Dune to Death (21 page)

Judith was on the wrong side of the log. Trying to make herself invisible, she melted into the rough, weather-beaten, decaying wood. Alice kept right on walking, purposeful, composed. She went past the log; Judith slumped in relief. The clamgun tipped over. Alice whirled, the gun pointed in Judith's direction.

“Who's there?” she called, her voice floating on the wind. Getting no response, Alice moved slowly toward the log.

Judith had no illusions about Alice Hoke's attitude toward virtues such as mercy. Frantically, she gazed up at the bluff, trying to see if the law enforcement vehicles had arrived. But of course, it dawned on her, they, too, would come down the road by the handsome house on the point. The clamgun was out of reach. The flashlight was worth
less. Judith had no choice but to get to her feet and run for her life.

“Stop!” shouted Alice. “Wait!”

Judith's heels dug into the mud. She realized it was foolish to engage Alice Hoke in conversation. But if Judith were going to get shot, she'd prefer it wouldn't be in the back. Besides, the sheriff and the police should be roaring onto the beach at any moment. Perhaps it was wise to play for time.

Alice's sensible shoes made squelching noises in the wet sand. She lowered the gun which looked to Judith like a standard U.S. Army .45.
Her father-in-law's
, Judith thought fleetingly,
a souvenir from World War I
.

“Now what's all this nonsense about a safety-deposit box key?” Alice demanded. Up close, her long face looked impassive. Only the eyes, cold as the sea itself, betrayed her anxiety.

“My cousin and I found it,” replied Judith, surprised that she could speak in a relatively normal voice. “Along with the sheepskin seat covers from your husband's car. The one he drove Race Doyle's body away in after he ran him down in the cheese factory parking lot.”

Alice emitted a sharp little laugh. “How absurd! My late husband hit Race, but he didn't kill him. Or if he did, he never told me about it. Race ran away with the money. The man was a common criminal.”

“I don't think so,” said Judith. “Oh, Race had a bad reputation. But just because he sold used cars doesn't make him a crook. I think you and Bernie set Race up. You knew the business was going under—not because of Race's mismanagement, but because of a lot of things. Maybe your father lost his grip as he got older. Certainly Bernie couldn't run the cheese factory—he wasn't a manager, he was a builder, and a good one. Times had gotten tough in this part of the world. You were facing bankruptcy. Rather than go through that, the two of you made Race the patsy. Bernie killed Race and got rid of the body. You kept the money for yourselves, though eventually you had to use some of the factory site profits to pay off your
more obstinate creditors. But three million dollars is a lot of money. Enough to kill for.”

Even as she spoke, Judith had been inching up the beach. It would take some time to reach the road that led up to the highway. Hopefully, Clooney and—or—Eldritch would arrive any minute.

Alice was showing some interest, but no real emotion. “It's possible that Bernie was involved, I suppose.” She made it sound as if her husband had dabbled in unsound municipal bonds. “But that was a long time ago. And he's dead.”

“Yes, he is,” agreed Judith. “He's been dead for over twenty-four hours.” She watched Alice closely. Through the mist, she could see those cold eyes flicker. “Bernie Hoke didn't commit suicide seven years ago. That was rigged, so that the two of you could disappear and live in Liechtenstein until the statute of limitations ran out on defrauding your creditors or whatever sort of legal liability had expired. That way, if any suspicion was attached to either of you, it wouldn't matter. The trouble is, there is no limitation on murder.”

Alice started to throw back her head and hoot with laughter, but thought better of the diversion and raised the gun a notch. “That's preposterous. I never left Buccaneer Beach.”

Judith took another backward step. “Yes, you did. Somehow, you convinced Leona—who must have returned from Brazil about that time—to stand in for you. Maybe you played up to her, told her you were overcome with grief because of Bernie's alleged suicide. Whatever else Leona was, she was kindhearted. She'd spent over twenty years in the jungle. Perhaps the idea of being back home in seclusion appealed to her, like a monk meditating or some other religious type embracing the solitary, contemplative life. At any rate, she managed to keep away from anyone who would really know who was Leona and who was Alice. She could put your children off without arousing a lot of suspicion because you'd never been a very
warm sort of mother. Everything worked out just fine until Darren Fleetwood showed up.”

