Clam Wake (24 page)

“Ah.” Judith could hardly conceal her excitement. “Was that after Mr. Glover . . . died?”

Betsy looked vague. “Maybe. It was after the fire engine came. And went. There was no fire, no pretty yellow ribbon by the boat. Did Vance want the firemen to burn it up? She told me it'd make good firewood.”

Judith and Jacobson exchanged quick looks. “Vince bought the knife for Vance to cut up vegetables for her soup,” Judith explained. “If you give it to me, I can give it back to Vance and Vince.”

Betsy took a long time to think about it. The soup boiled. Judith edged toward the stove, her eyes still on her strange guest. Jacobson, meanwhile, seemed intrigued by a pair of Aunt Ellen's fruit decoupages that hung on the wall behind the table.

Finally Betsy reached inside her jacket. “Here,” she said, putting the knife down in front of her bowl. “Tell Vance I took good care of it.”

“I will,” Judith promised, rescuing the soup before it boiled over.

Betsy began to hum to herself. Then, as Judith finished pouring the kettle's contents into the two bowls, Betsy gently slapped herself on the cheek. “No singing at the table!” she growled in a strange, deep voice. “That's what Papa always says. Papa is always right.” She made an angry face. “He doesn't like it when I call him Papa. Why is that?” Apparently not expecting an answer, she crushed two crackers between both hands and dumped the crumbs into the bowl.

Silence fell over the table. Judith turned off the stove and put the kettle in the dishwasher. She decided to take advantage of the moment to retrieve her pills and started for the hall.

“No!” Betsy shouted—and choked on something in her soup.

Judith patted her on the back. “Okay, I'll stay here,” she reassured Betsy, who immediately recovered.

Jacobson nibbled on a cracker. At last, he spoke to Betsy. “Papa wants you to come home after you've eaten. He's worried about you.”

“No, he's not,” Betsy declared in an unconcerned tone. “Papa only worries about Papa. And his buried treasure.” She put the spoon down and looked at the officer. “What good does it do if it's still buried?”

Judith leaned on the back of an empty chair. “What kind of treasure is it?”

Betsy scowled. “Money. It's deep in the ground, where it's safe.” She laughed. “Guess what? I tell Papa
he's
crazy.” She lapped up the rest of her soup and rose from the chair. “I'll go now. Thank you for feeding me.”

Jacobson got to his feet. “I'll walk you home. It's very late.”

“So?” Betsy looked pugnacious. “It's not midnight, is it?”

“No,” he said, “but it's still foggy and dark. I'm going in that direction anyway.”

“Okay.” Betsy looked at Judith. “Please thank Vance for the soup.”

“I will,” Judith promised while the deputy put on his jacket. He let Betsy go first before mouthing the words, “Wait for me.”

Judith nodded and hurried to get her pills. She took them into the kitchen and had just swallowed the two tablets when Renie staggered out of the hallway. “Are they gone?” she asked, shoving strands of chestnut hair out of her eyes.

“Yes,” Judith replied, “but Jacobson's coming back. Did you hear any of that?”

“All of it,” Renie said in disgust. “I'm going back to bed. You can entertain your new best friend. If I have to get up at nine, I need to go back to sleep. Alone.” She disappeared from view.

Judith cleaned off the table. A glance at the kitchen clock told her it was a quarter to six. She wondered if there was any point in going back to bed, but hoped Jacobson wouldn't stay long. He'd put in a harder day than she had.

The deputy knocked on the door at exactly six. He went straight to the table where Judith had left the knife.

“Is that the weapon?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Have you got a plastic bag I can put this in?”

“Somewhere,” she said, but had to pull out three drawers before she found the stash of paper, plastic, and aluminum products. “Can your lab get anything useful off that thing?” she inquired.

“Dubious.” Jacobson put the knife in the recyclable bag. “By the way, nice work getting Betsy to believe this belonged to the Webers.”

“It was a long shot,” Judith admitted. “My only hope was that Betsy thought enough of Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince to please them by leaving the knife where it supposedly belonged. What happened when you took Betsy home?”

