Dune to Death (8 page)

He petted her hand. “We sure did. No kids. Just us.”

The cousins watched them head back for Anchors Aweigh. Renie stood with her fists on her hips, handbag swinging at her side. “They may not be nuts, but they're lying,” she said flatly.

“Huh?”

Renie turned to Judith. “Milk shakes at ten o'clock? In this part of the world? Ha!” With a twitch of her backside, Renie stomped off toward the MG.

 

By coincidence, the law offices of Doyle, Doyle, and Diggs were adjacent to the
Buccaneer Beach Bugler
, right in the middle of town. Both buildings were low, long, and level on top. An insurance agency, a counseling service, and two dentists shared leases with the attorneys. Judith marched up to the receptionist's desk and asked to see Brent Doyle. Taking up the rear, Renie waited to see what colossal fib Judith would come up with this time.

“I don't have an appointment,” Judith told the chestnut-haired young woman at the desk, “because I'm only in
town for a few days. I want to see Mr. Doyle about suing a dune buggy.”

The young woman didn't turn a chestnut hair. “Mr. Doyle is in a meeting,” she responded with a chipped-tooth smile. “Will you wait?”

Judith glanced at her watch; it was after two o'clock. Joe wouldn't expect her back at the hospital until about four. “Yes,” she agreed. The cousins took up places on a leather couch that was flanked by a large fern at one end and a philodendron at the other.

“You probably could sue,” Renie whispered when the receptionist answered the phone.

“For what?” responded Judith. “Joe drove like a sailor on shore leave.”

“The root,” hissed Renie. “Didn't you say he hit a root?”

Judith gave Renie a disparaging look. “It was about the size of a small redwood. He should have seen it.
I
did.”

Renie's further arguments were cut short by the opening of a door at the far side of the reception desk. A tall, angular woman stalked across the carpet with a sour expression on her face. Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. The resemblance to Leona Ogilvie was sufficiently striking to let the cousins know they were in the presence of Alice Hoke.

“Carlene,” intoned Alice Hoke, tapping the smooth surface of the desk for emphasis, “I shall need another appointment with Mr. Doyle in about a week after he sets up the new power of attorney. This is a convenient day and time. See to it, please.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept out of the office. The cousins might as well have been part of the decor.

Carlene scribbled furiously, then picked up the phone and spoke softly, presumably to Brent Doyle. A moment later, she ushered Judith and Renie into the attorney's inner office.

Brent Doyle couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with a red-gold crew cut, a pug nose, and a deep tan that probably owed more to the electric beach than the Oregon
sun. He had a hearty handshake, an expansive smile, and a rack of white teeth. Judith dropped the lawsuit and fell back on candor.

“That,” she said after proper introductions had been made, “was my landlady, Alice Hoke. I'd never seen her before.”

Brent Doyle grinned at both cousins. “Nobody sees much of her. She's a bit of a hermit. I've been away at law school for the past few years, but I heard she was getting to be a legend around here.” He shoved back in his comfortable padded chair and adjusted the jacket of his well-tailored suit. “Now what's this about a dune buggy?”

“Skip the dune buggy,” said Judith, taking in her surroundings which were stodgy in a 1950s wood and plastic style. No doubt Brent Doyle had inherited the office from his father. The son's outgoing manner didn't mesh with the father's pale green paint and trailing ivy planters. “My cousin and I found Leona Ogilvie's body in the beach cottage where we're staying. Naturally, we're a little nervous. Do you think we're safe?”

The grin faded slowly from Brent Doyle's wide face. He picked up a pen and twirled it in his slightly pudgy fingers. “Oh—who can say? It could have been a drug addict. Or a burglar. There are so many unstable people these days, even in a small town. How are the locks on the doors at Pirate's Lair?” He had become very much the lawyer, noncommittal, cautious, asking rather than answering questions.

Yet his query was not without merit. Judith tipped her head to one side. “The house wasn't broken into. We assumed Leona Ogilvie let her killer in. Or that the murderer was waiting for her.”

