Dune to Death (18 page)

“You got it.” Renie, who was also sitting up now, brushed sand from her rumpled clothes. “You figure Race Doyle ditched this before he took off?”

“Somebody did,” said Judith, noticing a long scratch on her right arm. “It's probably been here for seven years, while Alice and Race bided their time in Liechtenstein. But remember, I'm only guessing.”

Renie's brown eyes grew enormous. “Alice and Race! So that's why she had to disappear!” Clapping a hand to her damp forehead, Renie laughed. “Of course! Titus Teacher was Race Doyle!”

“Maybe,” replied Judith, finding that it wasn't easy to get to her feet. “One thing that's bothered me is how Alice sold that cheese factory five years ago while she was in Liechtenstein. Leona couldn't have done that for her. But do you remember what Alice said to Brent Doyle's receptionist the other day?” Renie didn't, at least not the specifics. Judith refreshed her cousin's memory: “Alice mentioned that Brent was drawing up a new power of attorney.” She waited for Renie's comprehension. Renie not only continued to look blank, but hot and tired as well. Judith took pity on her suffering cousin. “A
new
power of
attorney, which means there was an old one. Brent Doyle has only been practicing law for a few weeks. So his father, Bartlett Doyle, must have put together the original. I'll bet anything he used it, under Alice's directive, to sell that property to the outlet mall developers. Of course it expired when Bartlett Doyle died.”

“I'm about to do both those things,” said Renie, struggling to her knees. “Die. Expire. Etc.” She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up at Judith. “Are you saying that Bart Doyle knew where Alice really was all along?”

“Not necessarily,” replied Judith. “Alice could have sent instructions through Leona. Leona was gullible, remember. A perfect dupe. The important thing is that the sale would have provided money for Alice and Titus—or Race—or whoever—to live on in Liechtenstein. Tax-free, too, I'll bet.”

Renie gave a feeble nod. “In five years they may have used it up.”

“Could be,” agreed Judith. “But the original three million that never left Oregon gives us a motive.” Her tone, however, carried no note of triumph.

Renie grabbed the shovel by the handle, stuck it in the ground, and held on to heave herself upright. “Well? That's half the battle, right?”

“Right.” Judith squinted into the sun, surveying the back side of the long staircase. “But three million bucks is also too much motive. In a way, it lets out Darren Fleetwood. Leona had been disinherited by her father. But Alice has a legal claim to this money. Her kids would get it if anything happened to her.”

“But it happened to Leona. And maybe to Race Doyle,” noted Renie.

“I know,” said Judith, starting toward the boathouse. “That's what bothers me. That, and the fact that even though we now have a motive, everybody except Darren Fleetwood has an alibi. At least for Leona's murder.”

Renie fell into step with Judith. “For Titus—I mean, Race's death, too. The whole family was up at the Ogilvie-
Hoke house, remember? Darren left town. Alice was with us.”

“That's right,” said Judith. “That bothers me more than anything.”

 

Half an hour later, the cousins had carted the strongbox up to Pirate's Lair. It was more cumbersome than heavy. They had been careful to avoid being seen by the deputy and the policeman who continued to alleviate their boredom with verbal sniping at one another.

“Great,” said Renie, coming out of the bedroom in a change of clothes, “here we are with a killer loose and three million dollars in a tin box. What do we do next, get a bunch of drugs and try to peddle them at a stand out in the cul-de-sac?”

“It is a ticklish situation,” Judith admitted. She was sitting in her new bathrobe, having just taken a quick shower. “Just in case the law enforcement guys saw us, let's not open the box yet. I don't want them confiscating it.”

“It's too hot to wrestle with the blasted thing anyway,” declared Renie, flopping on the sofa. “Besides, the sight of other people's CDs or whatever is in there doesn't thrill me. Not even three million bucks' worth.” She shot Judith a querying glance. “You
are
sure that's what's there, aren't you?”

Judith felt the sand in the carpet under her bare feet. “What else? CDs, passbooks, stock certificates—whatever, totaling the stolen amount in some form or other. Why else bury the damned thing?” She glanced at the strongbox as if it offended her. Battered but sturdy, the steel case now reposed on the hearth, just inches away from where Leona Ogilvie had died. Judith considered hiding it, but there was no real place of concealment in the beach cottage. She decided they might as well let it sit in plain sight for the time being.

