Dune to Death (6 page)

Judith shrugged. “Who knows? I'll be darned if I'm going to open all the rest of those cartons, though. If there's something mysterious about them, we'll leave it up to the police. And the sheriff.”

 

Ten minutes later, the cousins were at the hospital, listening to Joe's litany of complaints about the staff, the food, and his discomfort. Judith tried to cheer her husband as best she could; Renie's eyes glazed over.

“…to make oatmeal taste like toenail clippings and dilute the orange juice so that you might as well be drinking…”

“…a corpse.” Judith had been trying to interrupt Joe for some time. Finally, her words registered. Joe's green eyes stared at her and his mouth clamped down.

“In the cottage? What the hell are you talking about?” He struggled with pulleys, ropes, and cast, trying to sit up
further in the bed. “Is that what…One of those dimwitted nurse tubs said something about a murder, but I didn't think it was here, in Buccaneer Beach. What the hell is happening, Jude-girl?”

Judith explained, watching Joe's self-pity turn into astute professionalism. He picked up the unlighted cigar from the nightstand and stuck it between his teeth. Renie glanced over at the other bed and noticed that Jake Beezle was gone. Joe caught her curious gaze and mouthed the word, “Therapy.” Judith concluded her narrative.

“Well, well,” remarked Joe, chewing on the cigar and linking his hands behind his head. “So you've got another murder on your hands, Jude-girl. It's out of my jurisdiction; it's off your turf. How much good will it do to tell you to keep out of it?”

Judith turned wide black eyes on her husband. “None. I've got the outline of a corpse on our rented living room rug. Can you really think I'd ignore all this and look the other way?”

Although he wished otherwise, Joe couldn't. Experience told him that the victim must have known her killer. Yet somewhere deep down in the layman's part of his mind, he was hoping for the nameless vagrant who was moving on down the road by now. At least that way Judith would not be in any danger.

Joe gnawed on the cigar and frowned. “You and Renie form a human chain, okay? I don't want either of you taking chances.” He saw Judith nod and Renie salute. “Do you know that a lot of us cops figure that if you don't find the killer in the first forty-eight hours, you might as well give up?”

“It's only been twelve,” Judith replied dryly. “Where do you suggest we start?”

“Her nearest and dearest,” said Joe, relenting a bit. His bride and her cousin were at a distinct disadvantage trying to solve a crime in Buccaneer Beach. On previous occasions, Judith had known the people involved, even when she was out of town. But here on the Oregon coast, her chances of running up against the murderer were remote.
He took out the cigar and examined the well-mangled end. “Look for motive, opportunity, means.” He uttered a short laugh. “What am I saying, I'm talking to my bride, the Bed-and-Breakfast Sleuth. Just get me a notebook and keep me posted. Check out that boathouse first—Alice Hoke can wait. If she's as bereaved as she ought to be, you won't find out much this soon anyway. In fact, I'd keep away from the family in general. You might check to see if anyone else has shown up in town in the last few days who could have a connection. Buccaneer Beach is small enough that word would probably get around.”

“Gee,” grinned Judith, “thanks for not giving me any advice. Do you want a written report or will verbal do?”

The gold flecks danced in the green eyes. “Not verbal, oral.” He grabbed Judith by the wrist and pulled her close. “The next time Jake goes to therapy, dump Renie and lock the door,” he whispered. “I miss you, Jude-girl. This is a hell of a honeymoon.”

 

The tide was almost out when they reached the beach fifteen minutes later. As usual, the kiteflyers trod the sands, as did the walkers, the joggers, the children, and the dogs. Clouds were drifting out to sea, and there was genuine warmth in the late morning sun. Judith and Renie approached the boathouse warily.

“Why are we acting like a pair of fugitives?” asked Renie. “You said the boathouse was part of the package.”

“Because the guy who was hanging around down here wasn't,” replied Judith, who had paused to examine the sand some twenty feet from the small structure. “It looks as if the tide never gets any further than here, so there's not much in the way of clear footprints. The sand's too soft and dry.”

“I don't know why you're looking for footprints at this late date,” said Renie, as they moved slowly up to the four steps that led to the tiny porch. “And even if you found some, there are so many people all over this beach, nobody could possibly sort out one set from another.”

