by Mary Daheim
“Yesterday!” Lark turned pale. “How can it be only yesterday?”
Judith made sympathetic noises but kept on track. “He wasn’t much for the hard stuff, though, was he?”
Lark’s attention seemed focused elsewhere. “No,” she said at last, in a vague sort of voice. “He was a beer man. Wine occasionally. I never knew him to drink cocktails.”
Renie shot Judith a curious look. “Did he drink much when he worked?” asked Judith.
Puzzled, Lark turned toward Judith. “Not really. He couldn’t handle it, you see. If Riley drank more than three beers, he was out of it. You would never think that to look at him.” She uttered a sad little laugh. “I mean, I couldn’t look at him the way other people did, but I know he was a big man. Oh, my God, where is that tape?” The words tumbled out on a frenzied note.
The cousins commiserated some more. At last, they offered to drive Lark back to the Big Bend. She protested, but without conviction. It wasn’t until they had seen her to the front door of her house that Judith remembered something Lark had said that didn’t make sense.
“Our icehouse,” Judith told Renie as they drove back down the highway. “We don’t have an icehouse.”
“She meant outhouse,” Renie responded. “She was confused, upset. Or maybe she thought it was an icehouse.”
“Does it smell like an icehouse? We put enough lye in there yesterday to eat up the first six inches of dirt.” Judith noted that the white Mercedes was now parked over at the Woodchuck Auto Court. The Dixons apparently had concluded their visit to Iris. “Lark also mentioned hearing our voices. Now, we may not be a couple of whisperers, but we weren’t exactly shouting, either. Have you ever heard anybody inside the cabin when you were at the outhouse?”
Renie admitted that she had not. “So what are you getting at?”
“Lark went the wrong way somehow,” Judith said as they once again turned into the dirt drive. “She ended up at Nella’s. How she managed to get back over here, I can’t guess. Sheer luck, I suppose. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in a world of shadows, but it must take a while to judge distances on unfamiliar ground.”
“I feel as if we’re groping around in the shadows,” Renie declared, getting out of the car. “And what’s this about Riley drinking only beer? That sounds like a typical alcoholic. Sure, in public he limits himself to a couple of cans, but in private he glugs down a quart a day.”
Judith didn’t comment. Renie was right, yet there was something about Riley’s drinking habits that bothered her. In fact, everything about Riley bothered her. She was hardly surprised to find Iris Takisaki sitting on the porch steps, hugging a hooded cable-knit sweater around her slim body.
“I didn’t think you’d be gone long,” Iris said in a petulant tone. “It’s going on eleven.”
Judith and Renie squeezed onto the steps on either side of Iris. “What’s up?” Judith asked.
Iris stared straight ahead, out beyond the river and into the blackness of the trees that marched up the side of Mount Woodchuck. “Riley’s painting is still missing. Dewitt is threatening to sue me. Now what do I do?”
TEN
JUDITH WAS FRESH out of advice. All she could do was ask for an explanation.
“It’s simple,” Iris replied, now more glum than sulky. “Dewitt came to get the painting yesterday afternoon.” She paused to let the meaning of her words sink in on the cousins. “Riley stalled him, according to Dewitt, saying that Clive had to be on hand to broker the deal. But Clive didn’t show, according to Dewitt, so he told Riley he’d come back later. Which he did. You know that—you were there. But, of course, Riley had given you the painting by then. You didn’t know it was Dewitt’s, and then it was taken from here.” She jerked her head in the direction of the cabin at her back. “I can’t imagine why Riley pulled such a stunt, but he did. The canvas he gave you has to be ‘Spring River.’ Nothing else is missing.”
Not for the first time did Judith try to think of a plausible reason why Riley would give her a painting he’d already sold. Again she failed to come up with a credible answer. “So Dewitt wants to sue for breach of contract?” She asked.
Iris seemed close to tears, though more out of frustration than sorrow. “Something like that. The man’s a snake. Riley didn’t like him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Dewitt married his ex-wife. If I hadn’t known Riley better, I would have thought he was afraid of Dewitt. But I can’t think why.”
