Dune to Death (12 page)

Judith and Renie exchanged glances. Titus Teacher's limping image had popped into both their minds. “A…boyfriend?” breathed Judith.

Augie gave an incredulous shake of his head. “Who knows? Momma doesn't. Neither does Brent Doyle.”

“Who is it?” asked Renie.

Amy bit her lips, fighting more tears. “Darren Fleetwood. He lives in Malibu, California.”

Judith showed surprise; Renie looked perplexed. “There's got to be a reason,” Judith said at last. “Leona didn't just pick his name out of a phone book.”

“Maybe,” speculated Renie, “he's some clergyman she admired. Or a coworker from the missions.”

Judith gave Renie a glance of approval. “True. Or possibly he's an orphan she had someone adopt in this country. There could be a lot of explanations, really. I'm sure Brent Doyle will find out.”

Amy had finally dried her tears and turned sulky. “He called Directory Assistance while we were in his office. They gave him a number, but there was nobody home, just an answering machine.”

“Was it this Fleetwood guy?” inquired Renie, who was digging her bare feet into the warm sand.

“The voice on the machine didn't say,” Amy pouted. “It was a man, though.”

“He's probably at work,” said Judith, feeling the perspiration break out under her sleeveless top. “Maybe Brent can reach him tonight. Whoever he is, he probably doesn't know that Leona is dead.”

Renie hoisted a pile of sand on one foot and let it spill back onto the beach. “If Leona made the will in the last few weeks, this Fleetwood may not know about that, either.”

“Whoever he is,” Amy asserted in a resentful voice, “he's undeserving. I'll bet he's one of those smooth operators who play up to older women and get all their money. Spinsters can be terribly gullible.”

Judith caught Renie's conspiratorial look. “It's possible,” Judith admitted, getting to her feet. “How did Larissa and Donn Bobb take the news?”

Amy sniffed and Augie snickered. “Like the pair of silly fools that they are,” she said. “They pretend they're not interested in money. That's because they don't have any. No responsibilities, either. Not like us, with a growing family.” Amy's disdainful manner was a blanket indictment of her in-laws' life-style.

The three-wheeled beach cycles raced by again. Renie eyed them with interest, but Judith poked her cousin in the ribs. “Forget it, coz. I lost Joe to a dune buggy. I'm not offering you up to an oversized tricycle. Bill would never forgive me.”

Renie said she'd settle for lunch. The cousins made their farewells to the Hokes and headed up the long staircase. Pausing halfway, Judith gazed down on the beach. Amy and Augie were still sitting on the log, huddled together. Judith wondered what they were talking about. Money, no doubt. She couldn't help but speculate on how far they might go to get it.

 

Fish and chips with a side of cole slaw purchased at a take-out stand on 101 satisfied the cousins' appetites. Their curiosity, however, remained unassuaged.

“Do you really think this Darren Fleetwood might be the guy we saw Leona with through the window?” Renie asked, pitching the fast-food containers into a barrel at the intersection of 101 and Seventh Street. The cousins had strolled along the highway, past the kite shop, City Hall, several gift shops, and the Methodist church. They were now about half a mile from Pirate's Lair, gazing through the shore pines at the handsome modern house Judith had spotted earlier from the beach. The place had a deserted air, and Judith wondered fleetingly if anything so lavish might be merely a summer home.

“It could have been him,” said Judith, getting back on track. “Maybe we should try that number tonight, too. We could call Malibu before we go to dinner.”

“Whoever Darren Fleetwood is,” mused Renie, admiring the sleek lines of the three-story house with its shake exterior and artfully angled rooftops, “he has the best motive for murdering Leona Ogilvie.”

“The only motive, as far as I can tell,” said Judith, staring not at the spectacular dwelling on the point but across the highway, at a souvenir shop made to resemble a lighthouse. “Come on, coz, let's try to get ourselves killed in traffic and go over there to squander our meager savings on cheap presents. I've got to find a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus made out of a clam shell for Mother.”

Renie was game. Five minutes later, they were in the shop, browsing among as gaudy a collection of Oregoniana as they could possibly imagine. Judith didn't find Jesus in a clam shell, but she did come up with the Blessed Virgin shedding beams of light over the skyline of Buccaneer Beach. She also selected a myrtlewood salad bowl for Joe and a coffee mug for Mike inscribed, “Oregon Coast—It's the Most.” Renie got one just like it for Bill, except that it read, “Where the Hell Is Yachats, Oregon, Anyway and How Would You Pronounce It If You Cared?”