“I wonder,” she mused, “if the police—or the sheriff—are making any effort to determine Titus Teacher's real identity.”

“Probably not,” said Renie. “They'll write him off as a drifter. Especially if Alice can convince Clooney that he really was some itinerant soul she hired to watch over the beach property.”

Judith nodded absently, then gave a start. “But will she? If Alice and Titus—Race, that is—were in on this from the start, why wouldn't she be glad he was dead? The money's all hers now. Look,” Judith went on excitedly, making circles with her finger on the coffee table, “if Alice and Race went off together and left Leona as her stand-in, there's nobody to tie Alice in with Race. Everybody thinks she's been in Buccaneer Beach all along. Then Race comes back and gets himself killed, along with Leona. Alice is home free. All she has to do is come up with the money, which is rightfully hers, and she's sitting even prettier than she was in the first place.”

“Why wait seven years?” asked Renie.

Judith shrugged. “Statute of limitations, maybe. I don't know how long it is on embezzlement or whatever Race could have been charged with, but the time's probably up by now.” She gave another little jump as a knock sounded at the back door. Renie went to answer it, while Judith eyed the strongbox anxiously.

It was Amy and Augie, looking tired and somewhat bedraggled. “We just wanted to ask permission to use your stairs down to the beach,” said Augie. “We've been hunting for the treasure prize up by the marina with no luck, so we drove down here. We'll go back on that road over by the point.”

“I can walk down okay,” put in Amy, collapsing gratefully on the sofa next to Judith, “but going back up is too much. I still feel a little woozy. This has been a terrible trip.”

Judith assured them it was fine to use the stairs. She saw Augie glance at the strongbox, but he showed no special interest. “You heard about Mr. Teacher, I take it?” Judith remarked.

“Oh, yes!” Amy pushed the long dark hair out of her eyes. “Isn't that awful? Augie's mother says it's a good
thing this place doesn't belong in the family any more. It's hexed.”

“Just think,” said Augie, sitting down on the strongbox and making Judith wince, “if he hadn't been so muddled, he'd have remembered to pick up Momma and then he might not have gotten killed. I'll bet it happened just about the time I drove down here to get her.”

Something flickered in Judith's eyes but the others apparently didn't notice. “That may be so,” she allowed. “What did you think of Mr. Teacher?”

Augie shook his head. “I can't say. We never met him.”

“We saw him at the funeral,” Amy put in, “but we didn't talk to him. Larissa was going to; she had some silly idea he might have been Aunt Leona's boy friend. But Mr. Teacher left right after the service.”

Judith waited while Renie poured iced tea for the Hokes. Handing it out to guests was one way to get rid of it, the cousins had decided. “Did he look at all familiar to you?”

With his glass halfway to his mouth, Augie gave a little start. “Familiar? It's funny you should say that, ma'am. Yes, he did. Larissa thought so, too. I think that's really why she wanted to talk to him.”

“Did your mother agree?” inquired Judith.

Augie looked questioningly at his wife, but she had no answer. “I don't know. Momma never said anything about it. She hired him, I guess,” Augie went on slowly. “Maybe she knew him from around here.”

Time was running out; a killer was on the loose. Judith cast caution to the winds. “Did you know Race Doyle well?”

Augie screwed up his face in the effort of recollection. “I never saw much of him, actually. He didn't come to the house.”

“Kind of…uh, flashy? Mod, I mean, for his day.” Judith based her query on the 1970s-style photo in the newspaper.

Augie considered. “Sort of. More what I'd call a city type. Race tried to be hip, but it didn't come off. He
wasn't all that good-looking to begin with—about my height, light brown hair, moustache, dressed like California, if you know what I mean. He always wore big sunglasses. I guess he thought it made him look cool.”

The description tallied with the newspaper picture. The verbal sketch could also fit the bearded, drably-garbed Titus Teacher. Seven years and a change of style could do a great deal to alter a man's appearance. Judith felt satisfied with her theory.

