Dune to Death (11 page)

The sheriff's phone rang; he picked it up and asked the caller to hold. The request was obviously a signal for the cousins to be gone. He allowed them a parting shot of information. “Yeah, buried treasure. Every year we go through this with a hoked-up hunt put on by the Chamber of Commerce and some service organizations. And every year some crazy fool gets the idea that he can find a chest full of gold and jewels left over by the Spanish three hundred years ago. It's a bunch of crap, but people are gullible as hell. If it were a crime, I'd haul them in.” He turned away and spoke into the phone. “Yeah—who's picking off seagulls with an AK-47?”

The cousins trudged out of the sheriff's office. “What now? Clooney?” Renie shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun. The forecast for the Oregon coast was a high
of eighty-one. Summer appeared to have blown in on the western winds.

“I guess.” Judith stood by the MG and surveyed the sawmill's dark dome through a stand of Douglas fir. “At least we can ask him about the buried treasure.”

“That sounds like a crock to me,” said Renie, getting into the sports car. “I'm with Eldritch on that one.”

Judith figured her cousin was right, but having called on half of the local law enforcement chiefs, she felt obligated to talk to the other, too. Neil Clooney, however, was out. One of his subordinates told Judith and Renie that his boss wasn't expected back until just before lunch.

Out in the parking lot, Judith scanned Buccaneer Beach's main street. The police department was two blocks from the newspaper office. “We could ask Terrence O'Toole about the treasure hunt except that I don't think I can stand his feverish excitement.”

“We could ask Neil Clooney,” said Renie, pointing across the highway. “Isn't that him going into the coffee shop?”

It was. The cousins waited for a break in the almost endless traffic, then ran for their lives. By the time they reached the restaurant, which was built in the shape of a giant oyster shell, Clooney was already at the counter, teasing the pretty redhead who was serving him coffee and a sweet roll.

Judith and Renie climbed up on the empty stools on each side of the police chief. He evinced surprise, with just a touch of irritation. “I'm taking a break,” he said, pointing to a clock with a picture of Elvis that hung above the confectionery cabinet. Elvis's arms showed that it was not quite eleven.

“So are we,” said Judith. “Say, Chief, tell us about this treasure hunt. Is there really something buried from way back when?”

Clooney stuffed a chunk of sweet roll into his mouth. “Could be.” His words were muffled as he chewed lustily. “There were pirates around here, that's for sure. But nobody's ever found any treasure.” He washed the roll down
with a big swig of coffee. “Lord knows they've dug up most of the beach from one end of town to the other and then some.”

Judith accepted a white mug of coffee and let Renie tear apart an elephant ear for sharing. The cinnamon- and sugar-covered coil was about a foot in diameter. Judith hoped it tasted as good as it looked.

“It's interesting though,” remarked Judith. “Especially your theory. Or did the sheriff get it wrong?” She sampled the elephant ear; it wasn't up to Begelman's Bakery's standards on Heraldsgate Hill, but it was pretty tasty.

“My theory? If you heard it from that moron, Eldritch, it's probably all screwed up.” Clooney finished his sweet roll and waited for the redhead to pour more coffee. He gave her his most seductive smile. She gave him the cream. “I suppose our lamebrained sheriff is trying to steal my ideas. Again. My guess is that some nut was looking for the treasure and Leona got in his way. It's that time of year.” He wiped off his mouth with a rumpled napkin. “There've been a lot of rumors over the years. A couple of them pinpointed the area around Pirate's Lair. The beach, I mean. There were supposed to be secret caves or passages or some damned thing where the pirates hid out. But when the resort was built and later, when the motel went up, nobody found anything. I figure it's all a bunch of hooey. If there's any treasure, it's probably someplace else.” He drank more coffee, then tossed the napkin on the counter.

“But,” persisted Renie, “people still believe in the tales?”

“Sure,” said Clooney, swiveling on the stool and barely managing to steer his bulk between the cousins. “People will believe anything, especially when money's involved. Then they have this Freebooters' Festival and treasure hunt and all the old stories get trotted out again. Midsummer madness, I call it. Happens every year.”

“But murder doesn't,” Judith said quietly.

Clooney's small eyes got smaller. “No. You're right. It looks to me as if somebody got carried away this time.”
He stood up and put a dollar bill on the counter. “Hey, Janice,” he called to the redhead, “that's for you. I'll make it a five if you can bake me a sweet roll like Alice does.”

“Alice bakes as well as sews?” Having latched onto the police chief, Judith was loath to let him go. “She sounds very accomplished.”

