles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” she said as she waved us inside. She sounded pleased to have guests, if a trifle puzzled about the identity of same.
“I’m Claire Malloy,” I said. “We met last weekend when I was lost and you were on the trail of a woodpecker.”
“Do you recall if I spotted him?”
“I don’t think so. When I drove up, he flew away.”
Livia absently scratched a welt on her neck. “I shall consult my list to see if I checked him off. Come along to the patio and we can all have a nice glass of lemonade. I don’t know where Wharton is at the present, but I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
We left the luggage by the door and followed her through a cavernous room with a few pieces of worn furniture in front of a rock fireplace. What had once served as a reception desk was now the repository for racks of pamphlets and postcards.
A separate rack held applications for membership in the Dunling Foundation, with its motto: “An Eagle Freed Needs a Friend Indeed.” What said eagle truly needed, I thought, was a less poetic PR firm. Through a doorway I caught a glimpse of a dining-room table that was an insignificant island in a vast sea of mahogany paneling.
The patio was less daunting. Caron and Inez seemed heartened by the proximity of the lake and huddled together to assess the possibility of escape by motorboat. As Livia poured lemonade from a pitcher, I sat down on a redwood bench and let the breeze ruffle my hair. “You have a lovely view,” I said.
“It’s so kind of you to mention it. Wharton was in the army for thirty years, so we were constantly on the move, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots. This is the first time I’ve been able to dedicate myself to a garden. Everything is chosen for its appeal to various birds and butterflies. The milkweed is for the monarchs, of course, so they can lay their eggs. The snapdragons and trumpet vine are for the dear little hummingbirds. The buckeyes are as mad for the daisies as the painted ladies are for the butterfly bush and bee balm.”
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nbsp; I smiled politely before I glanced toward the deck of Dick’s house in hopes Luanne would come to the rescue. Lemonade has its place in the good ol’ summertime, but I’d been in the car with the girls for well over an hour. That which appealed to this bookseller was a shot of scotch. The deck appeared to be uninhabited.
“Try these.” Livia handed me a pair of binoculars. “I always do. Only last week I watched Jillian trying on a bathing suit. She looked like a puffed-up goshawk glaring at itself in the mirror. She is a very unhappy child, or perhaps I should say nestling.”
I studied the house across the cove. There were two wineglasses on the rail, a jacket draped on the back of a chair, and a cordless telephone on a table. There were no visible bloodstains. The sliding glass doors were closed, and I could see no movement within the living room. Feeling a bit guilty but having great fun, I aimed the binoculars at the windows along the side of the house. The interiors were too dim to provide a proper inspection, but I could make out beds, a dresser here and there, the backs of chairs—and nary a body dangling from a noose.
“Who’re you spying on?” Caron asked in a disapproving voice.
“Luanne, I hope,” I said as I aimed the binoculars at the final window. Neatly centered in the rectangle was a silhouetted figure regarding me through binoculars. I hastily set Livia’s down on the table and took a deep drink of lemonade. “The nestling” had just as much right as I did to spy on the neighbors, I told myself as I struggled to swallow, and there was no reason to feel as if I’d been caught filching pennies from the collection plate.
“When do we get trained?” Inez asked Livia, who was nodding benevolently at a cardinal on a nearby feeder.
“After breakfast, I should think. Wharton and I eat out here when the weather permits. It’s very peaceful without the motorboats, and the feeders are at their busiest. Only yesterday we had a visit from a flock of goldfinches. They do so love the sunflowers, as do the rufuous-sided towhees. It’s such a joy to watch them.”
Caron rolled her eyes at me as she picked up the binoculars. I held my breath until she directed them at a party barge overflowing with bronzed young men. She hissed at Inez, who yanked off her glasses and cleaned the lenses on her shirttail.
I had no desire to sit on the veranda and sip lemonade, but I was not enthusiastic about the prospect of arriving at Dick’s house to be admitted by Jillian. It occurred to me that I could simply drive home, make myself a drink, and read the newspaper in solitude. Luanne would be furious, but I’d have until Monday to come up with a plausible excuse for my cowardliness.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” said Agatha Anne as she came out the back door, this time wearing the brand of jeans advertised in magazines I couldn’t afford to read. Her T-shirt was emblazoned with the Dunling Foundation motto. She introduced herself to the girls, adding, “It’s always heartening to meet young people who take an interest in the environment. Neither of my children did. Trey spent his summers playing in golf tournaments all over the state, and Melissa had such a crush on the tennis pro that she practically lived at the country club for three years.”
“Did they take driver’s ed?” Caron asked, giving me a sullen look meant to remind me of my responsibility for the current situation, which she no doubt found somewhere between dire and disastrous.
“Not that I recall,” said Agatha Anne. “Why don’t you come along with me and I’ll show you our office here at the lodge and get you started on your study material. Normally I mail it several months in advance, but it wasn’t possible this time and you may have to read well into the night. We are incredibly excited about the eagles at the far end of Blackburn Creek. If we can make them feel welcome, the three offspring may return and eventually we may have a thriving community of breeders. At the same time, we’ll have a wonderful opportunity to educate the public about the vital role of raptors in the ecological complex.”
Caron stiffened. “We thought we might go for a swim before it gets dark.”