Consciously, or otherwise, Alice Hoke was keeping pace with Judith. They were directly below the motel now, though the establishment was shrouded in darkness. The tram rested on its platform atop the bluff. At least no one had been trapped in it when the power went out.
Or
, thought Judith with a pang,
perhaps it would have been better if someone was caught halfway down to the beach. At least she'd have a witness if Alice tried to shoot her
.

“Darren Fleetwood?” Alice spoke the name with contempt. “What has he got to do with all this tiresome speculation?”

Judith realized that her jacket and the rest of her clothes were soaked through to the skin. She wasn't exactly cold, but she was certainly uncomfortable. And terrified. For a brief moment, her brain seemed to stop working. Then she forced herself to concentrate and answered Alice's disdainful question.

“Some thirty years ago, Leona had a child out of wedlock. That's why she went away, even before she became a missionary in Brazil. She gave the baby up for adoption, but I suspect she never stopped wondering what had happened to him. It must have preyed on her mind all those years she spent hiding out in the old farmhouse. She must have made a search and found out that her son was Darren Fleetwood, living in Malibu. She contacted him—or the adoption agency did—and he agreed to meet her in Buccaneer Beach. She was so thrilled that she changed her will, leaving her only real asset—the beach cottage—to Darren.”

“Perhaps.” Alice gave a slight shrug. “What does that have to do with me? I never met the fellow.”

Judith kept moving backwards, slowly, almost imperceptibly, shifting one foot at a time. “Darren's arrival on the scene gave Leona a whole new outlook on life. She wanted to do things for him, to be with him, to be herself. When you finally ran out of money and had to leave Liechtenstein, Leona insisted on ending the impersonation.
She was basically very honest, I think. She had an intense desire to start life over. She even applied for a driver's license. But you didn't want her to stop playing your part. You planned on taking the money and leaving, probably for another foreign country. Leona refused to cooperate this time. Especially when she discovered that Bernie Hoke was alive.”

Alice scoffed. “This is ridiculous!”

“No, it's not. When Bernie ran down Race Doyle, he probably got injured, too. Mrs. Doyle—Brent's mother—said something very interesting this afternoon. She mentioned that after the cheese factory folded, Bernie was a wreck—mentally and
physically
. Now Bernie was a hard worker who actually did some of the construction himself. I might be able to understand how his mental condition would deteriorate, but not how it would affect him physically. Unless he was suddenly going around town with some obvious impairment—like a bad limp.” Judith paused for a breath as well as to steel her nerve. “For a long time, I thought Titus Teacher was Race Doyle. Then I realized he wasn't. Titus Teacher was your husband, Bernard Hoke, the man who supposedly committed suicide seven years ago. There were no pictures of him up at the farm house, so I don't know what he looked like seven years ago. But the beard and time itself would have changed him enough so that casual acquaintances wouldn't recognize the long-dead Bernie Hoke. And he stayed down at the boathouse, away from his children. The only time they saw him was at the funeral, when their attention was diverted elsewhere. Even so, Larissa and Augie thought there was something familiar about the man they knew as Titus Teacher. By the time they figured it out—if they ever did—you and Bernie would have been far away from Buccaneer Beach.”

“Really, Mrs. Flynn,” Alice scoffed, “you've manufactured a fairy tale!”

It occurred to Judith that, in her long flapping raincoat and with her graying hair blowing around her narrow shoulders, Alice Hoke could have passed for the witch
from “Hansel and Gretel.” Judith forced herself to keep talking, to stall for more precious minutes. “For all of Race's seamier side, I have the feeling he wasn't as basically dishonest as Bernie Hoke. A very shrewd old lady I talked to the other day said something enlightening—your parents didn't think much better of Bernie than they did of Race. But because Bernie wasn't lazy and Race apparently was, when trouble came along, public opinion was swayed to your husband's side. That's why everybody assumed that if Leona had been seduced, the cad was Race Doyle. But when Leona dragged Race out of your parents' house that New Year's Eve in 1960, it was Bernie who brought her home.”

