by Mary Daheim
Renie was grinning as they left the cabin. Judith asked her what was so funny. “You, coz,” Renie replied. “There aren’t any riffles in front of the cabin—and there aren’t any suspects. Just what are we fishing for?”
Judith ignored Renie.
Not wanting to waste the daylight, Judith and Renie began fishing at what was known as the Little Big Bend. The hole was just beyond the meadow, formed by a slight curve in the river and several large boulders. The best angle for casting was provided by an old cedar tree that had fallen across the hole, with its exposed roots on one side of the bank and its truncated top on the other. The cousins sat on the tree for ten minutes without a nibble. Giving up, they returned to the bank and followed the trail down to the Big Bend, where the river widened as it tumbled over a rocky bed that reached to both banks.
Smoke drifted among the trees. The clawprints of birds and the impressions of deer hooves could be seen in the damp patches of sand. Mount Woodchuck was now slightly upstream, with the sun slipping behind it and the light fading too swiftly.
Renie hooked into something, gave a yip, and then swore. “A snag,” she called to Judith, who was downriver. Tugging and muttering, she finally freed her line but discovered she had lost not only her salmon egg, but the hook and part of the leader. Renie sat down on a big rock to make repairs.
Feeling serene, as she always did with a fishing rod in her hand and the river rolling past, Judith cast again at the riffle formed by a triumvirate of smooth brown boulders. She, too, felt something hit her line. There was play, just enough to give her that old thrill that warms every fisher-man’s heart. One quick jerk on the rod, then Judith began to reel in slowly. A big smile spread across her face when she saw the flash of the trout as it broke water.
“Whitefish!” jeered Renie. “Even Sweetums wouldn’t eat it.”
“It is not!” Judith grasped the line, then wrapped her fingers around the wet, slippery, wriggling fish. “Clean kill,” Uncle Cliff had always insisted. Judith unhooked the trout, picked up a stone, and shut her eyes. One whack on the head later, and the fish was still. She gathered up a handful of salal leaves and put them in the creel, then placed the fish inside, too. Renie saluted her cousin and made another cast.
Half an hour later, darkness had settled in over the river. Judith’s eleven-inch rainbow trout had not been alone. The cousins ended up with two fish apiece, and, though small, they would be tasty.
“Best of all, we didn’t run into a game warden,” Renie chortled as they headed up the path that led to Ward Kimball’s house and, eventually, to the road. “Do you think we should walk along the highway with all this gear? I mean, could we be more obvious unless we stuffed and mounted the trout and wore sandwich boards saying ‘We’re Not Only Out-Of-Season, We Haven’t Bought a Fishing License in Ten Years’?”
“I do feel a little guilty,” Judith admitted. “But then again, we haven’t caught a fish in ten years.” She nodded at the lights up ahead in Ward’s house. “We’ll have to stop. Otherwise, we might get arrested for trespassing.”
“Talk about a crime spree,” murmured Renie. “Let’s see—breaking and entering, violating at least two Fish and Wildlife statutes, illegal trespass, concealing stolen goods, and suppressing evidence in a murder investigation. Oh, I almost left out sassing a law officer. We may show up yet on the post office wall.”
Judith gave Renie a droll look, then used the brass knocker on the Kimball front door. Ward Kimball appeared almost at once, as if he’d been waiting for someone. He seemed pleased, but not surprised, by the cousins’ visit. This time, he invited them into the living room, a spacious area with soft furniture in brown-and-green tones. Although Ward had an extensive collection of artwork, the sense of clutter apparent in Riley Tobias’s house was absent here. A dozen examples of Japanese netsuke reposed on the mantel. Judith was particularly charmed by a turtle, caught forever in ivory with an inquisitive look on its wrinkled face.
“We can’t stay,” she said, pointing to the fishing creel. “We were out breaking the law and we want our ill-got gain to stay fresh.”
“Tsk-tsk.” Ward shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. “You were very lucky. Not only to avoid the game wardens, but to get anything worth keeping. Would you like a drink?”
Renie declined for both of them. “We don’t want to get picked up for drunken strolling. Besides, we’re going into Glacier Falls for dinner.”