“Ah.” Doyle lifted red-gold eyebrows. “Well, I hear she was like that. Naive. Gullible. Poor woman.” He shook his head and fiddled again with the pen.

“How is Alice Hoke taking it?” Judith asked, wondering if lawyers and doctors both took the same course in avoiding direct questions.

Doyle seemed to consider, his gaze transferred to the plastic-covered overhead light which was mercifully switched off on this partially sunny afternoon. “Mrs. Hoke is a strong person. She'll be all right.” His voice was a trifle dry.

“I gather she and her sister really weren't close,” Judith remarked. “Leona had been away for years, I'm told.”

“That's true.” Brent Doyle smiled again. “I never met the woman. She must have headed for South America before I was born.” His square-shouldered shrug seemed to dismiss Leona Ogilvie's entire life.

Renie decided to end her role as stooge. “What ever happened to your uncle? The one who made off with the cheese money?”

Brent Doyle turned pale under his tan. “Where'd you hear that?” His grip on the pen tightened. “Say—what are you two here for? I thought it was something about a dune buggy. If you've got a lot of crazy questions, go ask the cops. I'm a lawyer, and I've only been in practice here about six weeks.” An angry pulse throbbed along Doyle's jawline.

In reply, Judith whipped a copy of the lease out of her purse. “I want a receipt. Somebody stole the one Leona Ogilvie gave me. And I also want two free days' rent for the inconvenience of having found a corpse on the carpet. You can make the arrangements with Mrs. Hoke and let me know by tomorrow.” Judith tapped the lease with a fingernail. “Make a copy, please. I want to keep the original.”

Although startled by Judith's demand, Brent Doyle obviously found himself on ground he could tread legally. “The receipt should be no problem,” he asserted. “It's hard to imagine how it got stolen. Are you sure you didn't lose it?” He stared at Judith as if she were a hostile witness.

Judith wasn't sure what had happened to the receipt, but she didn't intend to admit that to Brent Doyle. “It disappeared last night. About the same time Leona was killed.” She let the implication sink in on the young attorney.

Doyle made a disparaging gesture with the pen. “That doesn't sound right. Of course I wouldn't know. I wasn't
even in town. We had a law review reunion in Eugene and I didn't get back until this morning.” It was Doyle's turn to let his words penetrate his visitors' brains.

Judith stood up and Renie followed suit. “Just make the copy and call me by tomorrow,” said Judith. “If my husband is laid up longer than we expect, I'm going to have to stay on in Buccaneer Beach. I don't think it's out of line to ask for two free days rent after all we've been through. This town is dangerous.”

“And inadequate,” put in Renie. “Are the courts open all day or on an appointment-only basis?”

Mystified, Brent Doyle stared at Renie. Deciding to leave him in his baffled state, the cousins made their exit, but not before the receptionist had produced a copy of the lease. Judith and Renie were heading for the car when Terrence O'Toole came dashing out of the
Bugler
's editorial office.

“Hey—it's me! Press!” He wildly waved a newspaper. “We put out an extra edition! You're in it! I got a byline—‘By Terrence O'Toole, Staff Reporter!' Wowee! Want to see it?”

Resignedly, Judith took the paper from Terrence O'Toole. The sun had finally come out in full force and Judith suddenly felt too warm in her green leather jacket. The stop press contained four pages in all, featuring a banner headline blaring “LOCAL WOMAN MURDERED—Killer Kite Kayos Cheese Whiz's Daughter.” A two-column picture of Leona, taken so long ago as to be virtually unrecognizable, stared out from under the bold type.

“Page two,” said Terrence helpfully.

Judith flipped the paper open. Sure enough, there was the story, with Terrence O'Toole's byline in boldface type. “Gruesome Death Mars Tourists,” read the double-decker headline, causing Judith less uncertainty than it might for other readers. “How about ‘Tourists Marred by Gruesome Death'?” she suggested, but caught Terrence's rapt expression as he leaned over her shoulder and realized that it was too late for editorial comment. Which, the cousins recognized, was a shame, because the lurid account that fol
lowed did nobody, including Terrence, any credit. Judith and Renie came off sounding like a couple of hysterical nincompoops. With a sigh, Judith folded the paper and handed it back to the young reporter.