Amy asked to use the bathroom; Augie accepted another half-glass of iced tea. Both of the Hokes thanked Judith and Renie for coming to Leona's funeral. Then they were gone, a rejuvenated Amy telling an attentive Augie how she thought she had finally figured out some of the treasure hunt clues.

“Little do they know,” said Renie, gazing at the strongbox.

“It would be nice if Augie and Amy could get their hands on some of that money.” Judith also stared at the strongbox. “Maybe we should open it now.”

“I'd rather wait until after dark,” said Renie. “Too many people keep popping in and out of this place.”

Judith had to agree, but decided they should at least make some attempt to disguise the strongbox. “Let's put something over it, make it look like an end table.”

By the time Renie had emerged from the back bedroom where she'd found a card table-sized luncheon cloth, Judith was going through the phone book, searching for Brent Doyle's home address.

“It won't be in there,” said Renie, placing the embroidered cloth over the strongbox and standing back to admire her work. “He just moved back to town a month or so ago.”

“If he's got a mother, she'd know where he is,” said Judith. “Here, Bartlett L. Doyle, on Pacific Heights.” She stood up. “I'll get dressed and then we'll call on the Widow Doyle. If anybody had recognized Race at the funeral, it would have been Brent Doyle. After all, Brent was Race's nephew.”

Pacific Heights was a development of expensive homes built on a hillside above the highway, overlooking the ocean and the lighthouse. Located just south of town, the two dozen homes had been constructed in many different styles of architecture, but all of them took advantage of the view with facades made up almost entirely of glass. The late Bartlett Doyle's home was the most traditional of the lot, a contemporary Cape Cod with a huge stone chimney.

Bart Doyle's widow was a handsome blond woman in her fifties with a sculpted, unlined face. Her son was living at home temporarily, but had gone out with friends on a forty-foot cruiser. He wasn't due to return until after dark. No, he preferred not to conduct business on a weekend. Certainly he never saw clients at home.

“We just wanted to thank him for getting Mrs. Hoke to give us our receipt,” Judith explained in her most congenial voice. She wished Mrs. Doyle would stop barring the door and let them in out of the hot sun. “You see, we rented the beach cottage from…”

“Yes,” Mrs. Doyle broke in smoothly. “Brent told me all about it. I'm glad he was of service.” She started to close the door.

“Aren't you spooked a little by that lighthouse?” Judith asked, waving an arm out toward the point.

“I beg your pardon?” Fine lines showed on Mrs. Doyle's otherwise smooth brow.

“Isn't that where Bernie Hoke's boat was washed up after he committed suicide? I thought he'd been a client of your husband's.”

Mrs. Doyle's face showed faint distaste, though whether it was for Bernard Hoke or the cousins, Judith couldn't be sure.

“I believe he was a client,” she replied coolly. “I never got involved in my husband's business matters. It doesn't pay to do so in a small town. Naturally, we didn't mingle with the Hokes.” Her tone implied that the family suffered from some grave social disease, like burping in public.

“You didn't attend Leona's funeral, I take it?” Judith
couldn't recall seeing Mrs. Doyle in attendance, but the fact was that she could have been lost in the crowded church.

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Doyle, sounding faintly offended. “I never met the woman. I'm from
Portland
.”

“Oh,” said Renie faintly. “That explains it.” Seeing Mrs. Doyle's shrewd gray eyes narrow, she smiled brightly at their reluctant hostess. “We have a cousin in Portland. Oswald. He's one of the city's most respected intellectuals. He even has a library card.”

Obviously unsure of what to make out of Renie, Mrs. Doyle grew snappish. “See here, I don't know why you two have come around to bother my son—and me—but I can assure you, I know nothing of this Hoke ménage. They're a strange lot, if you ask me—which I'm sure you intend to do if I let you. As for Bernard Hoke, he built these houses and did such a good job that he claimed to have lost money on them. He even did a lot of the work himself. It was a shame when he died, because this area lost an excellent builder. Still, it may be just as well—toward the end, he was a wreck, mentally and physically. Or so I heard.” She forced a frozen smile. “I hear the phone ringing. I must go.” Mrs. Doyle closed the door.