Clooney nodded in agreement. “You bet. She can make just about anything out of cheese. But her sweet rolls are tops. Night before last, she put frosting
and
brown sugar on top. Mm—mmm.” He closed his eyes at the delicious memory.

Renie looked up from her coffee. “That was the night of the murder?” She shivered. “Sorry—it just seems so strange. You and Alice were eating fresh-baked goodies while poor Leona was getting strangled. Life's full of ironies, isn't it?”

Clooney was quick to agree. “You bet it is. Hell, we weren't that far away when it happened. I almost wanted to turn in my badge when I got the call after I took Alice home. It made me feel like a sap to have a homicide so close.” He wagged a stubby finger at the cousins. “But don't go telling Josh Eldritch I said so.”

Judith's expression was puzzled. “When you took her home? Where was she doing all this baking?”

Clooney plopped his regulation cap on his head. “At the boathouse.” He winked. “We wanted to get away from Leona and Larissa and Billy Bobb Donn or whoever he is. Those goofy kids of hers kept tramping inside from the RV to use the bathroom. There's no hookup in Alice's yard.”

Judith's puzzlement deepened. “I thought Titus Teacher lived in the boathouse.”

Clooney gave a shrug of his burly shoulders. “That screwball? He comes and goes. I can't think why Alice let him stay there in the first place. If you ask me, he's a common vagrant. And a moocher. I guess she wanted to have somebody around to watch things during the tourist season.” He looked up at the Elvis clock. “Hey—got to run. It's almost time for lunch.” The police chief trotted out of
the coffee shop. Apparently he wasn't required to pay a bill.

Judith gave Renie the rest of her elephant ear. “This case is a bollix,” she declared. “What kind of procedures are these people using? There's no cooperation between the two agencies, and for all we know, they're putting obstacles in each other's way. They don't have any ID for Leona, they don't know who Titus Teacher is, and now Chief Clooney tells us he was a stone's throw away from the murder, stuffing himself with Alice Hoke's brown sugar buns.”

“I'm sure he was,” said Renie with a faint leer. “Why can't you get Joe to ask Woody Price to run these people through the computer at home? We might at least find out if they really exist. I'm beginning to feel as if I'm leading a rich fantasy life.”

“Getting Woody in on this isn't a bad idea,” agreed Judith. “Let's go back to the hospital and talk to Joe. I'm not hungry for lunch after eating that elephant ear.”

For once, Renie didn't protest. The cousins drove up 101, noting that there were more banners, bunting, and reader boards in honor of the upcoming festivities. The brightly colored pennants which hung on every light standard gave the town a cheerful air. Given the death of Leona Ogilvie, Judith felt that a black wreath on City Hall might have been more appropriate.

Joe was surprised to see his wife and cousin-in-law so early in the afternoon. He was watching the noon news and eating some kind of food. It was, Judith noted, impossible to identify the little white and yellow mounds that adorned his tray. Jake Beezle, however, said it was pig slop.

“Back in forty-seven, I worked in a packinghouse in Portland. Those pigs weren't killed; they died from eating this stuff. Do you know I get to go home Saturday?”

Judith congratulated him. Fleetingly, she wondered where home was for Jake Beezle. Visions of a shingle-covered shack somewhere up in the woods crossed her
mind. But no doubt Jake would be glad to be out of the hospital, no matter how lowly his real abode might be.

Eyeing his lunch suspiciously, Joe considered Judith's request. “Woody won't come up with anything unless these people have a record. Do you think Leona is a criminal?”

“I wasn't thinking of your regular data base,” said Judith. “Doesn't Woody have access to Customs and Immigration information? Or even Social Security?”

Joe gave Judith a withering look. “In other words, you want poor Woody to exert every possible effort in tracking down this bunch of loonies?” Joe sighed. He was bored stiff, but that was no reason to tax Woody's patience. On the other hand, he and Judith had been married less than a week. She was probably bored, too. Or would be, if she didn't have a murder case to solve. At least her request kept her at a safe distance from the murderer. “I'll ask,” he finally conceded. “If he's tied up on other stuff, we'll have to skip it.”

Judith sprang out of the chair and bestowed a loud kiss on Joe's cheek. “Great! Renie and I are going to go lurk around the boathouse. We're convinced Titus Teacher knows more than he's telling us.”

“He hasn't told you anything,” said Joe. “Are you sure you want to skip the funeral?”

Judith and Renie hadn't confided in Joe about their plan to search Alice Hoke's house, but they had said they didn't think there was any point in attending Leona's services. Joe's remark gave Judith pause. “You mean we might learn something?”