“Terrence,” Judith began patiently, “is this your first murder investigation?”

Terrence nodded vigorously. “Yes, I never expected to have one so soon! Not here in Buccaneer Beach! How do you like the part about wasted lives and forbearance in the face of dire danger? Ghastly, huh?”

Judith goggled. “It sure is.” She screwed up her face, then recovered quickly. “Well, I like those parts better than where you said we were swooning and our teeth were chattering and we were clinging to each other like…‘parasite vines on a cottonwood tree.' Gee, Terrence, wherever did you get a simile like that?”

Terrence beamed, eyebrows dancing. “I took a creative writing class. We did similes all the time.” He handed the paper back to Judith. “You keep it. A souvenir.”

Judith stared at the
Bugler
as though it were a rabid dog. “Okay…Thanks. My mother will love it.”

“I can get you more,” he said, beginning to backpedal toward the newspaper's entrance.

“That's okay,” said Judith with a kindly smile. “We'll manage.” Warily, she watched Terrence try to get through the
Bugler
's door without opening it, smack himself in the kisser, and finally reel inside.

“I'll never criticize the daily papers again,” moaned Renie. “When they say ‘cub reporter,' is it because they're un-
bear
-able? Or is that what Terrence really meant by our for-
bear
-ance?” She started to laugh at her own awful puns, then saw that Judith wasn't listening. She was, in fact, clutching the newspaper to her bosom and shaking her head.

“What is it, coz?” asked Renie, suddenly solicitous. “Are you having heat stroke?”

“No,” replied Judith in a faint voice, then swerved around and headed for the car. “I just remembered something that's been bothering me ever since we were talking
about pottery with Augie and Amy.” She yanked open the MG's door and gazed across the convertible roof at Renie. “Those dishes that were packed up in the carport? In newspaper?” She slapped the
Bugler
with one hand. “They weren't printed in Portuguese or Spanish, but German. No wonder those crates had a Lufthansa stamp! All that stuff didn't come from South America, but Europe!”

Over the top of the sports car, Renie's brown eyes were unblinking. “So?”

“So?” Judith frowned at her cousin, then sighed. “You're right. It doesn't mean much, does it?”

Renie tried to look sympathetic. “Not to me.”

Discouraged, Judith got into the MG. Renie was right. For all she knew, the crates could belong to a neighbor. Even if they were the property of Leona Ogilvie, their European origins did not a murder solution make. Judith drove off into the sun and tried to draw some logical conclusions.

As so often happened in life, she was dealing with the illogical. But that didn't mean she was on the wrong track. At least she was on the right road, headed for Joe and possible enlightenment.

Or, hopefully, a hug.

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON
, Joe was in a much better mood. He and Jake Beezle were watching an old John Ford Western and eating graham crackers. Judith's initial attempts at recounting her sleuthing efforts were rebuffed by Joe who seemed completely caught up in John Wayne's efforts to wipe out a lot of bad men wearing dirty shirts. Only at the commercial break did Judith finally capture Joe's full attention.

“A son, a daughter, two in-laws, the family lawyer, and a local lurker, huh?” sighed Joe, resignedly jotting names down on a napkin. He should have known better than to try to rein in Judith's curiosity. “Not a bad day's work. You even got a glimpse of Alice Hoke. How about an alibi for this Teacher creature?”

Judith shook her head. “I can't figure out where he fits in. I'm guessing those are Leona's clothes down in the boathouse closet. But Augie Hoke said his aunt was staying up at the big house with Alice.” Twisting in her chair, Judith turned to Jake Beezle, who was pulling stray hairs out of his puny chest. “Mr. Beezle, did you know Leona Ogilvie before she went to Brazil?”