Alice's eyes narrowed. “That's true. So what?” She used her free hand to make an impatient gesture. “Let's cut this short, Mrs. Flynn. It's late, it's wet, and I want that safety-deposit box key.”

Judith expelled a scornful breath. “You don't think I'd be stupid enough to bring it with me, do you?”

“Where is it?” The words were sharp, demanding.

“Back at Pirate's Lair,” Judith lied. She stopped edging backwards, sensing a shred of hope.

“Where?”

“You'll find out when we get there.” Judith was feeling a bit light-headed.

“I can find it without your help,” snapped Alice. “I know every inch of that house.”

Feeling a rush of failure engulf her, Judith again began to move, not just backward, but to the side. The waves were coming closer as the tide washed up on the shore. Alice, of course, was also forced to avoid the relentless surf.

“Darren really blew the lid off the whole thing,” Judith said more rapidly. “Not only did Leona want out of the charade, but her basic integrity may have caused her to threaten both you and Bernie with exposure. I think she told you who the father of her child really was—your husband. You must have pitched a four-star fit. You may even have been afraid that Bernie really cared for Leona. Or
that the existence of a son he'd never known would change all your carefully-laid plans. So you came down to the beach cottage to find Leona, but she wasn't around just then. You used the first piece of paper you could find, which happened to be the receipt Leona had given me, and you asked her to meet you at a specified time. Then you killed her and destroyed the note.”

Alice stepped briskly up to Judith, gesturing with the .45. “Move closer to the bank. This farce has gone on long enough.”

“That's what Leona said, I'll bet,” retorted Judith.

What little color Alice possessed had drained from her thin face. “I couldn't have killed Leona. I was with the chief of police. You're not just a meddler, you're a fool, Mrs. Flynn.”

“You set Neil Clooney up, too,” said Judith, aware that her mouth had gone quite dry. “You must have known within the first few days of your return that you had to get rid of Leona. So you started courting the police chief for your perfect alibi. You invited him down to the boathouse and then went into the kitchen and pretended to bake for him. You turned on that portable mixer and the oven in the stove. If he spoke to you, you could always use the excuse that you couldn't hear him over the mixer. But of course you weren't there—you'd slipped out through the secret passage up to the house where you killed your sister. It wouldn't take more than five minutes. That's why those boxes were removed and replaced—so you could get in and out of the trapdoor. They were covering it up in the carport floor. I even tripped over the damned thing and didn't notice. We must have dislodged the false covering on the trapdoor when we blew the lock off the strongbox. But you had it so carefully planned. You came back to the boathouse, zapped a baking mix in the microwave, and never used the oven. That dense chief of police didn't even suspect you were gone.”

Dense, Judith thought with a shiver, and slow. Where was Clooney? And Eldritch? She turned her head just enough to get her bearings. The mist had subsided to a
drizzle. A hundred yards away, she could see the road that led up to the highway. But there were no headlights showing through the trees. Judith cursed the law enforcement officials of Buccaneer Beach and Juniper County.

“You played a variation of the same trick on us last night,” Judith continued as she heard Alice release the safety on the .45. “You sent my cousin and me off on a wild-goose chase for Leona's jewelry while you went out to the carport. You slipped down the passage—you probably had put the gun there beforehand—and shot your husband. I noticed you were out of breath when you came back into the house, but I didn't understand the reason at the time. I'm not exactly sure why you killed Bernie, unless you wanted the money all for yourself or you feared his newly-found son was going to screw everything up, but…”

“Shut up!” commanded Alice. “Thirty years of hell with that man, tied to him by money! Who wouldn't want to shoot the tightfisted clod? The cheese factory was mine; I sold the property. Then he set up an account in Liechtenstein that I couldn't sign on, and transferred
my
money into it! I was no more than chattel! I never wanted to spend my life in this dumpy little town! I wanted to go away to college and become something! But I ended up stuck with him, first in Buccaneer Beach, and then in Liechtenstein, for God's sake! Next, it would have been some bug-riddled island in the Caribbean! I hated the man! How would you like to spend most of your life with some wretched creep who made you miserable?”