“There’s no time to waste,” Agatha Anna said sweetly. “Claire, would you like to see the office? It’s in a state of chaos as usual, but you might enjoy looking over our pamphlets and brochures. We just got in some splendid new material about the migratory pattern of the golden eagle.”
“Did you?” said Livia, struggling to her feet. As she headed for the door, her limp was barely noticeable. “I must have a look.”
Agatha Anne herded us through the living room and down a hallway to a door with a discreet brass plaque that proclaimed it to be the administrative residence of the Dunling Foundation, Inc. The office consisted of a large room, most likely a lounge in the hotel’s heyday, with three cluttered desks, several tables piled high with boxes and folders, a row of file cabinets, and a bookshelf crammed with colorful brochures. Agatha Anne scooped up a foot-high stack of folders and thrust it into Caron’s arms. Inez received a similar burden. I was honored with a glossy brochure, as was Livia, who immediately sat down behind the nearest desk and opened hers.
“I don’t expect you to memorize all of this before tomorrow,” Agatha Anne said to the girls as she noted their expressions. “We’ll review it together, and then you can work on it again tomorrow night after dinner. There are two hundred and eighty known species of raptors, after all.”
“Oh,” Caron said, not sounding especially gratified to be enlightened. Inez merely blinked at the top of her stack.
Their slave driver smiled at me. “And I’ll see you in half an hour, Claire. I must run home and get out of these dusty clothes before the party.”
“Before the party?”
“Luanne and Dick have invited a few people for hamburgers. This will give us all a chance to get to know each other, won’t it?” She laded the words with significance so that I, her personal effigy of Nancy Drew, would realize this was my opportunity to interrogate the suspects—except no one was supposed to be suspected of anything.
Livia tucked the brochure in her pocket, and for what seemed like the first time, noticed Caron and Inez. “You gals are staying here, aren’t you? I’ll have to think which bedrooms are clean. Wharton and I moved to the Purple Martin only three days ago, so I suppose you could take the Hummingbird if you don’t mind sharing.”
“You changed bedrooms three days ago?” asked Caron.
“Or maybe four. There are seven bedroom suites on this floor. Rather than deal with cleaning on a weekly basis, we work our way through all seven rooms and then have them cleaned at one time. Agatha Anne arranges for a service to come in once a month.”
Caron and Inez did not respond, but I could tell from their faces that they found this less than enchantingly eccentric. I wondered if the Dunlings had done the same during their army years. Why clean the bathtub when one is to be transferred sooner or later?
“I’ll see you girls in the morning,” Agatha Anne chirped, waved, and was heading out the door when the telephone rang. She returned and picked up the receiver. “Dunling Foundation.”
Livia curled a finger at the girls. “Come along and we’ll get you settled. Would you prefer the Mockingbird? It’s done in soothing shades of gray and white.”
“It sounds great,” Caron said lugubriously as she and Inez trudged toward the door. Neither felt compelled to wish me a festive evening at the party, but I was fairly sure they would not flee during the night.
“I don’t know where Wharton is,” Agatha Anne said into the receiver, “but I’ll see if I can find him.” She frowned, then said, “Fine, Wharton. I didn’t realize you were on the line.”
As soon as she’d replaced the receiver, I said, “I’ll see you shortly.”
“Please take some more literature, and do consider becoming a volunteer, Claire. Our biggest and most vital fund-raiser of the year, the Rapturous Raptors Ball, is coming up in less than a month. Becca was in charge of it, bless her heart, and now I have no idea who’s lining up the orchestra and who has the list of donations for the silent auction. The invitations are ready to go
out, but I still haven’t found a volunteer to address the envelopes by hand. There are only a thousand. It really shouldn’t take all that long.” She regarded me as if assessing my skills in the genteel art of penmanship.
“I guess I’ll head over to Dick’s house,” I said hastily. Without catching a glimpse of the girls (or hearing their mutters of indignation from within a birdcage), I retraced our path to the living room and went out the front door. I was not surprised to see a milk-chocolate-brown Jaguar beside my hatchback. Agatha Anne would not have driven a common species of car. I drove up the hill and down the driveway, and only as I cut off the engine did I remember who was apt to be the sole occupant. Taking my overnight bag from the backseat, I tried to decide if I ought to mention the mutual surveillance and laugh it off, or pretend it had never happened and cower in a guest room until Luanne arrived. If guests were expected in a matter of minutes, surely the host and hostess would be there as well.
I was dismayed when Jillian opened the door. “I’m Claire Malloy,” I said, aware of a shrill edge to my voice. “I was here last weekend, but you were dashing off to the print shop. Is Luanne here?”
“She and Father went to the marina to get a bag of ice.” She stepped back and waited while I came inside, then said, “I’ll take your bag. Luanne said for you to make yourself a drink and wait on the deck. I’ll bring some crackers and cheese in a minute.
Her lack of inflection was disconcerting; I’d stumbled across dead bodies with livelier expressions. “Don’t go to any trouble,” I said as I made myself walk serenely through the living room to the deck, where I noticed that the wineglasses, telephone, and jacket had vanished. A barbecue grill and a table holding the necessary tools had been set beside the bar. I made a drink, then settled down in a chair and looked toward the lodge for a bat—or Caron and Inez ducking from bush to bush as they made for the lake. The boats were gone, which meant they might have quite a lengthy swim.