Jake's bright little eyes peered at Judith. “Brazil!” He made circles at his ears and waggled his head. “Where'd that fruit basket go, Flynn? I'll put some bananas on my bean and play Carmen Miranda, what do you say?”

Renie gazed interestedly around the room. “Fruit?”

“From Woody and the gang at homicide back home. Woody sent a deck of cards, too. I gave the basket to the rotund nurses.” He grinned wickedly at Renie. “They need to keep up their strength for my back-rubs.” The devilish green eyes now roamed in Judith's direction.

Judith, however, was not to be diverted. “As you were saying, Mr. Beezle?”

Jake looked momentarily surprised. “I was? Oh, yeah—Leona Ogilvie. Better looking than Alice, but there was a real resemblance. Neither of them were what I'd call babes, though. Too skinny for my taste.” He gave Judith an appreciative leer. “I like women with meat on their bones. Otherwise, you shake 'em out with the sheets.”

“But Alice married Mr. Hoke,” Judith pointed out. “What was he like?”

Jake stopped examining his scrawny chest long enough to reflect. “Run-of-the-mill homely guy—perfect for Alice. He was a builder. Houses, mostly. He put up the one at the beach after he tore down an old tavern that had gone out of business in the Depression and just sat there for twenty years. Terrible waste of a good view.” Beezle shrugged himself back into his hospital gown. “Bernie came a cropper when everything in this state went sour a few years back. He tried to start over with that resort deal at the beach, next to the cottage. I forget now, maybe he was in on it and then some Californians took over. Anyways, Bernie's share went toes up and so did he. Took his rowboat out one night and drowned himself. Or so everybody figured. Bernie coudn't take it—no gumption, I guess. That's when Alice started acting queer.”

Judith considered Jake's recital. It seemed pretty straight-forward, except for one thing. “But she must have come out of her shell if she's seeing Chief Clooney.”

Jake chortled. “Loony Clooney! He's almost as dumb—
and twice as ornery—as the sheriff, Josh Eldritch. I don't know nothing about Alice having the hots for Neil Clooney, but if it's so, they deserve each other. Whew!” He wiped at his wrinkled forehead as if the mere thought of a romance between Alice Hoke and the police chief was too much to bear.

Shifting cautiously among the pillows, Joe looked at his notes. “What about this Doyle clan, Jake? Did you know Race or his brother, Bart?”

“Sure.” Jake reached for his water carafe, discovered he'd put his unlighted cigar in it, and rang for the nurse. “Bunglers, both of 'em. At least Race was. He took over managing the Ogilvie cheese factory after Alice's pa died about fifteen years ago and ran it into the ground. No business sense, bad choice on the family's part. Then Race took off with the money that was left. Guess he wrote himself a lot of fat checks before anybody caught on. Anyways, nobody ever heard from him again. Not even Bart. Or if Bart did, he never let on. It caused an awful stink in this town and got the police chief fired because the local yokels felt Race had made fools out of everybody in Buccaneer Beach, not just the Ogilvies. I suppose Race went to Mexico or one of them foreign hideout places. Alice was wilder than a mule caught in a barbed wire fence. So was Bernie.” Jake's face suddenly lighted up. “It probably helped send him over the edge and out to sea in a pea green boat. Except it was blue. I remember when the Coast Guard found it washed up down past the lighthouse. Gruesome, huh?” He wiggled his sparse eyebrows at the trio of listeners.

Jake's account was interesting, but Judith didn't see how it shed much light on Leona's murder. “Was Race married?” she asked.

Jake rang again for the nurse. “Nope. Perennial bachelor, like me. Had an eye for the ladies, though.” He leered at Judith and Renie. “Also like me. In fact, I recall that he courted Alice early on.” He frowned. scratching at his head. “Or was it Leona? I forget. Anyways, everybody
said later it was because of the cheese. It sure wasn't their shapes.”

Renie, who had been leaning out the door trying in vain to get a nurse for Jake, popped back inside. “So how long has Race Doyle been gone?”