Ward apologized for Lark’s absence. “She’s painting. She’s been at it all day. I suppose it helps to keep her mind off…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “For her, the quality—or lack—of light doesn’t matter as much.”
Backing into her subject for the sake of tact, Judith asked Ward if he knew when Riley’s funeral service would take place. Ward thought it would be Saturday in Glacier Falls. Judith lamented the fact that she and Renie would be gone by then. Renie remarked that she thought it might have been more fitting if the service had been set in town, where Riley had so many professional connections.
“Knowing Riley,” Ward said, with an ironic expression, “he would feel that they could come to him instead of the other way ’round. That’s the way he lived—that’s the way he died. He had no time for the city these last few years.”
“Nor do you,” Judith noted, pleasantly sinking into the plush leather sofa. “You and Riley had a great deal in common. It’s no wonder you were his mentor. I imagine you had some arguments over the new direction he was taking with his work, though.”
Ward considered Judith’s words carefully. “No, not arguments. There was no point in arguing with Riley once he had set his mind on an artistic course. There never is, not with any creative person. Besides, you can never be sure you’re right. Art is too subjective. What the public might despise today will be considered visionary a generation hence. You see that time and time again in the history of art.”
“True,” Judith allowed. “Riley certainly seemed to have great enthusiasm for his new venture.”
“Passion,” Ward corrected. “Riley was always fueled by passion. And self-confidence. He’d come to believe he could do anything and get away with it.” A touch of bitterness tinged Ward’s speech.
Renie stopped stroking the Chinese aster bowl on a teak side table next to her. “Self-confidence? Or arrogance? They’re not the same.”
“Quite right, Serena.” Ward nodded his approval. “Had Riley lived, he might very well have done some truly foolish things, like going up on the roof and spilling paint onto a canvas twenty feet below. That’s not art, it’s flimflam. His mind-set was such that he was heading in that direction.”
“That’s not Riley,” Renie protested. “Passion notwithstanding, he always seemed to have quite a bit of discipline.”
Ward shrugged. “He did. But what do you people call it? Mid-life crisis? He reached his late forties and changed rather drastically. He even talked about selling his place and moving further out into the woods. He said this area was getting too populated, too civilized.”
Judith made an effort to sit up straighter. “How did Iris feel about that?”
Ward’s eyes darted to the door, as if he were making sure Lark wasn’t lingering there. “Iris is an amazing woman,” he declared, lowering his voice. “She has put up with a lot all these years. I suspect she would have gone along with him. I don’t see her often, but it has occurred to me that she’s been under a greater strain lately.”
“Somehow I thought she might confide in you,” Judith said, also speaking more softly. “After all, who knew Riley better than the two of you?”
Ward turned somber. “Who indeed?” he murmured, his gaze now focused on the shadowy far corner of the living room. “Iris kept her own counsel.”
“It’s too bad she and Lark weren’t pals,” Renie said brightly. “You know, girl stuff. It seems to me that both of them could have used a confidante.”
The comment elicited no response from Ward Kimball. Indeed, Judith thought he
looked quite grim. When he finally spoke, it was not of Lark or Iris or even Riley, but of trout. “Tell me,” he said, forcing his voice into a normal tone, “have you heard if the Fish and Wildlife Department has plans to plant the rivers again in the near future? It seems a shame to keep the streams on this side of the mountains so depleted.”
For the next five minutes, the threesome discussed the problems of the sportsmen versus the Native Americans versus the environmentalists versus public indifference to all of the above. Judith and Renie took their leave, feeling thwarted in their quest for new knowledge about Riley’s murder. They had collected their rods and were heading for the road to the highway when they heard a door shut nearby.
“Lark,” whispered Judith, touching Renie’s arm.
The cousins turned toward the studio, which lay in darkness. A slim figure was moving surely, yet carefully, down the gravel path that led to the house.
“Is someone there?” Lark’s voice was low.
Judith acknowledged their presence. “Your father told us you were painting,” she said as they met Lark halfway. “How is it going?”
“Fitfully.” Lark wrung her hands, a curiously ingratiating gesture. “I can’t concentrate today.”
