Clam Wake (28 page)

As soon as Renie started up the staircase, Judith studied Uncle Vince's beat-up boat. One of the two seats was broken. There was a cushion under the other plank. She pulled it out, noticing that it was an embroidered pillow, soiled and tattered. There were rust-colored blotches on the faded satin cover. In one corner, she could make out Edna Glover's signature. She was still turning the pillow in her hands when Renie yelled at her.

“Hold on!” Judith called back, moving to where Ernie's corpse had been found. She couldn't see her cousin. Thus Renie probably couldn't see her. They met at the top of the stairs. “That,” Judith stated, “helps explain why nobody above the beach saw the murder.” She thrust the pillow at her cousin. “Tell me what this is all about.”

Renie's examination was thorough. “Did you see it Friday?” she asked, handing the pillow back to Judith.

“Of course not. I didn't look inside the boat.”

“Neither did I. You might be tampering with evidence. Could that brown stuff be dried blood?”

“Maybe.” The cousins started up the hill. “The pillow must not have been there Friday,” Judith finally said. “Jacobson would've bagged and tagged it. I'm wondering if Betsy put it in the boat. The blood may have been on the knife. Maybe she swipes more than meds from the locals. I'm guessing she swiped the pillow from the Glover house.”

“You figure Betsy often takes a nap in Uncle Vince's old boat?”

Judith sighed. “Who knows what Betsy does? It's hard enough to understand allegedly normal people, but this time we've got a ringer. Dick mentioned her sleeping in the boat. I suspect Betsy is on some kind of pills. Maybe they make her sleepy.” She paused halfway up the hill and turned around. “Darn. I was thinking that from this angle you could see more of the upper beach because we're higher on the hill. But we can't.”

Renie was looking off to the road on her right. “Why is Hank Hilderschmidt hugging Edna Glover?”

Judith remained fixated on the beach. “At some point, Ernie—and his killer—had to be seen by somebody other than the sick teenage . . .” She stopped to stare at Renie. “What did you say about hugging?”

“Hank hugged Edna,” Renie said, adjusting her parka's hood. “She's getting into that pale green car. I guess they're going for a spin.”

Judith saw Hank open the door on the driver's side. “Keep walking,” she said to Renie. “We don't want them to think we're spying.”

“Why not?” Renie retorted, though she kept moving. “They're not doing anything illegal. Hank will probably honk when they go by.”

But the green car passed them without so much as a nod. “Edna didn't even look at us,” Judith said. “Is that a Cadillac?”

“I think so,” Renie responded. “Cars all look alike these days.”

Judith made a face, but kept walking. “Edna doesn't entertain, but rides around with Hank? Was Zach right about Edna having a lover?”

“Eeeew,” Renie said, wincing. “Hank is not an attractive man.”

“To you,” Judith said. “Maybe he is to Edna. That could explain the argument that the ailing Em watched from her window.”

“You're suggesting a motive for murder?” Renie asked.

“It's always a good one,” Judith replied, “but I'm not jumping to conclusions.” She grew silent as they turned off to the Weber house. “Let's hose down the clams and leave them outside. We need to do research.”

Renie set the bucket by the garden hose faucet just off the steps. “On what? I know how to take care of clams.”

“We haven't done the basics to find the killer,” Judith replied. “Yes, we've met several people since we arrived, but what do we really know about them? Just random bits and pieces. All we have are rumors. We need facts. Deep background, as they say.”

“Good thing I brought my laptop,” Renie murmured, covering the clams in water. “Ooof! This thing's heavy. I should've waited to fill the bucket after I got it up the steps.” She used her free hand to steady herself on the rail. “If you fall down, you're out of luck.”

Five minutes later, they were both on the sofa with a box of Ritz Crackers and a jar of soft cheddar. Judith had a glass of ice water and Renie had her usual Pepsi.

“Let's start with a known quantity,” Judith suggested, spreading cheese on a cracker. “Brose Bennett; real first name, Ambrose. Put his name in the
Times
search engine.”

Renie kicked off her shoes. “Why didn't our aunt and uncle put a fireplace in here? That would be really cozy.”

“It probably would've cost too much,” Judith said. “Find anything?”