The frogs had chanted their last encore; the brief silence was broken only by the sound of the rolling river. “Does Dewitt have that much influence in the art community?” Judith finally inquired of both Iris and Renie.
It was Renie who answered. “No. I can’t think of any one person who has serious clout. We don’t live in that kind of visual arts environment in this part of the country.”
Iris was nodding agreement. “In fact, Erica is probably more influential than Dewitt. But Riley had no qualms about her. As far as I’m concerned,” she went on a bit heatedly, “he was far too kind when it came to Erica. If she hadn’t been such a rotten wife to him, he wouldn’t have turned so sour on marriage.”
“Have you talked to Clive?” asked Renie. “Not only was he here last night, but so was Dewitt.”
“Really?” Iris turned from cousin to cousin. “Maybe Dewitt stole the canvas while Clive was passed out. But what does he do with a stolen ‘Spring River’?” Apparently stymied, she twisted her hands together.
Judith slouched in her place on the steps. She could think of nothing to say to comfort Iris. Frustration hung on the night air, heavy as the mountain dew.
Iris sighed. “I can’t believe that Clive would resort to chicanery. Why should he? If the canvas is sold, he gets his commission. I’ve always trusted Clive. Except…” She ran a hand over her sleek dark hair. “I trusted him because Riley did. But I know he’s been actively, even aggressively, seeking new clients to represent. I hear the rumors in my business. Two weeks ago, I suggested to a local CEO that he hang a Rowena Farnham woodcut in his corner office. Rowena’s fairly new on the art scene, she’s very good, and it turns out that she’s just authorized Clive to arrange a showing for her. I mentioned it to Riley, but he only laughed. He said art agents shouldn’t put all their eggs in one basket. That’s true, but Clive’s flurry of activity bothered me.”
“Why do you think he was looking for so many new clients?” Renie inquired as an owl hooted in a nearby tree.
“I don’t know.” Iris rubbed at her temple. “Maybe he thought Riley wasn’t going to pull out of his slump.”
“The bottom line is that you’re still missing ‘Spring River,’” Judith noted.
With an effort, Iris rose from the steps. “I’m missing more than that,” she replied in a tired voice. The lantern light from the doorway illuminated her face as she gave the cousins a bitter smile. “I’m missing Riley. Very much.”
Joe was in bed when Judith called from the auto court. Feeling a sudden surge of loneliness and a need for assurance that Hillside Manor hadn’t floated down Heraldsgate Hill, she’d decided to phone home. Renie stayed behind, pleading the desire for an elaborate bedtime snack.
“No structural damage,” Joe informed Judith. “The main thing was the rugs, but they’ll dry. Besides, Sweetums looks good in a swimsuit. I cut a hole for his tail.”
Judith smiled into the phone. She was only beginning to get used to having someone other than herself responsible for Hillside Manor. “The insurance will cover it, I gather?”
“Sure, except for a fifty-dollar deductible. Stop fussing. Caught the perp yet?” Joe asked, sounding much too chipper for eleven-fifteen at night.
“Not even close,” Judith admitted. “Joe, did you really think I’d spend all my time up here sleuthing?”
“Why not? You love it. Why worry about an old dump on the river nobody uses anyway? Why bother with property you’re paying taxes and insurance on? What’s the point, just because it’s in th
e middle of some of the most beautiful scenery in North America? Why would you even consider turning it into another B&B when you’ve already proved you could do it successfully once? Gee, Jude-girl, don’t ask me why you shouldn’t be holding amateur detective night in the forest primeval. I’m just a dumb Irish cop.”
Judith gulped. “Damn,” she whispered away from the receiver. So Joe had been stringing her along, waiting for her to come up with the idea on her own. Or did he think she’d already had it before she left home? Had he condoned her taking part in the murder investigation in order to divert her from another B&B venture or to spur her on? Or was he merely putting her on? Still, the idea for converting the cabin was tantalizing; Judith just wished she’d thought of it first. “It’s going to cost a mint,” she said at last. “Ten grand, easy. We’d have to take out a loan. I just paid off the one on Hillside Manor last year.”
