Dune to Death (13 page)

But when the cousins reached the bottom of the cul-de-sac, the van had vanished.

J
UDITH STOOD WITH
fists on hips, surveying the curving road that led into Pirate's Lair. “Now where the heck did that goofball go? I'm almost sure that was the same van I saw parked here the first couple of days after we arrived.”

Renie surveyed the vicinity. The short driveway into the beach cottage lay directly in front of them. The turn-off into the motel parking area was on their right, and the tree-lined entrance to the We See Sea Resort was at the left. Behind them were three older houses which had the look of permanent, rather than vacation, dwellings. The road into the cul-de-sac continued in a winding, north-south direction, more or less parallel to Highway 101.

“He might have been turning around and just kept going to hook back onto the main drag,” Renie offered, “or maybe he went into the motel or the resort.”

Judith debated with herself. It was too hot to go traipsing around parking lots, but curiosity won out over comfort. “Come on,” she said, “let's check the motel.”

Even though the neon sign read “No Vacancy,” the parking lot was only half-full, awaiting the travelers who were still on the road. A swift once-over revealed the black van, resting in a stall close to the office. Judith and Renie approached warily.

Titus Teacher was gone. The vehicle's doors were locked; there were no windows in the rear. Judith peered inside the cab, finding nothing of much interest—a Thermos, a flashlight, a plastic sack with the logo of a local variety store.

“So where did he go? Inside the motel?” asked Renie.

Judith passed a hand over her forehead. Her bangs were wet with perspiration. She noted that Renie was also suffering from the heat. Even the flowers on her sundress looked as if they were wilting.

“That's where I'd go,” said Judith. “It's probably air-conditioned. Wherever he went, he got there pretty fast for a guy with a game leg.”

“It's not so far.” To prove the point, Renie walked the fifteen feet to the office entrance. It took her a moment to adjust her eyes to the tinted glass. “Nice place. But I don't see Titus Teacher in there.”

Judith was growing impatient to find some shade. “Maybe he uses their tram to get to the beach. The stairs must be hard on his leg. Let's go, coz. We're late for our visit to the hospital.”

The cousins were heading out of the parking lot when they heard a car door close behind them. Idly, Judith turned. The owner of the dragon kite was starting up a late-model sports car. The curly-haired young man ignored Judith and Renie as he drove away from the Best Ever Over the Waves Motor Inn.

Judith noted that the sleek red sports car had California plates.

 

So far, Woody Price's news was negative. None of the Ogilvie-Hokes or Titus Teacher had shown up on the computer. “Which means,” Joe said over the gin rummy hand he was playing out with Jake Beezle, “that none of them
has a criminal record. Just for the hell of it, I had him check on that Doyle character. He was wanted all right, but there's been no sign of him since he took off seven years ago.”

“I don't suppose his nephew, Brent, has any idea what happened to him,” Judith mused.

“Brent?” Jake Beezle looked up from the card Joe had just discarded. “He'd have been starting college back then. I don't think his pa and Race were all that close, anyway. Some family spat between the brothers that went way back.” Jake drew from the deck, then cackled triumphantly. “Gin, Flynn!” He fanned out his cards as his face grew somber. “Gin's the game, gin's my flame. And I ain't got any.” He sighed. “I'll sure be glad to get home day after tomorrow.”

The shake-covered shack Judith had envisioned earlier now expanded to include a single room with plastic over the windows and a sagging floor littered with empty liquor bottles. She wondered if Jake would have enough food on hand, or if she and Renie should offer to shop for him.

Joe was shuffling the deck. “Woody will try to check out some other sources tomorrow, but he's pretty tied up right now.” He chuckled. “I don't know what he'll do without me once he gets promoted.”

Judith suppressed a smile. She could imagine the tactful, empathetic Officer Price sensing his superior's need to be needed. Woody wasn't the type to lay it on too thick, but he certainly knew which buttons to push. “You'll still be his mentor,” Judith said in reassurance. The conversation made her think of Neil Clooney. She looked over at Jake who was sorting his cards. “You mentioned that the chief of police got fired when Race Doyle absconded. Is that when Clooney came along?”

Jake nodded, and picked up the card Joe had turned over. “The City Council was so blamed mad they didn't want to hire anybody who'd worked for the ex-chief, so they hauled Clooney in from Milton-Freewater. You wouldn't believe the wrangling and jangling. Must have took 'em almost a year to get Clooney on the job.” He
tossed out a three of spades. “Anyways, it worked out okay for Clooney because by the time he got to town, the whole thing had kind of died down. And people wouldn't expect a newcomer to catch Doyle after so long.”

“What about Eldritch?” asked Judith.

“He's only been sheriff for about five years. The guy he replaced was so old and daffy that everybody knew he couldn't find a fly in his soup. Say, what's for supper, Flynn? Gin.” Jake spread out his cards again.

Joe was bemused. “You lucky old son of a gun. I'm going to have to dip into my pension fund to pay you off.”

Jake was fingering a small menu printed on a buff-colored card. “I checked the box for the turkey divan. What's that? You suppose they cooked up a sofa? Most of this food tastes like old upholstery.” His sharp little eyes raked over the cousins. “How about some poker? Those lazy lard bucket nurses are late with our supper tonight.”

