Authors: Mary Daheim
Dune to Death
DUNE TO DEATH
A BED-AND-BREAKFAST MYSTERY
To my husband and our children,
in memory of those sand-filled, charcoal-scorched suppers
I make them on the beach.
My intentions are often better than my cooking.
J
UDITH
G
ROVER
M
C
M
ONIGLE
rolled over, stretched, and felt something warmâ¦
R
ENIE SAID NO
. She was sorry about Joe's accident, sheâ¦
E
VEN IN THE
dark, Renie was charmed by the cottage.
M
RS
. H
OKE, ALAS
, was not the first body the cousinsâ¦
J
UDITH TRIED TO
pretend it was an ordinary day atâ¦
“I'
M NOT UP
to this one,” insisted Judith after theâ¦
B
Y LATE AFTERNOON
, Joe was in a much better mood.
A
S EXPECTED
, R
ENIE'S
mother answered the phone. She expressed dismayâ¦
I
T WAS ALMOST
one o'clock when the cousins returned toâ¦
J
UDITH STOOD WITH
fists on hips, surveying the curving roadâ¦
“Q
UILTS
,”
SAID
R
ENIE
. “Nice.”
A
FTER
J
UDITH AND
Renie had lunched on rare roast beefâ¦
J
UDITH AND
R
ENIE
immediately set about making iced tea, thoughâ¦
J
OE'S SURGEON
, D
R
. Scott, had conferred with his peers andâ¦
A
FTER IT APPEARED
that their trek to Pacific Heights hadâ¦
W
HAT IRONY
,
THOUGHT
Judith, that her wrongheaded permise and Terrenceâ¦
“A
T LEAST YOU
don't have to share a hospital roomâ¦
J
UDITH
G
ROVER
M
C
M
ONIGLE
rolled over, stretched, and felt something warm and furry next to her in the bed.
Sweetums
. The wretched cat had dared to crawl under the covers. Barely awake, she nudged with her elbow. There was no response. The aggravating animal obviously was playing possum. Judith jackknifed her knees, then gave a mighty heave.
The growl that met her ear sounded more like a dog than a cat, but it was neither: Joe Flynn clung to the edge of the king-sized bed, fighting for leverage. His usually imperturbable round face was blurred with sleep, his red hair stood on end, and the green eyes with their flecks of gold were murky slits.
“What the hell are you doing, Jude-girl? I practically fell on my backside!”
Horrified, Judith stared with round black eyes at her husband.
Her husband
. That was it, she and Joe were married. He wasn't Sweetums, and she wasn't home, at the bed-and-breakfast. Judith was on her honeymoon. She fell back against the pillows and began to laugh.
“Mrs. Joseph Flynn! I can't believe it! Happy day!”
Joe as not as amused. Clambering back into bed, he punched one of his pillows and gave Judith a sidelong look. “I'd hate to see you when you're
not
happy,” he grumbled. “I'd have landed out there on the beach in somebody's picnic lunch.”
Shifting her body under the covers, Judith turned to Joe, brushing his faintly receding disheveled red hair from his forehead. At just a shade under six feet, Joe was still muscular, with only a slight paunch to remind Judith that he had passed the fifty-year mark a couple of summers ago. “I dreamed you were Sweetums,” she said with a grin that was almost penitent. “Being married is going to take a bit of getting used to.”
Joe grinned back and kissed the tip of Judith's nose. “At least you didn't dream I was your mother.” He shuddered, not entirely facetiously. “I could have killed her at the wedding.”
Judith rolled her eyes. She had not been pleased with Gertrude Grover, either. Judith's mother had almost as little fondness for Joe Flynn as she had had for her daughter's first husband, the late and seldom lamented Dan McMonigle. Still, Judith felt it had been going too far when Gertrude tied a black ribbon around her walker. And told the other guests she was wearing crepe pants. When Father Francis Xavier Hoyle had asked if anyone present knew why the pair should not be joined together, Gertrude had whipped out a list. Fortunately, Auntie Vance and Aunt Deb had shushed her.
Actually, Auntie Vance had pulled Gertrude's maroon felt hat over her ears, but Judith hoped no one except Uncle Corky noticed. Gertrude had let out a squawk, which had fortunately been drowned out by the howls of the youngest Dooley baby who wasâaccording to Aunt Ellenâunder siege from the Rankers's grandchildren. No one had actually mentioned the word “hotfoot,” but the votive candles weren't the only thing burning on the side aisles, or so said Cousin Marty.
Still, the wedding had gone off well, Judith reflected. Or, maybe it had just gone off, and after twenty-five years
and a marriage apiece, that was all Judith and Joe could hope for. The annulment that Joe had told Judith he'd applied for had proved unnecessary; his first wife's previous bouts with wedlock had nullified the Las Vegas JP's service in the eyes of the Catholic Church.