“Quite a bit,” Renie said, eyes on the screen. “All old news and mostly about the sale of the company. See for yourself. I need chocolate.” She got up to fetch her white bag from the fridge.

Judith was disappointed. “You're right. Nothing recent. I might as well stay with the
B
s and put in Zach Bendarek. Careful, you'll get chocolate all over the keyboard.”

“Idwoodabeedafurztym,” Renie said with her mouth full.

“I can see that from whatever residue you've left on previous occasions,” Judith declared. “It's a wonder the keys don't stick.”

“Sometimes they do,” Renie said, after swallowing.

“Shoot,” Judith murmured after sipping her ice water. “One hit, two years ago, about a California high school recruit Zach found for the University football team. Here's another one, but it's the same as from the previous year, except there's a quote. ‘The kid's got legs. He can run.' That sounds like Zach.”

“Master of the obvious,” Renie remarked.

“Maybe this was a dumb idea,” Judith said. “I'll try Hilderschmidt. Here's a Helmut Hilderschmidt. Could that be Hank's real name? No—this is about H&H Construction. It must be Tank.”

“Is it of interest?”

Judith shook her head. “It's in the business wrap-up about a new building in South Lake Onion. I guess Tank keeps busy. Ah! Here's Henry, three years ago this month. He's a junior. Oh, no!” She put a hand to her breast. “It's the son, a firefighter.” She read the story aloud: “‘Three people were killed and two were injured when the roof of a burning house caved in early Tuesday morning . . .'” She stopped, scanning until she found young Henry's name. “‘A three-year veteran of the city's fire department, Hilderschmidt was killed when a beam fell on him while he was trying to rescue an elderly couple trapped on the second floor.'” She paused. “The rest is speculation about what caused the fire. He wasn't a cop, as Kent assumed, but he was killed in the line of duty.”

“There must be an obit,” Renie said.

“There is. Hank was only twenty-six. Private services, memorials to Medic One and the firefighters retirement fund. No wife or kids.”

“No wonder Hilda's a bit odd,” Renie murmured. “Who's next?”

“Frank Leonetti,” Judith replied, typing in the name. “Nothing. Maybe it's Francesco?”

Renie shrugged. “If not, try Franco.”

Her cousin's suggestion paid off. “There are several references, all related to the family produce business. After the elder Leonetti died in 1982, his three sons turned it into a wholesale company. They later expanded the line of grocery products. Two brothers, Antonio and Claudio, were running the business along with Franco as of 2000.” Judith kept scrolling—and gasped. “In October 2003, the brothers drowned while fishing in the Santa Lucia Islands.” Judith skimmed the article. “A storm came up, overturning their inflatable boat.”

Renie chomped on another piece of honeycomb. “Infwadubel bo in Akdobah?” She swallowed. “That's not very smart. We were lucky with the weather when I went with you to B&B-sit your old pal's inn, but that was in September. To quote Uncle Vince, it really can get choppy up there later in the fall.”

“I suppose,” Judith murmured. “I'll check their obits. Several people at Obsession Shores have had their tragedies.”

“A lot of them are old,” Renie said. “Nobody who lives to retirement age gets a pass on the bad stuff.”

Judith clicked
Obituaries
again, then entered
Leonetti
. “It's a single article about the brothers—and it's long.”

Renie dug a chocolate-covered raisin out of the bag. “Condense it.”

Judith scanned the two columns that ran a good six inches. “Background on the family business. Antonio was sixty-eight, Claudio was sixty-six.” Judith skipped down to the survivors. “Brothers never married. Survivors are Frank and two nieces, Angela Leonetti Burke and Maria Leonetti Jordan. They must be Frank's daughters.”

“Even I could figure out that much,” Renie said. “That's it?”

“More about the business's earlier expansion. The usual affiliations, activities and hobbies along with the funeral and burial info. Memorials to their parish school's scholarship fund. This explains the comments Gina's brothers made about Frank's bad luck. You want to read it?”

“No. Just asking. Did they collect coins by any chance?”

Judith ate another cheese-covered cracker before answering. “Both brothers fished, hunted, and liked music, especially Italian folk songs. They made a pilgrimage to their father's hometown of Terracina, Italy, in 1990. I wonder if Frank went with them.”