“Seven years,” Jake answered promptly. “Same time I had my gall bladder out. You should have seen those stones! I had 'em made into a necklace for a cute little trick I was seeing down in Depoe Bay.”

Joe was still studying his notes. His green eyes looked up from the napkin to Judith. “You're avoiding the local law enforcement folks. How come, Jude-girl?”

Judith and Renie exchanged ironic glances. “They didn't strike us as very cooperative, I guess. I got the feeling they spend more time wrangling with each other than trying to solve crimes.”

Renie sat back down in the chair reserved for Jake's visitors. “Your bride was reluctant to tell them her groom is a homicide detective. I think she's afraid they'll arrest you for being out of your jurisdiction.” She gave her cousin an amused look.

“I think they're out of their league,” Judith declared a bit huffily. “I can't imagine either Clooney or Eldritch doing much more than arresting a few drunken tourists or breaking up a brawl among the local loggers.”

Putting his notes aside, Joe leaned back in the bed as far as the ropes and pulleys would allow. “Oh—I don't know. Some of these small-town cops are pretty sharp when it comes right down to it. You might drop in on one—or both—of them and see what kind of background they've got on the victim. It would be smart to let them know you're still around.”

If Judith and Renie were calling attention to themselves by meeting the various suspects, Joe figured the police and sheriff should know what they were up to in case they needed protection. He gestured at the napkin which rested on the side table between the hospital beds. Joe wanted to steer the cousins into safer channels. “The most important thing you're missing is information about Leona herself.
Except for a bunch of boxes and a wad of German newspapers, she strikes me as a mystery alive as well as dead.”

Judith sat up straighter; her back was still a bit stiff. “Nobody will tell us anything except that she's been gone for over twenty years and was a dedicated missionary. Although,” she continued in a speculative tone, “I have the feeling Titus Teacher knows more than he's willing to say, if only we could ever catch him when he isn't swinging that damned baseball bat. Alice Hoke must know something about her sister, too.”

“Maybe you should try some of the other, more disinterested locals,” suggested Joe, who had just realized that Renie had discreetly turned off the TV. He glanced up at the blank screen. “Hey, what happened to the Duke?”

“What happened to the nurse?” demanded Jake Beezle just as Dr. Rolf Lundgren entered the room.

“I was just passing through,” said the intern with a nod for the visitors. “One of the nurses said you rang before she had to go on break.”

“Break!” squawked Jake. “Don't those fat broads ever do any
work
? What do they do, waddle off to the grocery store and load up a cart every hour on the hour?”

“Not in this town,” murmured Renie.

“Say,” said Jake, squinting up at the intern. “How old are you, sonny? Does you mother know you're out by yourself running around in a white coat?”

Dr. Lundgren's smile was amiable. “Don't worry, Mr. Beezle, I'm a graduate of the University of Oregon Medical School. Those nurses have a lot of responsibility. There are only three RNs on this floor for twenty-six patients. Many of them require critical care.”

Jake wasn't appeased. “Critical is right! It's critical that I don't die of thirst! Imagine, two blocks from the Pacific Ocean, and not a drop to drink!” He scooted sideways in the bed, peering around Dr. Lundgren. “Hey, toots, did you bring any today? The good stuff, I mean?”

Judith started to demur, but the intern interrupted with a request to examine Jake's dressing. As Dr. Lundgren pulled the curtain around Beezle's bed, Judith stood up.
“Okay,” she agreed, taking Joe's hand, “maybe we should go see Clooney. Or Eldritch.”

“Or both,” chimed in Renie.

Joe gave a single nod. “Good.” He looked up at the big clock next to the TV. “It's almost five now. You probably should wait until tomorrow.” He gave Judith's hand a squeeze, then lowered his voice. “Thanks for not mentioning my job to those locals. I wouldn't want them coming around here asking for free advice and making me crazy.”