“It’s an investment,” Joe said in that casual, mellow voice that never failed to make Judith tingle, even when he was speaking of mundane matters. “I can get it through the credit union. It’ll be cheaper than a bank.”
“Who’d run it?” Judith queried, her mind now racing. “It seems to me I ought to get it off the ground myself. Then there’s the catering sideline. I couldn’t leave town and let that slide. I couldn’t leave you.” Her voice took on a plaintive note.
Judith could hear Joe moving around in the bed. She wished she were next to him, in the circle of his arms. “Worry about that stuff later,” he said. “We’re talking about a year, maybe two, down the road. What about hiring that Swedish carpenter of yours? You know, the one who remodeled the toolshed.”
“Skjoval Tolvang?” Judith envisioned the aged but excellent craftsman. “I don’t know if he’d want to work so far out of town.”
“You’ll find someone who can do a good job.” Joe yawned, a not-quite-natural sound. “Now that you have a plan, you can start with the basics. Zoning, for instance. Wiring, plumbing, all that. Or have you already looked into it?”
“Uh—not yet. We’ve stuck to housekeeping chores so far. But zoning shouldn’t be a problem, with the auto court across the road.” Judith could hardly believe she was serious.
“You’ve thought about the alternative—like time-share,” said Joe on the end of another yawn. “The advantage is obvious. No on-site management, no heavy-duty labor, not to mention having the place freed up when the family wanted to use it. What do the relatives think? I suppose Renie’s got some design ideas for the marketing end.”
“Oh, Renie’s got ideas,” Judith said quickly, wondering how her cousin—and the rest of the family members—would react to such a radical proposal. Getting the aunts, uncles, and cousins to agree on where to dig a new outhouse hole had practically triggered a full-scale war.
“Good work. It sounds as if you two have spent your time wisely.” Joe paused, and Judith wondered if those magic green eyes of his were dancing with mischief—or glittering with purpose. His voice dropped a notch. “Does the mist still rise up in the meadow at dusk? Do the stars seem so close you can almost touch them? Does the river croon you to sleep like a Nat King Cole ballad? Gee, Jude-girl, I haven’t stayed overnight at the cabin since 1966.” A low purr—or was it a growl?—trembled over the phone line to caress Judith’s ear.
Judith wanted to rebuke Joe, but her heart was doing curious things. So were her knees. She held the receiver in one hand and braced herself against the wall of the phone booth with the other. They hadn’t yet been married a year. There really hadn’t been time for Judith and Joe to enjoy the cabin. Maybe Joe would like rusticating by the river, if only he had a chance to try it. Their one nocturnal adventure at the cabin had taken place in the autumn months of their engagement a quarter of a century ago. The couple had felt compelled to make a getaway from a soporific public-library lecture on the ramifications of the then-new Medicare program. At twenty-five, Judith hadn’t much cared, but she and Joe had been forced to give Gertrude a convincing excuse for their late return. Judith had told her mother they’d gotten trapped in the reference section. Gertrude had retorted that they’d probably been stuck under “S”—for Smut. The memory—not of Gertrude’s disapproval, but of crisp autumn leaves, a hint of frost, and the river turned to gold in the mellow sun—prevented Judith from chiding Joe.
“We’ll be home by nine tomorrow night,” she said in a meek voice. “Miss me?”
Her husband chuckled. “I haven’t had time. I got home from that police-guild meeting at nine-thirty, and then it took almost an hour to pry your mother out of the can.”
“Mother got stuck in the bathroom?” Judith’s voice was strident with alarm.
“Not that can,” Joe replied. “She’d opened up some chili and was eating it cold, straight out of the can. She got her fist wedged. Carl Rankers and I finally poured vegetable oil into the can and then we managed to pull her loose. She’s mad as a hornet and swears she can’t shuffle cards because her fingers are swollen.”
“Oh, good grief!” Judith spun around in the phone booth. “She’s okay, though? How long was she stuck? Did she phone you at the house or just screech?”
“She heard me pull the MG into the garage,” Joe explained in his normal, casual tone. “Then she used her free hand to flash the lights on and off in the apartment. I don’t think she’d been waiting too long. It was her mid-evening snack. She’d had pickled pigs’ feet for dinner. Or supper, as your dear mother calls it.”
