Clam Wake (37 page)

“Do I have a choice?” Renie muttered, joining her cousin just inside the doorway. “Where did Looney Tunes go?”

“Down the hall,” Judith replied. “Maybe we should leave the door open. I think Betsy's going to let out the dogs.” She peered into a room off to her left. “That's the pantry. It probably leads into the kitchen. What's on the other side of the hall?”

“A wall,” Renie said. “Not uncommon in most houses. Why are we here instead of just about anywhere else I can think of?”

“Stop bitching.” Judith started down the hall. “Where did Betsy go? The pantry's the only room . . . There's a door on the right. Let's check it out.” She turned the knob. “It's locked.” She started to move on, but saw that Renie was leaning against the door. “What are you doing?”

“I'm sleuthing,” Renie said. “I hear running water, so I deduce this is a bathroom. No wonder the door's locked.”

They moved on, pausing at double doors that revealed storage for linen and china. Turning the corner, they saw two more doors, one straight ahead and the other on their left. The latter was ajar. Judith pushed it open, revealing a cluttered, windowless room where a single lightbulb dangled on a frayed cord from the ceiling. What had probably been used as a study was jammed with piles of books, newspapers, magazines, photo albums, and file folders.

“Firetrap,” Renie observed. “Nan must not like housecleaning.”

“I hope the rest of the place doesn't look like this,” Judith said. “No wonder they don't encourage visitors. You're right. This wasn't one of my brighter ideas. It smells musty in here. I wonder why the light's on. Let's go before I start sneezing from all the dust.”

A rustling sound made the cousins jump before they could get to the door.

“You're not going anywhere,” a raspy old voice said.

Quentin Quimby rolled his wheelchair out from behind a stack of books and albums. He had a cigarette lighter in his hand. “Blanche isn't going anywhere either. At least not without me.” He made as if to flick the lighter. “We're all going to hell, where the flames will burn forever.”

“Don't,” Judith said sharply. “There's something you should know.”

The agatelike eyes stared at her as his hand faltered slightly. “There's nothing I
don't
know,” he growled. “I saw you from my window when you arrived Friday at the Weber house. That's when I knew your husband had to die. Now you know too much, snooping all over my property. You and your smarty-pants husband! I fixed him. Stupid schoolteacher man. Who's to say the lot wouldn't perc? I say it does. Pshaw!” He spat on the floor.

Judith opened her mouth to speak, but clamped it shut. She felt Renie's arm brush against her elbow. The empathy they'd shared since childhood often allowed them to read each other's mind. Judith knew Renie also understood Quimby's delusion.

“He died a long time ago,” Renie said. “He had a heart attack.”

The old man's sagging jowls seemed to droop even more. “No! That's a lie!”

“Why do you say that?” Judith asked, hoping Quimby didn't notice the quaver in her voice.

“I know because I watched him die,” he said with a twitch of a smile. “I told you, I know everything. I own everything. I
am
Obsession Shores.” He flicked the lighter.

Judith sucked in her breath; Renie let out a little gasp.

Nothing happened.

Quimby clicked and clicked, using every cussword in the English language and a few more in French. His wrinkled face was turning purple. Judith was certain that he was apoplectic. But instead of collapsing, he dropped the lighter, heaved himself out of the wheelchair, and staggered toward the cousins.

“Hansel! Gretel!” he howled, clenching his fists. “Kill!”

Judith involuntarily looked around. She saw no sign of the dogs. But the door opened behind her. The Rottweilers charged into the room.

And stopped. Betsy was behind them, holding their leashes. “You called,
Père
?” she asked. “I brought the dogs back in. They had to pee-pee.” She frowned at her father. “You look all funny. Are you sick,
mon cher père
?”

Quimby's eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. He pitched forward, collapsing at the cousins' feet. The dogs sniffed at his prone body before settling in beside him.

Betsy frowned. “Is he dead?”

“I don't know,” Judith said.

Renie knelt down, lifting the hand that had held the lighter. “I can't feel a pulse. Let me try his neck.” She touched the crepelike skin by his right ear, waited a few moments, and shook her head. Renie crossed herself and stood up. Judith bowed her head, offering a silent prayer.

