Dune to Death (14 page)

Renie munched on crisp lettuce. “Alice is not normal. I don't need Bill to tell me that much.”

“Right.” Judith paused as the waiter returned to pour their house white wine, bottled by an Oregon vintner. “And I don't need anybody to tell me that if Augie and Larissa both insisted on showing up to see their mother for whatever reasons, Alice couldn't stop them from coming. But she
could
refuse to see them. And she didn't. Meanwhile, she's suddenly out running around with Neil Clooney. It's not…
logical
.”

“So,” Renie speculated, “you figure something must have triggered all this social activity on Alice's part. The obvious something being the Return of Leona Ogilvie, who promptly gets herself killed. Which is
not
logical, be
cause the sister with the money is Alice. Unless…” Renie leaned across the table, unwittingly garnishing her blouse with the remains of her salad. “Could it be? Was it really Alice who got killed?”

Judith rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Augie and Larissa would know which one is their mother, even if they hadn't seen her since their father died. Surely Neil Clooney could tell the difference. I remember that he gave quite a start when he saw the body, but that was probably because the resemblance is so strong. Even if they were all in on some sort of conspiracy, there would be other ways to prove the dead woman was Leona, not Alice. And why play out such a farce? It would work better the other way 'round.”

The waiter was removing their salad plates. “I wonder,” mused Renie, “who Alice's will is made out to. Do you think Brent Doyle would tell us?”

Judith was staring off in the direction of the rustic mural. “No,” she replied after a long pause. “Weird.”

“What?”

Judith shook herself. “Nothing. I just had the craziest idea. Lunacy must be contagious in this town.”

“What kind of idea?”

But Judith declined to elaborate. “It's too bizarre. Let me mull awhile. Or at least try to make some sense out of it.”

Renie was about to pester Judith, but the arrival of their entrees bought her silence. For the next half-hour, with breast of duck
au poivre
in front of them and a bottle of white wine beside them, the cousins agreed to put murder behind them.

 

The duck blew up at 3:00
A
.
M
. Unaccustomed to such rich living for more than two or three days at a time, Judith's usually stable stomach rebelled. Luckily, she had stashed some antacid tablets in her suitcase, but by the time her digestive tract had settled down, it was almost 4:00
A
.
M
. and she was wide-awake. She sat in a chair by the picture window, watching the first dim streaks of light over the ocean.

It was about five minutes later that she heard a vehicle in the cul-de-sac. Judith thought nothing of it at first, since travelers had a right to arrive or depart at any hour of the night. For all she knew, one of their neighbors in the nearby houses worked an odd shift. But moments later, a soft thud sounded from the vicinity of the carport. Judith tiptoed out through the kitchen. She considered turning on a light, but thought better of it. Peering through the window in the back door, she saw a figure move, but couldn't make out more than a vague outline. Quickly, she moved from the kitchen, to see if Renie might have awakened. Her cousin, however, was sleeping like a log. Judith returned to the back door, deciding that she had nothing to lose by flipping on both the kitchen and carport lights. As she did so, she heard an engine start up. Unlocking the back door, Judith nipped out into the carport.

In the murky predawn light, she could just barely identify the vehicle turning out of the cul-de-sac. It was the black van. Judith gazed around the carport. Everything looked all right. She blinked. Two of the cartons were back.

“Q
UILTS
,”
SAID
R
ENIE
. “Nice.”

“Crazy quilts, as far as I'm concerned.” Judith used a hammer to pound the nails back into the packing crate. “Sheets and pillows in the other box. Why bring them back at four in the morning?”

“Why do anything at four in the morning?” Even at almost nine, Renie wasn't fully awake. “You sure it was that black van?”

“Pretty sure,” said Judith, heading back into the kitchen. The cousins had decided to attend the funeral after all, and were going to eat a light breakfast before the ten o'clock service. “I wish I'd gotten the license number. Woody could find out through the Oregon State Patrol who that van is registered to.”