Once he had obtained his civil divorce in late May, Judith launched a whirlwind of plans. At that late date, no ordinary mortal could have secured Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church for a Saturday afternoon wedding the last weekend in June. But Judith's extraordinary status as a parishioner-cum-sleuth had moved the appropriate mountains. Father Hoyle was only too glad to accommodate Judith in gratitude for helping solve the Holy Saturday murder in the parish hall. The fact that Homicide Lt. Joe Flynn had been the official investigating officer hadn't hurt anything, either.
Judith had worn champagne silk, draped across the bosom, nipped in at the waist, with soft little pleats falling over the hip. Gone were seven of the ten pounds she'd been determined to lose, but at five-nine, it only showed when the zipper of her dress closed without her tugging and gasping. Her new hairdo, with short waves of frosted raven tresses, had obliterated the premature gray that Dan had insisted she live with for most of their marriage. “Beautiful,” Joe had whispered at the altar, and Judith's heart had turned over. He wasn't quite accurate, but with her well-defined features and careful makeup, she definitely felt fetching. But then Joe always had a knack for making her feel attractive.
They had been joined in Holy Matrimony before a church virtually packed with family and friends, who had flown in from various points of the compass. Joe's diplomat brother, Paul, had come from London; Andrew, the oil rig engineer, flew up from Houston; and the eldest Flynn, Tom, who called himself a soldier of fortune, claimed he'd commandeered a private plane out of Burundi. Judith couldn't boast any relations with such exotic backgrounds, but she was mightily pleased when Aunt Ellen and Uncle Win showed up from Beatrice, Nebraska. She was just as
happy that Cousin Renie's Uncle Fred hadn't gotten permission to leave the Rocky Mountain High Rest Home in Denver for the occasion. Uncle Fred, whose current reincarnation was Louis XV, had sent his regrets and a picture of Madame de Pompadour cut out of a French history book.
“It was fun, wasn't it?” said Judith, after her ruminations about the wedding and their morning amatory adventures had run their course.
“What was?” Joe asked slyly, plugging in the coffee maker.
Judith gave him a look of mock reproach, then secured the ties of her new blue terry cloth robe. “The wedding. And the reception, too. But I don't think Uncle Al should have sold chances on the cake.”
Joe shrugged. “It was only for the top tier. Besides, Uncle Vince won and didn't even know it. He was asleep under the gift table.”
“True,” said Judith distractedly. It was Monday morning, and although the wedding celebration had taken place less than forty-eight hours earlier, in some ways it seemed quite distant. Maybe it was because they were almost two hundred miles from home, looking out over the vast Pacific Ocean, with the smell of salt in the air and the sound of breakers in the background. Judith gazed through the picture window of the beach cottage and watched half a dozen seagulls circle the sands. She smiled. It didn't seem quite right to be so happy, not after all those years of hardship with her lazy, bad-tempered first husband. Dan might have been a good father to their only child, Mike, but he had been no provider. Indeed, while Judith worked two jobs to make ends meet, Dan had seemed determined to eat up any profits. Literally. It was no wonder that he weighed over four hundred pounds when he died at age forty-nine.
But Judith had survived that marriage, even triumphed over her tribulations, when she'd converted the old family home into a successful bed-and-breakfast establishment. Next to Mike, Hillside Manor was her pride and joy. She
hoped that its running would be safe for a week in the hands of her capable, if erratic, neighbor, Arlene Rankers.
“Breakfast in,” Joe announced, delving into the well-stocked refrigerator. During his off duty hours, Joe Flynn relaxed by honing his culinary skills. He had insisted on cooking for Judith at least a few times during the honeymoon, and breakfast was his first foray into the kitchen. The cottage was a perfect retreat, set high on a bluff overlooking the ocean, with wooden steps leading down to the beach. The exterior was weathered blue shakes, with wind-whipped juniper trees sheltering the small garden. Judith couldn't believe her good fortune in getting a weeklong reservation on such short notice. But Mrs. Hoke, the owner of the cottage, had struck Judith as a bit eccentric. Or at least not a very sound businesswoman. Judith had discovered Pirate's Lair only by accident, at a meeting of bed-and-breakfast owners. It was not, her informant had told her, a B&B, but a self-contained guest cottage, with a wonderful view, a complete kitchen, a boathouse, and two bedrooms. Still in a prenuptial daze, Judith couldn't imagine the need for more than one, but took the phone number down. To her surprise, Pirate's Lair was available for the last weekend of June through the Fourth of July. Of course it hadn't come cheap, but Judith didn't ever expect to go on a honeymoon again.
Over breakfast, they made plans for the day. Judith and Joe had spent their wedding night in the bridal suite of downtown's most lavish hotel, less than ten minutes away from Heraldsgate Hill and the B&B. It was a fitting celebration site. Twenty-five years earlier, before Joe had gotten drunk and eloped to Las Vegas with the thrice-married Herself, the hotel's downstairs bar had been a favorite retreat. On one particularly memorable evening, attired in formal evening clothes, they had actually asked to see the honeymoon suite. But the puckish bellhop who had shown them up to the top floor had assessed their semidrunken state and pointed them to the door to the roof. The joke had fizzled when Judith tripped in her four-inch heels and fell, landing on a balcony just below the roof level. Joe
had carted her home in a battered and bedraggled condition, explaining to Gertrude that they'd been mugged while visiting the zoo.