“Oh, my,” Betsy said, “if he's dead, I'll have to tell the man to go away. Or should I have him see Quincy?”

“You'd better tell your brother about your father first,” Judith advised, trying to discern any sign of distress on Betsy's curiously unlined face. “In fact, maybe we should go with you.”

“No, no, no,” Betsy replied. “
Père
shouldn't be left alone. You go. I'll stay here with the dogs. And
Père
.”

Judith realized she had no idea how to get to the main part of the house. “Where does the door at the end of the hall go?” she asked.

Betsy didn't answer right away. She was studying the old man's body in a detached sort of way. “To all the other rooms,” she finally said. “If you see my brother, tell him
Père
is dead. Quincy will be so happy. Now he's rich.”

Once outside of the cluttered room, Judith leaned against the wall. “I need to find my nerves. I know they must be somewhere.”

Renie rubbed her eyes, then blinked several times. “I thought I'd die—literally. That's the first time we've had a killer croak on us.” She frowned. “The old coot is . . . I mean,
was
the killer, right?”

Judith nodded. “I never suspected him until those letters showed up and we discovered Blanche really was dead. All along it bothered me that there was no apparent motive. Nobody commits murder over a proposed sewer. But several people mentioned that the victim should have been Quimby. Why didn't I realize that if you flipped that around, the answer was that
he
was the killer?”

Renie grimaced. “Because that's not the way your usual sound logic works?”

Judith shook her head. “Maybe not. It doesn't matter now. Let's find Quincy and Nan. Oh, let's not forget the visitor Betsy mentioned.”

“I'll bet it's Jacobson,” Renie said as she opened the door at the end of the hall that led to a more narrow, dimly lighted corridor.

“Maybe not, since Betsy knows Jacobson as Erik, so she'd . . .” Judith stopped, seeing Quincy, Nan, and Jack Larrabee come out of a room up ahead on their left. “What the . . . ?”

Quincy and Nan both looked startled. Jack seemed bemused.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he remarked as the cousins approached.

Quincy stared at Jack. “You know these women?”

Jack grinned. “I've spent the night with Mrs. Flynn. She makes an excellent breakfast.”

The flippant remark helped ease the tension that was still making Judith feel a bit wobbly. “Could we all find somewhere to sit down?” she said to Quincy.

He looked discomfited. “I suppose. But why? What's going on?”

Nan tugged at his arm. “Please, Quin. I told you I had a premonition, even before Mr. Larrabee arrived.
Père
seemed very odd.”

Quincy led them into what he termed the parlor, a room with closed drapes, shabby furnishings, and a Persian carpet that was threadbare in places. Judith and Renie sat down on a faded blue settee. The others seated themselves in worn side chairs flanking a fireplace sealed off with a piece of plywood.

Judith didn't mince words. “Mr. Quimby is dead, apparently from a stroke or heart attack. Betsy is with him. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Quincy's jaw dropped. Nan simply stared at Judith. Jack looked mildly curious. In the silence that followed, a mantel clock chimed the half hour on a weak, quivering note.

Then Nan shot out of her chair and flung herself at Quincy. “We're rich! We're free! I love you, Quin! Let's have a cocktail!”

A
fter being told where the body could be found, the two Quimbys rushed out of the parlor. Judith stood up, with Renie following suit.

“We're leaving,” Judith said to Jack. “Are you sticking around?”

“No,” he said, also getting to his feet. “I was on my way out when you two showed up. I don't suppose you want to tell me why you're here.”

“Betsy invited us,” Judith replied, noting that Jack looked puzzled. “Quincy's sister. How do we get out of here? We came in the side door.”

“Follow me,” Jack said, going out the way they'd come into the parlor, but turning to his right. “There's the front door. May I?” He opened it and followed the cousins outside. The fog had lifted, so that they could see the beach, if not the bay. “I don't suppose,” he mused, “you've heard anything new about the homicide case?”