“I'll get each of the kids an ornament at that Christmas shop at the other end of town,” said Renie, about to overdose on vulgarity.

They were at the cash register when a squeal erupted
from the other side of the T-shirt rack. “Ooooh—Donn Bobb, look! It's a picture of Bamm-Bamm! I've got to get it! He's my favorite Flintstone!”

Donn Bobb was leaning up against a life-sized wood carving of Barnacle Bill or some other grizzled nautical type. “Go ahead, Sweet Cakes, we only live once.”

Larissa Hoke Lima sidled up to the counter with her purchase. She didn't recognize the cousins until Judith turned around to greet her.

“What a coincidence,” said Judith, accepting her change from the cashier, “we just ran into your brother and his wife. I gather you had quite a session with Brent Doyle this afternoon.”

Larissa seemed more interested in Bamm-Bamm's propeller beanie than in the lawyer's pronouncement. “Huh? Oh, yes, Brent dressed like a stuffy old codger. He's the same age I am. Can you imagine why he'd want to look like his father? That man wore
wing tips
.” Her crimson mouth turned down in disgust.

Judith waited for Renie and Larissa to conclude their transaction. Donn Bobb continued to lean against the carving, his mouth slack and his eyes closed.

“Amy and Augie are quite upset about your aunt's new will,” said Judith as they started out of the store.

Larissa hadn't bothered with a bag, but held the T-shirt up against her ample bosom. “Isn't this
sweet
?” She smiled broadly at the cousins. “I should have bought one of Pebbles for Donn Bobb!” The smile faded; Larissa whirled. “Donn Bobb! I left him in the store! Wait a minute!”

Judith rolled her eyes; Renie drummed her fingernails on the shop sign by the door. “Don't expect much,” breathed Renie. “Those two lost the oars to their rowboat a long time ago.”

Acknowledging that Renie was right, Judith felt compelled by mere politeness to stay put. Sure enough, a giggling Larissa emerged moments later, towing a sheepish Donn Bobb by the hand. “Love,” she announced, “makes the world go 'round.”

“My, yes,” said a mystified Judith. She glanced at Donn Bobb. “Sometimes it can even keep you awake.”

Larissa howled. “Oh, Mrs. Flynn! You're such a
scream
! I didn't mean Donn Bobb here, I was talking about Aunt Leona. And her will.” She gave her husband's arm a yank. “Hey, Sugar Lips, you sure you don't want that Pebbles shirt? What about Wilma?”

“Your aunt's will?” Judith tried to intervene before they were drowned in a sea of TV T-shirt trivia.

Larissa's eyes grew wide. “Yes, isn't that what you were talking about a minute ago? She did it for love, there's no doubt in my mind.”

And not much else
, Judith thought unkindly. “She did it for someone named Darren Fleetwood,” said Judith pointedly. “What makes you think it was for love?”

Larissa shrugged her bare, freckled shoulders. “The will said he was her ‘beloved' Darren Fleetwood. She must have loved him, right? I bet he was the Man of Her Dreams.” She gazed adoringly at Donn Bobb whose unconscious expression indicated he was indulging in dreams of his own.

Amy's theory about a handsome young scoundrel playing up to a gullible, repressed spinster made sense. Judith took advantage of a sudden lull in traffic to say good-bye. The cousins pounded across 101, arriving somewhat breathless by the road that led to the handsome modern house.

“We could walk down to the beach and then take the stairs back up,” Renie suggested, though she didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea.

“It's too hot,” replied Judith, drooping under the late afternoon sun. “Let's take the high road and stop for a cold drink.”

The first cafe they tried didn't serve anything, even beverages, between two and five o'clock. The drive-in a block away had lost the services of its ice machine. Judith and Renie returned to the take-out stand where they'd bought their lunch. Both ordered large Pepsis which they carried to a bench that overlooked the ocean.

“Why kill a woman who is leaving her only real property to a stranger?” asked Judith, staring out at the heat haze that had settled in over the beach. “Unless, of course, you are the stranger who inherits.”