Joe gave a little shrug. “I always send a man to the funeral of a homicide victim. If nothing else, you can watch how the survivors react.”

Judith gazed at Renie. “Well…”

Renie grabbed Judith's arm. “It's okay, coz,” she whispered. “They'll all have to go out to the cemetery for the interment. That'll still give us time to search Alice's house.”

Joe was giving the cousins an alert, inquiring look.
“What's up? Did you say something about ‘search Alice's house'?”

Caught off-guard, Judith rallied quickly. “Renie said ‘Sir Charles' Souse.' It's an English-style pub down the road with terrific watercress sandwiches.”

“Sounds tasty,” said Joe, the green eyes narrowing. “Make sure you keep a watch out for the footman.”

“Sure, Joe,” said Judith brightly. In her haste to get away, she practically fell over Renie. “Actually, we're going to have the Ploughman's Platter.”

“Actually,” responded Joe with a stern gleam in his green eyes, “you're not. But don't say I didn't warn you.”

Renie was already headed for the elevator. With a feeble wave and a frozen smile, Judith slunk out the door.

I
T WAS ALMOST
one o'clock when the cousins returned to Pirate's Lair to head for the beach. They agreed on a late lunch, and after the English pub prevarication, decided that foreign food sounded like a good idea for dinner. After a brief scan of the telephone directory, they made reservations for eight o'clock at a small French restaurant five miles out of town.

Judith was applying sunscreen when Renie called to her from the living room, “Hey, coz—this stupid chalk still isn't out of the rug. It's harder to remove than the sand. Alice Hoke is the type who'll charge us for damages if we don't clean it right. Have you got any 409 around her?”

Judith emerged from the bedroom. Renie was right—in the bright light of day, a faint outline of chalk still showed on the carpet. “Just scrub it with soap and water,” said Judith. “I didn't see any heavy-duty cleaners in the cupboard.”

Renie complied, using her usual brisk energy to remove the last vestiges of the crime scene markings. The chalk was finally gone, but the rug looked limp. “I got
it too wet,” she lamented. “Maybe I should put something underneath so it doesn't leave a water stain on the hard-wood floor.”

Judith went into the bathroom to fetch some towels. “Stick these under the carpet to protect the wood. Don't worry, it's so warm today that it'll dry out by night.”

Renie pulled up the carpet, only to discover that instead of padding, layers of old newspaper had been used for protection. The single sheets were soggy. She tugged a handful out from under the rug and tossed them on the hearth. “At least they're in English,” she said, pushing a couple of towels under the rug.

Judith gazed down at the yellowing papers. “Old copies of the
Bugler
. From 1983. The high school basketball team came in second in the state tournament.”

Renie stood up, brushing lint off the skirt of her cotton sundress. “Hooray for Buccaneer Beach. Let's go look for Titus Teacher so that we can then go look for lunch.”

But Judith was still bending over, perusing the old newspapers. “Hey, coz—look! It's a story about Race Doyle! ‘Big Cheese Does Big Bunk.'”

Renie leaned over Judith's shoulder. “There's a photo. Is that him?”

According to the cutline, it was. Judging from the sunglasses, open-necked shirt, gold chains, long sideburns, and drooping mustache, the picture probably had been taken circa 1970. Race Doyle looked like a fugitive from a psychedelic freak show.

Judith and Renie flopped down on the sofa. “‘Local law enforcement officials are still on the lookout for Race Doyle, Ogilvie Cheese Factory manager, who left town abruptly after the company's closure last week,'” Judith read aloud. “‘Doyle, who had taken over his post from the factory's founder, the late Angus Ogilvie, is suspected of absconding with as much as three million dollars of the company's holdings. Family members have accused Doyle of making several large checks out to himself in a dummy bank account.'” Judith emitted a hiss that was intended to be a whistle. “‘Rumors of bankruptcy had circled around
Buccaneer Beach for the past two months, but attorneys for the cheese company, including Doyle's brother, Bart, of Doyle and Diggs, insisted that the firm was merely in the process of reorganization. Founded by…'” Judith stopped reading. “This is all background stuff, about Angus and the cheddar and all that.” She swiftly read through the ensuing paragraphs. Only the final sentences recaptured her full attention. “Hey—listen to this—‘Bernard Hoke, local builder and son-in-law of the late Angus Ogilvie, claimed that he and Doyle got into a fistfight in the cheese factory parking lot. Hoke said that after exchanging blows, Doyle started to run off, but he (Hoke) jumped into his car and ran the other man down. Before Hoke could get out and collar Doyle, he (Doyle) disappeared under the parking lot fence.'”