The day after the wedding they had driven down to Oregon, arriving in Buccaneer Beach just before dinner. The sun was still up and the wind was down, but clouds had inched across the horizon. They had eaten at a surprisingly good Continental restaurant on the edge of town and watched a sketchy sunset. Summer had not yet arrived full-blown on the Oregon coast.
Judith and Joe didn't care. Typical native Pacific Northwesterners, they weren't fond of hot weather. A nice ocean storm would suite them fine, especially since the cottage had a fireplace and all the driftwood they could burn.
“There's plenty to do and see around here,” remarked Joe, skimming through the tourist brochure that Mrs. Hoke had left for their perusal. “Buccaneer Beach got its name from English pirates. Hey, this sounds right up your alley.” He grinned at her over the brochure and began to read. “âIn the early part of the eighteenth century, English pirates roamed off the West Coast of North America. The likes of Captain Kidd and Blackbeard, with a bottle of rum in one hand and a blazing pistol in the other, preyed upon Spanish merchantmen, driving them back to the sanctuary of their coastal mission. For almost three hundred years, rumors have persisted that some of the pirates' plunder was hidden along the Oregon coast, particularly in the Buccaneer Beach area, which derives its name from visits made by those legendary seagoing brigands.' Want to get a shovel and start digging?”
Judith gave Joe an off-center grin. “Sounds like a lot of puffery to help promote their Fourth of July Freebooters' Festival. The only thing I want to dig around here is clams.”
Joe consulted the brochure once more. “Kite-flying is big here this time of year. Or we could drive down to the dunes and ride a buggy around,” he suggested.
“Renie and I did that once with Uncle Cliff,” recalled Judith, savoring Joe's excellent French toast. “He went
about a hundred miles an hour. At least it seemed that fast.”
Joe gave her a dry look. “I don't think you can go over thirty in a dune buggy. From what I remember of Cliff Grover, everything he did seemed like an adventure.”
Judith smiled and nodded. Cousin Renie's father had been as different from her own as two men could be, despite the ties of brotherhood. Cliff Grover had been a merchant seaman, periodically arriving home with a month's growth of beard and a delicate jade figurine. He was the kind of man who always had to see what was around the next bend or on the other side of the hill. Donald Grover, Judith's father, had been a high school teacher, content to explore the world from his favorite chair with the floor lamp shining just so on whichever book he was devouring for the night. It was no wonder that Judith's first calling had been as a librarian.
“Sounds like fun,” said Judith. She took the brochure from Joe, who was topping their orange juice with just a dash of champagne. “I haven't been down here on the coast since I was in college. Let's take our time and stop at all the little touristy spots, especially the scenic view-points.”
Joe handed Judith her glass and raised his own. “To being suckered by the Oregonians. To all the lighthouses and sea lions and myrtlewood souvenirs.” He clicked glasses with Judith, then kissed her cheek. “To us.”
Judith sighed, smiled, and sipped. “Dune buggy for two?” She put down her fork and rested her chin on her hands, gazing at Joe. The sun was peeking out from behind pale clouds. The waves crested, then ebbed on the sands below. “Dare I say this is perfect?”
Joe grinned as he poured more coffee. “It sure beats my last honeymoon. I put two hundred bucks on one blackjack hand, then went down for double, and got a deuce. With luck like that, I should have bailed out then.”
“Where was Herself?” Judith could ask the question freely now. The old rivalry was ended; Judith had won.
Joe gazed up at the kitchen ceiling, hung with fisher
men's nets and glass balls. “Ohâprobably in the bar. The only game she ever played was Bourbon-on-the-Rocks. You can't beat it, but she's never figured that out. Poor fool.”
“Poor fool,” echoed Judith. And wished she could feel sorrier for the woman who had held Joe Flynn in temporary custody for a quarter of a century. “I'll settle for another cup of coffee. And a dune buggy for two.”
Â
“Hey, Joe,” Judith yelled over the roar of the wind and surf, “aren't we going too
fast
?”
He turned slightly in his place behind the wheel of the dune buggy. “That's what you probably told Uncle Cliff,” he shouted back. The words were muffled, however, because of the handkerchiefs they wore over their mouths. Judith and Joe were also attired in goggles, required wear for dune buggy drivers and passengers. The little Jeep-like vehicle sped over the rounded sand dunes, up and down, higher and higher, then dropped dizzily onto flatter ground. Here and there, the keepers of the dunes had placed an appropriate skull or a treasure chest. Judith smiled behind her kerchiefâwhen she wasn't grinding her teeth in fear.