A knock at the door interrupted their coffee, toast, and juice. To Judith's dismay, Terrence O'Toole stood in the doorway. “Hi, I brought you some extra
Buglers
. For your family and friends.”

“Thanks, Terrence.” Judith forced a bright smile. “We appreciate it.” She gave him a nod, presumably of dismissal.

Terrence didn't budge. “I brought you a map, too. We printed them this year. Are you going to take part in the big hunt?”

Judith held out her hand. “I doubt it, but thanks anyway. When does it start?”

Terrence handed over the map, printed on what looked like a place mat. Sure enough, Judith noted that along with the weekly newspaper and the Chamber of Commerce, various local restaurants and other businesses were co-sponsoring the Buccaneer Beach treasure hunt. “Tomorrow,” replied Terrence, waving at Renie who duly waved back from her vantage point at the kitchen table. “They tell me it's limited to public places, mainly the beach. On the back of the map, they show you where they've hidden the treasure over the years so there won't be any duplication, like looking in the wrong places and unnecessarily disturbing property. You might want to keep an eye out; some of the people may try to use your staircase to get down the bank. Any resemblance to real pirates is intentional.”

Judith sorted out this information and took a deep breath. “Okay. We'll watch for trespassers. And pirates.” Her smile was strained. “Thanks again, Terrence.”

This time he took the hint, and after stumbling over his own feet twice, departed from Pirate's Lair. Judith closed the door, returned to the table, and set the place mat down. “Just what we need—more people tramping around at all hours. It's a good thing Joe and I didn't need serious privacy after all.”

Renie had polished off her third piece of toast and was beginning to acquire her normal alert air. She had put on her perennially smudged red-rimmed glasses and was studying the place mat. “Hey, coz, this looks like fun. See, it's not so much a map, but a puzzle. ‘A&C don't stand for me; take a bike or a hike and go due west. Look for the sign that was formerly wine; go down, me hearties, and find the chest.' What do you think?”

“I think it's bilge,” replied Judith, cleaning up their breakfast clutter. “We've got a real treasure map to deci
pher. If we can ever read the blasted thing. Come on, coz, let's get dressed. It's almost nine-thirty.”

The Buccaneer Beach All Souls Are Us First Covenant Church was a peculiar blend of architecture, featuring a crenellated stone roof, yellow siding, and square windows hung with stained glass plaques. The truncated steeple looked more like a wooden chimney. Inside, rose-colored, flocked wallpaper clashed with lighting fixtures made out of wagon wheels. A larger-than-life-sized portrait of Jesus hung in the sanctuary, showing a blond, athletic, smiling Savior, beckoning lost souls to come forward and find salvation. Or play a little one-on-one. Judith couldn't be sure. Accustomed to the subdued, traditional decor of Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church on Heraldsgate Hill, the cousins shuddered.

The pews were filling up rapidly. Black did not predominate, as it would have in an earlier era of strict etiquette. Indeed, many of the mourners had arrived in shorts and cutoffs. Judith and Renie had done their best, given the circumstances. Judith had brought along a black and white polka-dot summer dinner dress. Renie settled for beige silk with a black patent leather belt.

The cousins squeezed in near the rear, realizing after they'd sat down that Sheriff Josh Eldritch was just across the aisle and Brent Doyle was two rows up. As the organ, which had a surprisingly mellifluous sound, intoned the opening hymn, a grim-faced Alice Hoke took her place in front of the church with Larissa and Amy. Alice, dressed in a plain brown linen dress, frowned at her daughter's tear-stained face. Amy's attempt to pat her mother-in-law's shoulder was rebuffed. When Chief Clooney bustled up the aisle to wedge his bulk into the row behind the family pew, Alice barely acknowledged him. Clearly, thought Judith, Alice Hoke preferred to experience her grief privately, perhaps even exclusively.

The babble of conversation faded away as the organ intoned its first doleful notes. Augie and Donn Bobb accompanied the flower-strewn casket, serving as pallbearers along with four men Judith didn't recognize. Alice Hoke
kept her eyes to the front, never so much as darting a glance at the approaching remains of her sister.