Jacobson looked beleaguered. “The door was locked. I had to get somebody to hear me over the barking of guard dogs inside, but they roused Quimby's son. He didn't seem surprised by Betsy's return this time of night. Or morning.”

“Where
is
the Quimby house?” Judith asked. “I keep forgetting to check it out on the development map.”

Jacobson gestured up and to his left. “It's the fairly big gray house at the top of the hill. It must have three stories and a basement. I noticed earlier that it looked like the oldest structure in Obsession Shores.”

“That makes sense,” Judith said. “Quimby inherited the property from his family, but selling it off lot by lot was his wife's idea.”

“Oh?” The deputy looked intrigued. “I don't know much about the development's history. That's interesting. I feel remiss, having grown up here, but it's a huge island.”

“It's also a long and rather narrow chunk of land.” Judith suddenly remembered the mystery boat. “I hate to bring this up, but . . .” She succinctly related the sightings. “Has anyone mentioned this to you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Jacobson replied, “someone did, but it was a Scratchit Head resident, one of the people who reported a break-in. Of course we've no idea why the boat goes out so late in January. With this fog socked in, it's probably moored somewhere tonight.”

“Did it seem to be coming from here or Scratchit Head?”

“The person couldn't tell,” the deputy responded, and moved to the door. “He saw it just off the point. In fact, he thought it was stopped. I'd better go before I fall asleep at the wheel. Thanks for the soup. Maybe I can sleep in and skip breakfast.”

Judith wished him well before turning off the lights and heading to the master bedroom. She soon fell into a dreamless sleep. When she finally awoke, it was bright daylight and the fog was gone.

A glance at the digital clock told her it was 9:50. Stunned, she struggled out of bed in search of Renie. She found her cousin still asleep. The alarm clock was on the floor. Shaking her head, Judith went into the bathroom. It was too late to go to Mass. By the time they got dressed and drove into Langton, the liturgy would almost be over. Feeling a twinge of guilt, she showered and prepared to face the day. Maybe God would forgive them for their sin of omission. Most people's excuses for sleeping in on Sundays didn't include someone else's sin of commission.

Renie showed up in the kitchen right after the coffee had begun to perk. “We're going to hell,” she muttered. “I think I knocked over the alarm clock when I reached for more gum.”

“Are you sure you didn't throw it on the floor?” Judith asked.

“The gum? I always throw it on the floor after I finish chewing it. Are we still going out for breakfast?”

“No. We'll eat here. I'll start cooking while you put yourself together. Those tiger stripes are making me dizzy.”

Renie wandered into the bathroom. She returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes later just as Judith was removing bacon from a skillet. “What,” she asked “is your revised plan for the day?”

“Tackling the Quimbys,” Judith said. “Then joining the folks who are already on the beach. Some of them are clam digging. The tide's already fairly far out. We should give clamming a shot, too.”

Renie put a slice of bread in the toaster. “Go ahead. It's Sunday, a day of rest. I thought you wanted to explore the boathouse.”

“I do, but if you'd bother looking through the window, you'd see a half-dozen boats out there already. I'd rather check the boathouse when it isn't in use. Do you want a fried egg?”

“I'll do it myself,” Renie said, opening the refrigerator. “I have my own method. I use only butter for frying and I like to arrange my egg in a visually pleasing manner.”

Judith ignored the comment. She finished preparing her own breakfast and sat down at the table. Renie joined her a few minutes later after doing whatever it was she did at a stove that seemed to require some serious cussing. Neither cousin spoke until Judith finished eating and Renie devoured several mouthfuls of food.

“Did you catch Betsy-and-the-knife bit?” Judith asked.

Renie shook her head and kept chewing toast while Judith explained how Betsy apparently had found a knife in Vince's old boat. “Judging from the time frame,” Judith continued, “Betsy must've come to the beach while we were being taken back here by the firefighters. You recall that neither of us gave Uncle Vince's boat a cursory look.”

“‘Nothing to see here, nothing to see here,” Renie murmured. “Except there was, and we missed it.”

“A huge mistake on our part,” Judith declared. “Of course we thought Ernie died of natural causes.”