“That’s understandable,” said Judith. “Say, Lark, we’re confused. Did you try to call on us yesterday while…we were gone someplace?”
Fleetingly, Lark appeared confounded. “Yesterday? Oh! I started out for your cabin, but I couldn’t remember exactly where the trail went. Of course,” she added quickly, “I didn’t know you were there. I mean, I was just sort of ambling around, waiting for my father.”
Putting a hand on Lark’s arm, Judith began gently steering her back toward the studio and away from the house. She didn’t want Ward Kimball to see her and Renie talking to his daughter. “You came with your father to Riley’s place? Why didn’t you go in, too?” She saw no way to skirt the direct question. Subterfuge had failed with Ward Kimball.
Lark avoided turning in Judith’s direction. “I only came along for the exercise. Dad wanted to talk to Riley about something. I wasn’t interested.”
Feeling frustrated, Judith chewed on her lower lip. “I would think you’d always find conversations between your father and Riley fascinating. It would be like a meeting of the Titans. What did they talk about, besides art?”
“Oh…things.” Lark sounded vague. “You know, what was happening around here in terms of development and new people and all that.” She smiled, as if pleased with her glibness.
Renie let out an odd little sound of dismay. “And here I thought they might be planning your future.” The cousins saw Lark stiffen, the smile gone. “Of your paintings, that is. You know, a showing or something.”
“You’re not very subtle,” Lark declared with fervor. “If you’re referring to the feelings between Riley and me, say so. They’re no secret. I’d like to shout it from the top of Mount Woodchuck.”
She was, in fact, shouting, and Judith turned quickly to see if Ward Kimball had heard. But the house remained closed up; the lights in the living room had gone off. Perhaps Ward had retreated to his study.
“Okay,” Renie agreed, “so we’re dancing around your love life. We gather your father didn’t approve.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Lark replied impatiently. She nudged the single step that led into the studio. “Come inside; hear this.”
Judith and Renie exchanged puzzled looks, put down their rods, and followed Lark into the studio. A mixture of fragrant flowers and sharp turpentine filled the air. Lark didn’t bother to turn on any lights, which left the cousins staggering around and bumping into unfamiliar objects. Lark, however, went straight to a cupboard from which she retrieved a small, rectangular object from a drawer.
“Dad insists that Riley was patronizing me—or worse. He went so far as to warn poor Riley to leave me alone. Silly, misguided Dad! I’d play this for him,” she went on, pressing switches on what Judith could now see was a tape recorder, “but it might kill him. His heart is weak, you know. He’s been ailing for the past year.”
In the darkened studio with its alien accoutrements, Judith heard the voice of Riley Tobias and felt a shiver crawl up her spine. At her side, Renie swallowed hard. The ghostly surroundings and the voice from the dead unnerved both cousins.
“This is my version of a love letter,” Riley said in his hearty, yet somehow caressing, voice. “I’m not clever with words, only with brushes and paints and knives and chisels. You are springtime, dear Lark, fresh blossoms and turbulent brooks and sweet grasses in the new-mown meadow. You are everything I’ve dreamed of, the embodiment of emotion in my lifework. Be my lover, my friend, and my wife. We belong to each other, and will face the wind and rain and sun and snow with our faces turned to heaven—together.”
The tape stopped. Lark’s alleged fantasy had turned into irrefutable reality. And then it had disappeared forever. Judith knew Lark couldn’t see the sympathy on her face, but it would be conveyed in her voice.
“I’m so sorry, Lark. Riley’s loss is doubly difficult for you.”
Lark shut off the tape recorder and replaced it in the cupboard drawer. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Poor Lark, she finally found a man to love her, despite her handicap, and then he died. Now she’ll never know love again.’” Her attitude was hostile. “I don’t want your pity.”