Renie looked bemused. “Except for the pronouns, it's a lot better written than Terrence's stuff. I suppose Doyle never showed up again after that.”

“We could find out by going through other copies of the
Bugler
at the newspaper office,” said Judith. “But what would they tell us? We're not looking for Race Doyle. Or,” she wondered, “are we?”

“Probably not,” admitted Renie, taking the damp old newspaper from Judith and giving it a shake to get a better look at Race Doyle's twenty-year-old photograph. She gave a little start as another piece of paper became disengaged from the back of the
Bugler
and fluttered to the floor. “What's that?” She bent down to pick up a four-inch scrap.

If the
Bugler
looked old, this snippet was ancient. Carefully, Judith fingered the fragment which appeared to be parchment. “It's a map,” she said in an awed voice. “Good heavens, it looks like…” Suddenly silent, she held the bedraggled paper in front of Renie. “Incredible! I swear it's a treasure map!”

Renie fingered the torn edge. “That's absurd! But you're right—look, it says…gee, this is hard to read, the printing is so old-fashioned…but something about so
many paces and…a rock.” She stared at Judith. “Is there a magnifying glass around here?”

Judith didn't know. At least she hadn't seen one. They checked the desk in the corner of the living room and the bureau in the spare bedroom. “We'll have to get one,” said Judith. “We can run up to the mall after we get back from the beach.” She went into the kitchen, got a plastic sand-wich bag from a box under the sink, and slipped the fragment of map inside. “I'll keep it in my purse,” she said. “How do you suppose it got under the rug?”

Renie shook her head. “It's impossible to know, except that it's obviously been there for ten years. Maybe more—the newspapers might have been replaced somewhere along the way. When was this cottage put up?”

Judith furrowed her brow. “Thirty, forty years ago? I can't remember exactly when Jake said Bernie Hoke built it. But the map itself could date from the early seventeenth century. If,” she added, having sudden doubts, “it's authentic.”

“We could get it carbon-dated,” said Renie, excitedly.

Judith arched her eyebrows. “In this town? We'll have to rely on our hunches. Come on, let's go down to the beach and look for Titus.”

Titus, however, was nowhere to be seen. The cousins even risked his wrath by knocking on the boathouse door. They did not, however, have the nerve to venture inside. After almost an hour, they were about to give up when they heard their names called across the sands.

Judith turned, squinting against the sun. Augie and Amy Hoke were heading their way, walking with slow, almost painful steps. As they drew closer, Judith noted that Amy's eyes were wet with tears. Augie helped his wife sit down on the log the cousins had used for their picnic the previous evening.

“What's wrong?” asked Judith, her innate compassion written large on her face.

Amy gave Augie a quick glance of warning. He squeezed her hand. “It's okay, Amy. You have a right to be upset. Especially with a new baby coming.”

Judith glanced down at Amy, who looked rail-thin in her worn denim shorts and faded tank top. It appeared she wasn't far along with the pregnancy. Judith's sympathetic nature motivated her to ask the Hokes if they'd like to come up to the beach cottage for a glass of lemonade.

Amy eyed the long flight of steps with apprehension. “I'll be okay. I'd rather walk up the road past the motel than take all those stairs just now.”

Judith understood. During her clam-digging expedition, she had seen the dirt road that led up from the beach past a big new home with solar heating and a large deck that looked as if it had a hot tub.

“You sure you want to walk that far?” Augie inquired solicitously. “It's almost half a mile.”

“No, it isn't.” Amy's thin shoulders were hunched together as she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “We've already walked a lot farther coming from the other way.” She looked up at Judith and Renie, attempting a pathetic smile. “I'm sorry I'm such a mess. It's been kind of a rough day and I always get weepy the first couple of months that I'm pregnant.”

“It can't be easy coming to Buccaneer Beach and having a family member get killed,” said Judith, joining Amy on the log. “Once the funeral is over tomorrow, you'll have the worst of it behind you.”

Amy started to cry again. Augie clumsily patted her shoulder and made soothing noises. “Come on, Amy, we never really counted on anything. Besides,” he said bending down closer to her ear, “if Aunt Leona were still alive, we'd be right back where we started from.”

“But we are anyway!” wailed Amy, grasping at her husband's arm. “Don't you see, the only good part of her dying like that would have been if she'd really left us the…” Amy caught herself, and turned to Judith. “Oh, dear, I sound so awful! It's just that it's so hard being broke all the time. Kids are the most wonderful thing in the world, but they do cost money.”