Noting that the color was restored to Joe's cheeks and that the glint was back in his eyes, Judith melted. “I keep pestering you for advice,” she said, her voice curiously thin. “Do I make you crazy?”

Joe put his other hand on her hip. “You sure do.” His grin was deliciously off-center. “But I love it.”

“Good,” breathed Judith.

“Good-bye,” called Renie.

“Good grief!” shouted Jake from behind the curtain. “This here medico can't be more than twelve years old! Somebody get me a grown-up doctor!”

Judith decided it was time for her to say good-bye, too.

 

Judith reached Arlene Rankers at Hillside Manor on the first ring. The B&B was full up as expected, reported Arlene. The guests were happy, the larder was well-stocked, and more reservations were coming in. Judith was not to worry. Everything was going beautifully. Except for the explosion.

“Explosion?” Judith rocked as if fifty pounds of dynamite had been set off under her own feet. “What explosion?”

“It's nothing,” soothed Arlene as the teakettle whistled in the background. Fleetingly, Judith could picture her high-ceilinged kitchen with the old schoolhouse clock and the comfortable captain's chairs pulled around the maple table. And probably all in a smoking ruin, she thought as she waited for Arlene's explanation. “It was Dooley,” Arlene went on, referring to the teenaged newspaper carrier whose family lived directly behind Hillside Manor.
“He and some friends went to the Indian reservation to get fireworks and they set some of them off early.” There was a pause as Arlene spoke to someone away from the phone. Judith presumed it was a guest. Or the bomb squad.

“And?” Judith encouraged, now sitting down as Renie watched curiously from the sofa.

“What? Oh,” Arlene continued, “it was one of those M14s or whatever they call them—our Kevin used to shoot them off when the Hungarians lived down the street, remember?”

Mercifully, Judith didn't. Kevin and the Hungarians must have shot their wad during her years on Thurlow Street with Dan McMonigle. For once, Judith was grateful to Dan for allowing them to be shipped off to the decaying neighborhood in the south end of town. “So what happened?” asked Judith, trying to keep calm.

“To the Hungarians? Don't you remember, they bought that roofing business and moved over to the Bluff not far from…”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Judith, shaking the phone and wishing it were Arlene. “The explosion. What blew up?”

“Oh.” Arlene sounded faintly bored. “Not much. Just part of the fence between you and Dooleys'. And a little bit of your toolshed.”

Judith was aghast. “The toolshed?” She shuddered. The toolshed was the repository for Dan McMonigle's ashes. Judith had always meant to give her late husband's remains a proper burial, but never seemed to find the right moment. Before marrying Joe, she had vowed to take care of Dan as soon as she got back to town. “Which part of the toolshed?”

“Which part?” Arlene turned vague. “You mean east, west? I'm not sure…the part where there used to be a roof.”

Judith clutched at her head. Alarmed, Renie came to her cousin's side. But Arlene was now speaking swiftly. “Don't you fuss about a thing. Carl says he and our boys can fix it in an afternoon. Mr. Dooley offered to help, too.
It was only part of the roof and everything inside seems just fine.”

Then, thought Judith, so was Dan. She hoped. Taking a deep breath, she made a dazed attempt to count her blessings. “You're sure…?” she began.

“Of course.” Arlene chuckled. “Honestly, Judith, you worry so! Boys will be boys. The couple from Japan just loved it! They thought we did it to welcome them.”

Like Hiroshima
, Judith reflected darkly. But to be fair, the damage didn't sound particularly devastating. And Judith had no doubts that Arlene was being the perfect hostess. “Hopefully, we'll be back by the weekend,” said Judith, “but Joe's doctors won't say anything definite until Saturday.”

“I already told Serena I could stay on the extra days,” insisted Arlene. “Heavens, it's no trouble; I'm right next door. Besides, I enjoy it.”

Judith knew that was true. Over the years, Arlene had done her own share of catering, especially for parish events, and she was an excellent cook as well as a top-notch organizer. Judith decided that a minor explosion was a small price to pay for a week's vacation.