Not for nothing had Judith hustled drinks to self-pitying customers at the Meat & Mingle for almost ten years. “What you need is to get out of here,” she replied briskly. “Two eyes, three eyes, no eyes, your chances of meeting a decent, eligible bachelor up here on the river stink. Too many people use a personal flaw as an excuse for failure when they have it within themselves to succeed. It’s not pity you hear, Lark, it’s compassion. And I know what I’m talking about. You should try being a better judge of character. You thought Dan was wonderful because he had a pleasant voice. You should have heard him calling me a fat, ugly moron twice a day and three times on Sunday when the football team he bet the grocery money on didn’t beat the point spread.” Judith flushed, surprised and embarrassed by her heated little lecture.
“You met Dan in a downtown bar,” Renie murmured dryly.
Judith bridled. “That’s beside the point. It was his character I couldn’t judge. Or wouldn’t.” She stopped glaring through the gloom at Renie and gave herself a sharp shake. It wasn’t like her to be so blunt—or so presumptuous when speaking to others. She sighed and put a hand out to Lark. “I’m really sorry. What I should have said was some sort of placebo about Time Healing All Wounds and You’ve Got A Lot Going For You, So Chin Up.”
Lark Kimball gave Judith a tight little smile. “You were right the first time. Maybe. But there’s nobody anywhere like Riley. He was absolutely unique.”
The point was not arguable. If nothing else, Riley Tobias had been a rugged—and talented—individualist. He had also been two-timing Iris Takisaki. Judith considered probing about Iris’s reaction, then decided against it. Perhaps Iris didn’t know what was going on behind her back. But Lark had implied that there was antagonism between her and Iris. Having heard Riley’s tape, it was easy to understand why. Judith and Renie chose to leave Lark in peace—assuming she could find any, given the circumstances.
“Holy cats,” Renie remarked as they finally got to the highway, “I thought you were going to take Lark’s head off back there. And you criticize me for being tactless!”
The cousins were on the other side of the road, walking against the traffic, which was light on this evening in early May. On their left was the Higby farm, owned by an elderly couple who had weathered the Depression by trading eggs, milk, and produce, and had survived the next five decades to now sport a huge RV parked near a TV satellite dish. The field where cows had once grazed was empty; the old red barn stood derelict, with an advertisement for baking powder fading under the sagging eaves.
“You should have kicked me,” Judith replied, glimpsing the moon t
hrough a few scattered clouds. “I can’t think what set me off.”
“That’s not too hard to figure. Yesterday we planted Dan. He’s dead as a dodo, you’re alive, and happy as a clam. You feel guilty. It’s stupid, but it’s natural.” Renie made a circular motion with her fishing rod, as if she were casting a spell with a magic wand. Or, it occurred to Judith, exorcising old demons.
“You’re right, I suppose. But it’s not just putting Dan’s remains out there under the vine maples,” Judith said as they passed the mobile home that housed the old-timers they’d seen earlier that day at the Green Mountain Inn. “It’s all the memories from fifty years of being here. There are a lot of ghosts around the cabin, coz.”
“Friendly ghosts,” Renie declared. “Those ghosts loved it at the river. I can hear them laughing when I lie in bed. Do you remember when we were kids and the grown-ups would stay outside at the picnic table with a couple of lanterns and play six-handed pinochle until all hours?”
Judith smiled. “They’d get bitten by mosquitoes and deer flies and no-see-ums, and then the bats would come and get in their hair and the chipmunks would swipe the peanuts right out of the bowl, and one time Grandma thought Uncle Al was looking over her shoulder, trying to see her cards, and it turned out to be a bear. Yeah, I remember.” She laughed aloud.
The neon Vacancy sign at the Woodchuck Auto Court beckoned up ahead. Renie, who had also been laughing, sobered. “Should we stop and call home? Or wait until after we get back from dinner in Glacier Falls?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Judith pointed out. “Joe’s at a police guild meeting tonight and Mother will only be annoyed. But go ahead, call Bill and your mother if you want.”
Renie peered at her watch in the darkness. “It’s after seven-thirty. There’s a big NBA play-off game on tonight and Bill will probably ignore the phone. Mother has her pedicurist coming this evening. I guess I’ll hold off, too.”
The cousins were waiting in front of the auto court to cross the highway when they heard someone calling to them. It was Carrie Mae Morton, followed by four children, one of whom Judith and Renie had never seen before.