“True. Alas.” Judith jiggled the doorknob. To her surprise, the door opened easily. The cousins edged inside.

The boathouse looked much better from the inside than the outside. Although the furnishings were worn, even tattered in the case of the floral sofa, it was apparent that somebody was keeping the place tidy. Judith took in the rest of the small room, with its two easy chairs, a large cherrywood coffee table, a pair of floor lamps, and a magazine rack which she noticed held the latest issues of
People
and
Good Housekeeping
. The sagging floorboards creaked beneath their feet, reminding Judith of her house on Thurlow Street.

Straight through the small sitting room was a kitchen, with two stools pulled up to the counter, a stove, sink, refrigerator, and even a microwave oven. There were no windows and the far wall was covered with nautical charts. A coffeepot was plugged in, a casserole dish was covered with aluminum foil, and the sink contained half a dozen dirty dishes.

“The lived-in look,” murmured Renie.

Judith glanced down at the linoleum which displayed a starfish pattern and looked comparatively new. “The man I saw might be whoever's living here,” she remarked, feeling the ever-present sand underfoot. “He might also be coming back, since the coffee's on. There's no rear entrance. We'd better scoot.”

“Right,” agreed Renie as they exited the little kitchen. She stopped to open one of the doors on each side of the open entry into the sitting room. “A half-bath,” she said. “Sink, toilet, shower. Clam shells on the shower curtain. Or are they abalone?”

Not to be outdone, Judith tugged at the other door. It was a small closet, housing clothes for both genders. Judith arched an eyebrow. “My Mysterious Stranger has a girlfriend. Unless he gets a kick out of wearing ugly dresses and pantsuits.”

“Takes all kinds,” said Renie, coming to look over Judith's shoulder. “Gee, I haven't seen that much corduroy
since Grandma Grover used to make all of us cousins jumpers for school every fall.”

“And corduroy party dresses with mother-of-pearl buttons from collar to hem. I always looked like a can of Crisco and you looked like a bean pole.” Judith smiled in reminiscence. “Cousin Sue insisted she was too old for the jumpers when she got to high school but Grandma made her one anyway and stitched a picture of the team mascot on the back.”

Renie's brown eyes twinkled. “Do you think Grandma was serious?”

Judith grinned. “Was she ever?” No one could have been more of a pixie incarnate than Grandma Grover. Judith lived by two of her axioms, “It's always better to laugh than to cry” and “Keep your pecker up.” Renie preferred “It'll all be the same a hundred years from now.” But the real heritage Grandma Grover had passed on was the gift of laughter, which Judith considered the rarest form of courage.

“You know,” Judith mused as they started out of the boathouse, “there are times when I can actually hear Grandma saying something in my ear, like…” She stopped, her hand on the rusty door knob. “Corduroy! That's what Leona was wearing when I first met her. A corduroy jumper.”

Renie stared at Judith, then inclined her head. “So now we know where the deceased was staying.” She gestured at the little sitting room. “Cozy, huh?”

“Sort of.” Judith gave the room a last look, then tried to open the door. The knob resisted her twist, then the door pushed inward, almost toppling Judith into Renie.

“Burglars! Help, police!” A middle-aged man with a graying beard seemed to take up most of the doorway. With a deft movement, he reached down and picked up a baseball bat that was stationed just inside. “Get back, you devils! Back, I say! You're in my power!”

Judith obeyed, staggering slightly, but trying to smile. The bat made a wide arc, coming dangerously near her head. She stopped trying to smile and ducked. “Wait a
minute! We rented this place! Seven hundred bucks says we're not burglars, you crazy loon!”

The bat cut through the air again, but with less force. He braced himself, seeming to favor one leg over the other. “What do you mean? I live here! Who are you?”

Judith tried to explain, no easy task, since every sentence was punctuated by a swing of the baseball bat. Renie had retreated behind the sofa, showing minor signs of alarm. At last the man lowered the bat, his flinty blue eyes resting on each cousin in turn. “Alice Hoke's got no business including this boathouse in the rental deal,” he huffed. “I been living here for some weeks now. The old girl's off her rocker.”