Renie's smile was ironic. “With your history, we should've known better. Still, if that knife is the weapon, wasn't it stupid for the killer to leave it so close to the scene of the crime?”

“That's what bothers me,” Judith said. “Did the killer panic? Was someone else nearby? But no witnesses have come forward nor has anybody admitted being on the beach. Betsy had to move quickly before the other emergency personnel showed up. She does skitter around very fast, especially for someone her age.”

“Her whole persona is childlike,” Renie pointed out. “It's as if she's still three years old. A safe age for hiding.”

“Good point,” Judith noted. “I'm not sure I blame her.”

I
t was going on eleven by the time the cousins headed up the hill to the Quimby house. Judith remarked it could use a new paint job. “Even gray fades,” she said as they approached a peeling white picket fence. “The roof could use some work, too.”

“You're right,” Renie agreed, opening the gate, which creaked on rusty hinges. “If this place was an older architectural style, it could stand in for the house in
Psycho
.”

“Well,” Judith murmured, “Betsy does live here.”

The grass was overlong around the slate stepping-stones that led to the small porch. “Quimby must be too stingy to pay for upkeep,” Renie asserted. “Check the broken windows on the second floor and what seems to be a third floor or big attic.”

Judith grimaced. “I didn't notice how shabby all this looks from down below. It's a nice house, but it sure hasn't been maintained.”

“No wonder Betsy wanders around outside,” Renie said, after ringing the doorbell. “It's depressing.”

The cousins waited. And waited. Renie punched the bell again. “I can't hear the damned thing ring. Maybe they can't either.”

“They heard Jacobson earlier this morning,” Judith noted. “He could hear barking dogs inside before anyone showed up.”

“Let's hope nobody has released those hounds outside,” Renie said, looking as if she was ready to kick in the door. Before she could do any damage, the knob turned in her hand.

“Yes?” the woman reputedly called Nan said warily. “Are you lost? Or . . .” Her voice trailed away as if it had run off down the darkened corridor behind her.

“We're the Webers' nieces,” Judith said quickly, before Renie could say something less polite. “We were the ones who . . . hosted Betsy last night. How is she?”

Nan shrugged. “Betsy's fine. She always is. My sister-in-law tends to wander. Thanks for asking.” The door began to close.

Judith stopped it with her foot. “We wanted to thank her for returning the knife,” she said.

Nan looked shaken. “The . . . knife? What knife?”

“The one that belonged to our aunt and uncle,” Judith replied. “It was kind of Betsy to bring it to us. We wondered what had happened to it. I hate staying at somebody's house and mislaying their belongings.” She took advantage of Nan's still-startled expression to step just inside the door. “Could I speak to her for a moment?”

“Ah . . .” Nan turned to look behind her as a sound came out of the darkness. “Later, maybe,” she mumbled, trying in vain to close the door. “I must—”

“What's going on?” a rasping voice shouted. Quentin Quimby rolled into view. “Who dares show up at my house?”

“Mr. Quimby!” Judith cried excitedly. “What a thrill! You're quite famous around here. Could I get your autograph?”

The old man's wrinkled face scowled up at Judith. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Ginger at the Sun Store told us so much about you,” Judith gushed. “Of course, Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince never stop singing your praises.”

Quimby pounded a gnarled fist on the wheelchair's arm. “Bah! That Vance woman's got a big yap and her old man's always unconscious. Get out of here before I . . .” He stopped and glared at Nan. “Throw them out, girl. They're trouble. Now.”

The “girl” appeared to be at least sixty. Having only glimpsed Nan amid the clubhouse hubbub, Judith noticed that Quimby's daughter-in-law looked almost as thin as Betsy and far more wrinkled. Nan's watery blue eyes were pleading. “Please go,” she said to the cousins in a tremulous voice.

Renie shrugged. “Sure. We could always get a ladder and crawl in through a broken window. See ya.” She stomped off the porch.

Judith didn't have much choice but to follow her. “That was a bust,” she muttered after the door had been firmly shut behind them. “Still . . .” She stopped talking and turned around to stare back at the grim, gray house. “This isn't a home, it's a prison. The only one free to come and go seems to be Betsy. I wonder . . .”