“They sure do,” agreed Renie. “I'm still trying to figure out how you can put so much money into college tuition
to educate them and make them independent so they can become mature adults with dependent laundry. Then they bitch about Mom shrinking their clothes and turning them gray. So they buy new ones—with Mom and Dad's money, because it was Mom's fault in the first place and Mom feels guilty. They tell her she's given a whole new meaning to the term ‘small clothes.' And what she tells them isn't…”

Recognizing one of Renie's favorite tangents, Judith broke in, “I think Amy means when they're still little children, coz. Basics, like food and shelter, right?”

Amy nodded vigorously. “I didn't even think we could afford to drive over to Buccaneer Beach, especially since Augie's mother is so selfish about not letting us stay with her. After all, this is the first time we've made the trip since Augie's dad died. It's not as if we keep popping in and out, dragging the kids along, too. His momma just doesn't like people, not even her own family.” Catching her husband's pained expression, Amy dabbed at her tears and waved a finger at him. “You know I'm right, Augie. Your mother is a good woman in her way, but she's heedless of others. I didn't know Aunt Leona really, but she seemed much more gracious. That's why Brent Doyle's news came as such a shock.”

Augie Hoke gave Judith and Renie an apologetic look. “We don't mean to bother you with our troubles. Heck, our family has already given you a bad time. Not,” he added quickly, “that Aunt Leona could help getting killed, I guess.”

Judith, whose sympathy for Amy had motivated a half-hearted effort not to pry, cast discretion aside. “Lawyers usually try to be the soul of tact. What did Brent Doyle say to upset you so badly?”

The Hokes exchanged faintly furtive looks. Then Amy gave a toss of her long black hair. “It won't be a secret long in this town. It's a good thing people in Pocatello don't gossip so,” she declared, as if challenging Augie to disagree with her. “Mr. Doyle read Aunt Leona's will this afternoon. We always understood she'd leave what she had
to us and that silly Larissa.” Amy waved her finger again. “Now don't go defending your sister, Augie, you know she doesn't have the brains of a bug.”

“She
is
kind of flighty,” Augie murmured.

Judith waited to speak until a trio pedaling beach cycles whipped past, using their legs instead of the nonexistent wind. “I didn't realize your aunt had much of her own. Being a missionary, that is.”

Augie finally sat down on the other side of Amy. Renie, who was tired of standing in the hot sun, plopped down on the sand in front of the others. Augie leaned around his wife to address Judith. “My granddaddy was an atheist. He didn't approve of Aunt Leona's religion or her missionary work, so he cut her out of his will. Except for the beach cottage. I guess he didn't want her to be dependent on Alice for money.”

“So actually Leona
was
our landlady,” said Judith.

Amy answered this time. “It was arranged that as long as Aunt Leona was out of the country saving souls, Augie's mother would have charge of Pirate's Lair and any profits made through rentals. But Alice couldn't sell the cottage unless Leona died without a will. Alice got the cheese factory, of course, but except for the land, it turned out to be worthless because of that manager who ran off with all the money.”

“What happened to the land and the factory?” asked Renie, as a lazy kite drifted high above her head and fell to earth nearby.

“Momma sold that off a few years ago. That's where they built the outlet mall,” said Augie.

“Hmmm,” mused Judith. “She must have gotten a good price for it. That's prime property, right on 101.”

“She did. Even in Buccaneer Beach, real estate prices weren't that cheap four years ago.” Augie's tone was bitter. “That's why I thought she wouldn't begrudge us a few hundred dollars. But she does.” He picked up a small piece of driftwood and gave it an angry toss.

“All along,” Amy explained, pushing the long dark hair off her pale face, “we were told that Aunt Leona would
leave the beach cottage to us and to Larissa and Donn Bobb. Of course we didn't expect her to die so young, but we thought she'd come home some day and sell it, since most of that stretch of waterfront is commercial now. Then maybe we'd get sort of…an advance, to help us out while the kids were little and we needed it most.” Amy's downcast expression indicated that things hadn't worked out that way.

“So she never made out a will in your favor?” asked Judith.

Amy nodded slowly. “Yes, she did. Years ago, while she was still in Brazil. But after she came back to Buccaneer Beach, she had Brent Doyle write a new version.” Her face crumpled as she looked at Augie and held his hand. “She left everything to some man we've never heard of! Imagine! It's a farce!”