The funeral was a simple, if lengthy, affair, mainly due to the Reverend Roscoe Bumber's interminable eulogy, a classic case of a man who knew not of whom he spoke. In his defense, however, the family apparently had provided him with a sketch of Leona Ogilvie's missionary career and her zeal in seeking converts for Christianity.

“There, in the heat of the jungle, amid danger, strife, and disease, Leona May Ogilvie brought the Lord to those poor pagan savages who worshipped false gods,” Reverend Bumber declared in sonorous tones and with many flourishes. “Paying no heed to pestilence, flying in the face of wild beasts, defying the ignorance and poverty she found in every bend of the Amazon, Leona May Ogilvie sought to convert these simple, innocent natives with their sordid sexual pleasures and immodest attire with naked loins and bare breasts and…”

“Jeez,” muttered Renie.

“Help!” breathed Judith.

The Reverend raged on. Fortunately, there were no Wailers. At intervals, a hymn was sung. Judith's favorite was Donn Bobb's rendition of “Throw Out the Anchor, Someone's Floating Away.” The cousins didn't dare look at each other. Judith found her eyes roaming over the congregation. Alice Hoke remained rigid; Larissa wept copiously; Amy looked as if she might throw up. Judith didn't much blame her, since Reverend Bumber was now thundering away about the most depraved of pagan sexual practices, which seemed to have something to do with making love with the lights on. Or at least during the day-time. Judith's gaze wandered to the other side of the church. She poked Renie; Titus Teacher was sitting in the back row.

Next to him was the curly-haired young man from the Best Ever Over the Waves Motor Inn.

 

It was almost eleven-thirty before the funeral ended. Judith and Renie beat a hasty retreat to the MG, which they
had had the foresight to park half a block away from the church on Ocean Avenue. They hadn't wanted to take any chance of getting blocked in the parking lot.

“The address is 1708 Orca Drive,” said Renie, reading from the note she'd made before leaving Pirate's Lair. “According to the map, we go up Tenth Street to Myrtlewood Avenue, turn right, then Seventeenth to Orca. Tenth isn't cut through because of the power plant.”

It sounded simple enough to Judith, and it was. Five minutes later, they were at the Ogilvie-Hoke family home, a white two-story late Victorian house complete with a wide veranda and a turret. The Limas' battered RV was conspicuously parked just off the sloping driveway.

“It's a well-kept house,” Judith remarked, parking the sports car at the edge of the road. She noted, however, that the barn near the trees lining the property was somewhat run-down, as were a couple of other outbuildings at the edge of an untilled field. “It's been a while since they took their farming seriously, though.”

Renie concurred. The cousins walked up the drive to the front door. Alice Hoke lived on the edge of town, mostly surrounded by forest. The slanted roof of a much newer house could be seen in the distance, but there was no other sign of nearby habitation. Except for the occasional passing car, Judith and Renie felt safe from prying eyes.

“This property must be worth quite a bit, too,” remarked Judith, working the lock with a tiny screwdriver. “What do you figure, at least a couple of acres?”

“I'm no judge,” said Renie. She watched admiringly as the door swung open. “Way to go, you common crook. You never lose your touch.”

It was true. Judith's lockpicking skills, honed as a child when her boundless curiosity got the better of her, rarely failed. The cousins entered a long hall, with a staircase at one side, an old-fashioned parlor on the other. Judith led the way, and somewhat to Renie's surprise, headed up to the second floor.

“What,” demanded Renie, speaking in an unnecessary whisper, “are we looking for?”

“I've no idea,” Judith replied candidly, “except that whatever it is won't be downstairs. Let's try picture albums, for one thing. And a passport, for Leona Ogilvie, the woman without ID. I'd like to know why.”

Picture albums weren't easy to find. The first bedroom was clearly the master suite, with a big canopied bed covered by a lace counterpane. The only photo the cousins found was of an elderly couple attired in their best finery, standing by a Christmas tree. It reposed in a plain silver frame on the dressing table. Judith guessed it was Mr. and Mrs. Angus Ogilvie, Alice and Leona's parents.