“What if you didn't know the will had been changed?” Renie sucked up the last drops of Pepsi through her straw. “Augie and Amy didn't know. I doubt if Larissa and Donn Bobb did, either. Or Alice Hoke.”

“The young Hokes and the Limas may have thought they had a motive,” Judith noted. Two young boys on skateboards whizzed by, forcing the cousins to tuck their feet under the bench. Overhead, a red, white, and blue banner proclaimed the wonders of the Freebooters' Festival, June 30-July 4. “But Alice had no reason to kill her sister. Unless she wanted to sell the beach cottage—but it sounds to me as if she's pretty well off already. That sale to the outlet mall people must have paid her handsomely.”

Six blocks up from the turnoff to Pirate's Lair, Highway 101 briefly ran along the oceanfront. The bluff sloped gently here in the heart of town, with a small stream known as Bee Creek meandering under a bridge before splaying itself out on the beach. Across the highway, an old railroad car had been turned into a diner, resting on an abandoned spur that had once led to a now-defunct sawmill.

Down on the sand, seagulls fought over the remnants of somebody's picnic. A family of five tried to launch a bat-shaped kite, but their efforts were doomed by the lack of wind. Out on the ocean, two teenagers on boogie boards rode the waves. The summer day seemed so ordinary, so carefree, yet Judith felt weighed down by Leona Ogilvie's murder. The sheriff and the police chief could be right—a crazed stranger might have killed Leona. If so, her death was needless; that made it even worse. Judith wanted a real motive for Leona's homicide. Her murder should at least make sense. It had to be, in Judith's own lexicon, a
logical
death.

“I suppose we have to scratch Alice because she was
with Neil Clooney,” said Judith at last. “It's too bad—she's the most unlikable of the whole crew.”

Renie raised her eyebrows. “You're keen on Titus Teacher? I can't say he's hitting the top of my personal popularity chart.”

Judith lifted a helpless hand. “I can't fit him in. Where was he, for instance, while Alice and Clooney were playing bake-my-buns in the boathouse? More to the point, why did Leona come back to the beach cottage? I'm sure she was meeting someone there. But who? The young guy we saw her with Monday night?”

Renie considered. “Young guy—who could that have been? For one, Donn Bobb Lima.” She started counting on her fingers. “Was it him we saw with Leona?”

Judith threw up both hands. “If you couldn't see, I sure couldn't. If it was Donn Bobb, maybe they weren't embracing—Leona was probably holding him up. Besides, Donn Bobb's hair is longer than mine.”

“Augie Hoke?” Renie ticked of another finger.

“His aunt? They might be fond of each other, but why would they meet at the beach cottage?”

“Because Alice didn't want company?” suggested Renie.

“Alice wasn't home. She was at the boathouse.” Judith's forehead puckered. “So much for the young guys. Who else have we got? Are we really sure the man we saw was young?”

“It sure wasn't Clooney—he's too fat. And Eldritch is too tall. Titus Teacher has a beard.” Renie chewed on her plastic straw. “There's nobody left. Unless,” she added with a sly, sideways look at Judith, “you count Brent Doyle.”

Judith eyed her cousin appreciatively. “Well. Nice work. But why?”

Renie tossed her paper cup at a garbage can with an opening like a shark's mouth. She missed. “I come up with the names, you provide the motives. All I know is that he's about the only other young man we've run into who is connected with the case.”

Unable to endure the sun's direct rays any longer, Judith got up. “Brent Doyle would only fit into it if he had trashed Leona's will and made up a phony version, with himself as the heir. All he gets out of her death is the fee for probate. That may not be cheap, but it's no reason to kill a client.”

Renie had to agree. The cousins started back toward the side street that led to the cul-de-sac. They paused at the corner as a black van turned off Highway 101 in front of them and drove by at a too-rapid speed. Judith grabbed Renie's arm. “That van,” she said, practically knocking her cousin off the curb. “It's the one that's been parked by the cottage. Did you see who was driving it?”

“No,” answered Renie. “I was too busy making sure the damned thing didn't run over my feet.”

Judith was smiling to herself. “This time my eyes worked better than yours, coz,” she said smugly. “I got a good look at the driver.” Judith started walking briskly down the little incline that led to the cul-de-sac. She turned and hissed at Renie over her shoulder. “Come on, coz—maybe we can head him off. That was Titus Teacher.”