Assured that Gertrude was all of a piece, Judith finally exchanged good-night kisses with Joe over the phone line. Renie, carrying a flashlight, was waiting on the dirt road.
“Where were you? I was getting worried.”
Judith explained, at least about Gertrude. She’d save the B&B plan for morning. Renie was unmoved by her aunt’s predicament.
“She did it on purpose, of course,” Renie said as they locked up for the night.
Judith looked perplexed. “No—well—maybe. Because I left?”
Renie raised both eyebrows. “Because you left her with Joe.”
“Oh,” said Judith. “Oh.”
“You’re crazy,” Renie said flatly as she dredged the breakfast trout in seasoned flour. “There’s a world of difference between having a B&B in the heart of the city and one sixty miles away, up in the mountains. You’ve got the weather factor, with snow for more than three months of the year, the annual flood threat, and windstorms from October to April. You’d have to add more than two bedrooms, not to mention your basic plumbing and a couple of baths. New kitchen, wiring throughout, parking, and furniture that doesn’t look like it was part of a post-Hiroshima clearance sale. Why, you’d have to tear the whole thing down and start over. Clear more land. Plant a garden. Make real trails, instead of using the old tree blazes my father hacked out. Then you get to the operation itself. Impossible. You’re one person, coz, and you’re not invincible. And what about the rest of us? Where do we come in?”
Judith was getting out eggs and juice. “Well, nobody comes up here much. Not even us. It seems a shame to let the place just sit and molder.”
“Who knows how our offspring—Mike, Anne, Tony, Tom—will feel about it a few years from now? They’re still kids, really. Someday they’ll have families of their own.” Renie turned the trout in the skillet of hot butter. “Not to mention the rest of the next generation. Cousin Sue’s boys have already shown more interest than anybody, but that’s because they’re the oldest of the grandchildren.”
“There’s always the time-share possibility,” Judith said, but her voice was already wavering, along with her will.
“Aaaargh! I can see the nightmare that’d cause.” Renie stepped aside as Judith put the bread in the oven to make toast. “Ten grand? I say thirty, easy. Honestly, coz, I don’t get what you’re thinking of.”
The excitement that Judith had felt earlier had been dampened not only by a night’s sleep, but also by Renie’s negative reaction. Under the stars, in the moonlight, with Joe p
arading plans over the phone, the potential of another B&B had seemed dazzling. By dawn’s not-so-early light, it was more like a bad dream.
“Maybe,” Judith mumbled, shaking salt and pepper onto the fried eggs, “it was a ruse.”
“Maybe,” Renie assented. Once again, she seemed much more alert at 8:30 A.M. than was customary. “He’s devious, I’ll give him that.”
“He needn’t worry,” Judith declared, turning the bread over in the oven. “We’re leaving today. We can hardly get into trouble in the next few hours.”
Even as she spoke, Trouble was approaching in the form of Undersheriff Abbott N. Costello and Deputy Dabney Plummer. Judith and Renie had just sat down to breakfast when the law officers arrived at the door.
“Damn!” muttered Judith, getting up to let them in. “Isn’t it a little early to start work?”
Apparently it was not. Costello and Plummer pulled chairs up to the table. The offer of coffee was accepted. From the looks of longing on both men’s faces, it seemed that the offer of much more would not have been taken amiss. Judith started to weaken and suggest some toast, but a chilling glance from Renie deterred her. Indeed, Renie seemed to be eating very fast.
“We hear there’s a missing painting,” Costello said, his eye on Judith’s plate. “We hear you got a freebie.”
Judith waved her fork. “We don’t have it now. It’s been stolen.”
Costello dumped a large quantity of sugar into his coffee. “You know who took it?”
With her mouth full, Renie shook her head. She seemed to give Judith an extra nod, as if urging her to do or say something. Judith complied as discreetly as possible.
“We know who was here while the canvas was in the cabin,” she said. “But we have no proof, and somebody else might have come along, too. We’re not even sure the painting we had was ‘Spring River.’ Riley didn’t call it anything except a landscape. Have you asked Dewitt Dixon or Clive Silvanus?”