“Why?” Renie inquired. “You figure Frank wanted the business for himself and tried to push Tony and Claud off the Amalfi Drive? When that didn't work, he put a hole in their inflatable boat? Get real.”

“No,” Judith said with a scowl. “Though especially as business partners, brothers can have a falling-out.”

Renie's expression was impish. “The brothers did fall out of their boat. Check Hank Senior. Maybe he's been arrested for window peeping.”

“Hank's name drew a blank,” Judith said, after finding no references. “He bought up all those old corner grocery stores, remember? I suspect that Tank probably took over from there with demolition and replacement. I'm guessing he built houses.”

Renie had a quibble. “Tank's a subcontractor. Somebody else probably built the places. Still, the Hilderschmidt brothers made money off of Hank's real estate savvy.”

“No doubt.” Judith drank more water. “Let's see what I can find on Kent Logan.”

There were at least a dozen references going back for the past three years. All of them pertained to personnel moves within his law firm except for one that caught Judith's attention.

“Listen to this, coz,” she said, noting that Renie's eyes looked rather glazed. “Kent was involved in a lawsuit last March where he represented Quincy Quimby suing Helmut—that's Tank—Hilderschmidt for building-code violations in connection with work done on the boathouse. They settled out of court.”

Renie looked mildly interested. “So Quincy stabs Ernie Glover because he remarked that he didn't think Tank did such a bad job?”

“Of course not,” Judith replied, mildly exasperated. “But it shows contention between the Quimbys and the Hilderschmidts, with Kent on Quincy's side. Of course that makes sense because as far as we know, Kent's the only lawyer here at Obsession Shores.” She waited for Renie's response, but her cousin merely popped more chocolate into her mouth. “Okay,” Judith muttered. “I'm checking Ernie next.”

Renie got off the sofa and walked over to the window. “It's clouding up. I'm going to rescue the clams. We might as well get them cleaned.”

“Fine,” Judith said, scowling. She was about to enter Ernest Glover's name when she heard Renie talking to someone outside. A minute or so later, her cousin staggered inside with the bucket of clams.

“I would've dumped the water out,” Renie gasped, “but some bozo was down below the deck. He wanted to know if the Webers were home.” She set the bucket down and rummaged in the cupboard.

“What did you tell him?” Judith asked, fingers poised on the keyboard.

“That they were killed in a tragic hot-air balloon accident,” Renie replied. “He was probably trying to sell them something. He looked like a salesman. Who else would wear a trench coat up here?”

“A private detective?”

“I exaggerated. It was a regular raincoat.” Renie hauled a big metal kettle out of the cupboard and began filling it with water. “Come to think of it, maybe the Quimbys hired someone to follow up on the old man's suspect as the killer. But why call on the Webers?”

“Maybe the guy's checking all the residents,” Judith suggested.

“I doubt it. His Nissan was parked by the mailbox. He took off.”

Judith set the laptop aside and got up from the sofa to join her cousin in the kitchen area. “What did he look like?”

“Oh . . .” Renie paused to put the kettle on the stove and turn on the heat. “About forty, fairly tall, sort of blond hair, average in every way. Help me toss clams into the kettle. I refuse to lift the bucket again.”

Judith complied. “I wonder . . .” she murmured, more to herself than to her cousin.

“What?” Renie inquired, using a metal bowl to scoop clams out of the bucket.

“When we were in Langton, do you remember me telling you I saw the reporter who stayed at the B&B?”

“Vaguely. Eeek!” Renie made a face and rubbed her right eye. “One of those clams just spit at me.”

Judith laughed. “They don't want to be boiled.” She quickly grew serious. “Now you've piqued my curiosity. Why is Jack Larrabee hanging out around here? Granted, he said he was heading north, but I thought he meant straight up the freeway to Canada. He's doing a series on vacation spots in the Pacific Northwest.”

Renie shrugged. “Whoopee Island is a vacation spot.”

“So it is,” Judith agreed. “But it's off the beaten track for anybody who isn't a local.”

“I suppose that's why he's here,” Renie said, dumping the last of the clams into the kettle. “He's avoiding all the usual tourist stops.”