Judith felt like saying that Alice wasn't alone in that regard, but took another look at the bat and decided to be tactful. “Alice didn't handle any of the business in person. Her sister—poor thing—acted in her stead.” She spoke the words innocently, awaiting the man's reaction.

Except for a fleeting expression Judith couldn't fathom, there wasn't any. “Doesn't matter. I want you both out. And stay out.” He banged the bat on the floor for emphasis. Under the faded hooked rug, the boards seemed to shudder.

“No problem,” said Judith, starting once more for the door. “We were just looking for a…boat. In the boathouse.” Her smile finally made its way to her mouth. “By the way,” she said, turning and trying to talk over Renie, “who are
you
?”

“Me?” The man looked as if he weren't quite sure. “Titus Teacher, whether you like it or not. Good-bye.”

The cousins took their cue. “I don't like it. Whatever happened to small-town friendliness?” inquired Renie as they plodded up the sand toward the long staircase.

Judith shook her head, hands jammed into her jacket pockets. “Damned if I know. Is everybody in this burg nuts?”

Renie bristled. “Of course. Small towns are the bastions of lunacy. I've never understood why big cities have such
a tarnished reputation. At least they have stores that stay open late.”

Judith ignored Renie's carping. “If Leona Ogilvie was living in the boathouse with Titus Teacher, why isn't he more upset?”

Renie, eyeing the uphill slant of the staircase with dismay, shrugged. “Maybe he is. Maybe he acts out with a baseball bat. Like José Canseco or something.”

Judith made no further comment, saving her breath for the long flight of stairs. When the cousins reached the front yard, they saw two figures going toward the carport of Pirate's Lair. Judith shouted but the sound of the surf swallowed her voice. The visitors, who could now be discerned as a man and a woman, disappeared, apparently to try the back door. The cousins used up their spare energy to race across the lawn and go in the front entrance. Judith hurried to the back door and greeted the young couple who looked as if they might have enough brains between them to qualify as Normal.

“Hi,” squeaked the young woman, whose unnaturally blond hair was not quite held in place by a huge polka-dot bow. “I'm Larissa, and this is Donn Bobb. He's a clown.”

Leaning wearily on the doorframe, Judith nodded dutifully. “I'm sure he is,” she said. “Where's his bozo horn? Or does he have a dulcimer?”

Larissa's wide-set gray eyes grew enormous. “A…? He had the measles once. Three-day. You should have seen his butt!” She laughed immoderately.

Judith had the feeling that Donn Bobb's butt might be next. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to be patient, “but are you here for a reason or did we just get lucky?”

Donn Bobb, whose long, sandy hair fell about his forehead, his shoulders, and even seemed to curl under his chin, lazily swatted his companion's bottom. “Now, Fruit Loops, don't go aggravatin' people. This lady's paid to stay here and she has a right to know why we've come.” He made a surprisingly graceful bow, which somehow seemed in contrast with his burly body. “Larissa's auntie got herself killed her last night and she wants to pay her
respects. As it were.” He gave Judith a plaintive look, then put out a big paw. “Donn Bobb Lima, rodeo clown and all-around auto mechanic. I'm here for the pea-rade.”

Larissa Lima laughed again, recalling the raucous sounds of her late aunt. “Donn Bobb's from Texas, that's why he talks funny. You ought to hear him sing! Why, one time, we were at this bar in Galveston, he got up there behind the chicken wire where they can't hit you with the beer bottles, and some of the crowd…”

Donn Bobb gave Larissa a semigentle shove and came into the kitchen. “The livin' room, somebody said. You ladies found her, right?”

“Right,” agreed Judith, leading the way. “It was my cousin, Mrs. Jones, actually…”

They had all arrived in the living room except Renie, who had decided to forage in the refrigerator. Judith stepped aside as Larissa knelt down beside the chalk outline of Leona Ogilvie's body. Sudden, convulsive sobs erupted from the young woman's throat. She threw herself at her husband and grabbed him around the knees.

“Oh! Poor Aunt Leona! Oh! She was so sweet! All those years with the pygmies, devoted to Jesus! I never knew a kinder or more fair-minded person in my whole life!” She sobbed some more while Donn Bobb absently patted her artificially-colored curls and yawned. “You gotta sing at the funeral, Donn Bobb! Her favorite was ‘The Old Ragged Cross.'”