“No other pictures,” noted Judith. “No children, no grandchildren, no Bernie Hoke. Interesting.”

“No Alice, if it comes to that,” Renie pointed out.

“Right,” agreed Judith. “She's not the sentimental sort. Still, you'd think she'd have at least one picture of her late husband.”

“Maybe they didn't get along,” suggested Renie. “Alice must have been a pain to live with.”

“I'm sure she was. Twenty years of Alice could have helped make Bernard Hoke sail off into the sunset.” Judith gave Renie a wry look. “There were days with Dan when I felt like walking in front of a Metro bus.”

The cousins progressed to the next bedroom, a much smaller, considerably more cluttered, affair. A pile of magazines stood next to the bed. Religious tracts were scattered around the room. A dozen photos were stuck to the wall with transparent tape. All of them showed a much younger Leona Ogilvie with smiling native Brazilians in various states of undress. The blue corduroy jumper Judith had first seen Leona wearing was thrown carelessly over a chair.

Renie studied the pictures, most of which were curling around the edges. At a touch, one of them fell off the wall. “Whoops,” exclaimed Renie, retrieving the photo. “I should put this back up.”

“It won't matter to Leona,” said Judith, rummaging through the bureau drawers. She turned suddenly, staring
at Renie who had placed the fallen photo on the dressing table. “Hey—let's see that!”

Judith examined the photo, which showed the youthful Leona in a bush jacket and split skirt, standing next to three young Brazilians in front of a native hut. “This picture—all these pictures—have been on the wall a long time. Look.” She pointed to the square of paint where the displaced photo had hung. It was much lighter than the rest of the wall. “Would Alice have put them up?”

Renie considered. “Doubtful.”

“Right,” said Judith, getting down on her hands and knees and reaching under the bed. She found a pair of fuzzy slippers, a heating pad—and Leona's eelskin purse. “My wacky idea is getting less wacky by the minute.” Squatting on the floor, Judith methodically went through the purse: a crumpled handkerchief, a comb, a nail file, a roll of breath mints, a safety pin, a ballpoint pen, a coin purse with $18.37. There was also a plastic folder containing various cards. Eagerly, Judith drew out each one and studied it with care. She noted Leona's ID, with the Orca Drive address, her Social Security number, a membership in a missionary society, and a temporary Oregon State driver's license. The next day, July 1, would have been her fifty-first birthday. Judith felt like a ghoul.

“Damn,” she sighed, scrambling to her feet, “murder is an awful business.” She glanced down at the provisional license. “It's dated about three weeks ago. Maybe I'm crazy after all.”

“Well,
I'll
never know,” sniffed Renie. “Have fun arguing with yourself, and, as my mother would say, ‘Don't worry about me.'”

Judith shot Renie a baleful look. “I'm not being coy, I just feel silly with a theory that…” She gave another start, then clutched at Renie's arm. “There's no passport! No credit cards, no bank cards, not even a library card!” Letting go of Renie, she rifled through the magazines. “Look! Some of these are over a year old!”

“So am I,” said Renie dryly. “So stop treating me like a nitwit baby.”

Judith went to the window to make sure no one was approaching the house. The coast was clear. She sat down on the bed, clearing away a pile of stockings and some underwear to make room for Renie. “I don't think Leona Ogilvie got back in town only a month ago,” declared Judith. “I'll bet she's been here all along, living like a recluse in this house.”

Renie was understandably incredulous. “But why? What about Alice? Is being a hermit a family trait?”

Judith glanced at her watch. It was high noon, and, she decided, high time to escape before any family members returned to the house. “I haven't worked all this out yet. That's one reason I didn't want to say it out loud. I'm not even sure if it ties into the murder. But,” she continued, getting up and heading out of the bedroom, “I'm pretty sure Alice was never a recluse. It was Leona, posing as Alice. I'll bet you fifty bucks Alice Hoke just got back from Liechtenstein a month ago. The next question is why she came home to Buccaneer Beach.”