Judith paused at the bottom of the steps. “Check later with the sheriff's office,” she replied. “Did you come here to question the Quimbys about the murder?”

Jack looked pained. “I lied.”

Judith was taken aback. “About what?”

“I'm not a reporter,” he said, looking sheepish. “I'm not from the Midwest. I'm a private investigator from Portland. Becca Bendarek is my sister. She was designated a week ago to find a PI to look into the senior Quimby's shenanigans with the property sales here. She found a Joe Flynn, but he turned down the case . . .” Jack chuckled. “You know why.”

Judith didn't know whether to laugh or get mad. “Is that the reason you came to the B&B?”

Jack shrugged. “I had to stay somewhere overnight to do background in the city. I worked with Joe a couple of times when he was still on the force. When I realized you were his wife, I thought I could get information about the island from him, but he'd already left town. I decided I didn't want to blow my cover. You never know who's connected to who, even in a city as large as your hometown. My hunch was right. You did have ties to Whoopee Island. I almost turned tail and took off when I recognized you outside the café.”

Renie couldn't contain herself. “You used my cousin? That's a cheap shot. It serves you right that she doesn't know zip about the case.”

“Hey,” Jack said, holding up his hands, “it's my job.”

“Then you'd better do it,” Renie snapped. “So long, Jack.”

Judith followed Renie down the walk. “That was sort of mean of you,” she said, but sounded more amused than upset.

“I knew you wanted to call Jacobson,” Renie said. “In fact, here he comes now. Do you want to talk to him?”

Judith paused at the road's edge. “I'm worn out. Let's go back to the house. I'll call him from there. Right now
I
need a cocktail.”

T
he deputy came to see the cousins an hour later. Judith explained everything in detail. He listened stoically, asking only a few questions. When Judith had finished, he sadly shook his head.

“Mistaken identity from over thirty years ago,” he murmured. “Incredible. Of course Quimby's death saves the county the cost of a trial, though I doubt it would've come to that. He sounds deranged.”

Judith nodded. “Yet cunning. And ruthless. He would've preferred killing all of us and himself rather than being exposed as a criminal.”

“Nonagenarian jealousy,” Renie said, “and without a real reason. Judith's father never knew Blanche had fallen for him.”

“Jealousy,” Jacobson asserted, still faintly incredulous, “is always a strong motive—along with revenge. That vacant lot was a symbol to both Quimbys of someone who had thwarted them in different ways. But I marvel that the old guy had the strength to commit the crime.”

“He was stronger than he pretended,” Judith said. “We'd heard he could walk, but preferred being pushed around by his son and daughter-in-law. Of course adrenaline gives people extra strength.”

“That's true,” the deputy agreed. “I still don't understand what set him off after all this time.”

Judith made a face. “I'm not sure either. Maybe everything had been festering for so long that it suddenly erupted.”

Renie burst out laughing. “Coz! What's wrong with your mighty brain? Quimby saw you arrive Friday. That triggered the memory of Blanche's infatuation with your dad. Blanche may've taunted her husband about finding a new man. Quimby was obviously jealous. He went back thirty years when your parents came here to look at the property. Didn't I always say you look like your mother?”

Judith wondered if she should have another drink.

T
he cousins packed up later that afternoon and headed for the ferry. They stopped first at the Sedgewicks' house to say good-bye, but Jane and Dick weren't home, probably having gone to grocery-shop.

They reached Cliffton in time to catch the three-thirty ferry. The line of vehicles took up only a lane and a half, but Judith noticed there were two security guards with sniffer dogs on duty.

“I hope the ferry schedule isn't still disrupted,” Judith said.

Renie shrugged. “It looks as if the incoming ferry's arriving on time. I think I'll go up for popcorn again.”

“I'll stay here,” Judith said. “I may take a quick nap. This wasn't a very restful weekend.”

“No kidding.” Renie grinned at her cousin. “You must be worn out. Usually you want even the loosest of loose ends tied up. I gather you don't care about Frank's illegal crab pots or the French coins or Edna's icy demeanor or any of the other strange doings on The Rock.”