Judith smiled at Jake, then reached for her purse. “Renie and I are better at bridge. Sorry, Jake, but we have a dinner reservation.” She neglected to mention the fact that it was over two hours away. “We want to show you something—except that we forgot to buy a magnifying glass.” She took the little scrap of map from its resting place in the handbag's inner pocket and gave Joe a querying look.

It was Jake who responded. “Mrs. Wampole in D-208 has one. She uses it to read with. Cute little trick, even if she is lying about not being a day over seventy.” He chortled. “I ought to know, I read her chart.”

Renie went to fetch the magnifying glass, the price of the loan being a five-minute conversation. “It's a good thing I went instead of you,” said Renie to Judith. “You'd still be there, hearing all about her four children, seven grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. I only got their names, ages, and addresses.”

Judith examined the map with Mrs. Wampole's magnifying glass. “At least it's in English,” she said. “Joe, write this down.” Her voice grew with excitement. “Four paces…Actually the
p
is gone, faded, I guess…king and queen
of something or other…a hundred miles of…I can't make it out, it's just squiggles…Follow the bridge…Hmmmm.”

Joe, with his ballpoint pen poised over a copy of the hospital's daily menu, made a face at Judith. “I'm supposed to write down that gibberish? The only thing that makes any sense is the part about the bridge. Here, give it to me. I'll get Jake to pilfer a microscope.”

Judith was reluctant to part with the treasure map, but if there was anyone she could trust—other than Renie—it was Joe. “The handwriting is very old-fashioned. Of course they were English pirates. I wonder what king and queen they're talking about?”

Renie was wrinkling her pug nose. “William and Mary?” Her minor at college had been in history; her heart was forever in England. “They'd be just a few years too soon for the early seventeenth century. Isn't that when these pirates were supposed to be chasing the Spaniards all over the coast?”

“I think so,” said Judith who was vague about names and dates when it came to the British royal house. Her English passion was literature, especially Dickens and the Lake poets. “You read the brochure this morning,” she added with a faint hint of reproach.

“Right,” agreed Renie. “Early seventeen hundreds. Queen Anne, then George I, the first Hanover. His queen was shut up in some German castle because she'd been caught dallying with a Swedish count.”

“No account, probably,” put in Jake, who was getting bored with Renie's recital. “Nothing around here named for any of those royal majesties. This ain't Canada, toots.”

Dinner, served by a waddling nurse with a surly expression, arrived. Although Joe and Jake had ordered different entrées, both plates looked exactly the same. “I've got sole,” said Joe.

“I've got rhythm,” said Jake. “I wish I had booze. Or at least some real turkey. Wild Turkey, maybe.” He chortled, but his mirth faded as he tasted his food.

Judith and Renie announced that they had to get ready
for their own dinner. Joe gave his bride a bleak look. Jake offered to give Renie the bird—off his tray. The cousins made their exit.

“Next time,” Jake called after them, “we'll play some poker. I'll swipe some pills to use for chips.”

Judith hoped he'd remember to swipe the microscope first.

 

After Judith called Arlene to learn that Sweetums still hadn't shown up, Renie got Darren Fleetwood's number from Directory Assistance. When she dialed his residence in Malibu shortly after 7:00
P
.
M
., a pleasant masculine voice came on the line. The recording announced that no one could come to the phone at present, but to leave name, number, and any message at the beep. Renie hung up, a perplexed expression on her face.

“Well?” inquired Judith.

“He sounded sort of…familiar,” said Renie.

“Let me try,” said Judith. She placed the call, then listened intently. “You're right. Unless we
want
him to sound familiar.”

“Who does it remind you of?” Renie asked.

Judith fingered her chin. “I'm not sure. Yet.”

Renie arched her eyebrows. “But you can make a guess?”

Judith tipped her head to one side, in the direction of the motel. “Maybe.”

“I thought so,” said Renie. “The Green Dragon?”

“Could be,” said Judith. “But phone voices often lie.”

“So do people,” noted Renie.

“So they do.” The cousins exchanged quizzical looks.

 

La Bastide had been inspired by a guest house in Provence, but built by none other than Bernard Hoke as a summer retreat for a Portland banker. Located a half mile off Highway 101 and five miles south of Buccaneer Beach, the banker had not opted to take advantage of the ocean view, but instead had chosen a site nestled among tall ev
ergreens next to a creek that wound indolently through lush ferns.

The small terrace featured planters overflowing with bright summer flowers. Judith and Renie agreed to have an aperitif outside but to dine in the main part of the restaurant. Renie in particular was not keen on eating
al fresco
. She insisted that too often unwanted extras were added to the food—like bugs. But at least it was cool on the terrace, with the sun finally starting to slip behind the cedar, fir, and cottonwood trees which surrounded La Bastide and its small, well-tended garden.

It was Renie, perusing the appetizing, but brief menu, who discovered that Alice Hoke's late husband had built the house. A somewhat effusive paragraph on the inside front cover related the establishment's history.

“Alice,” said Renie, putting the menu aside, “is the only person we really haven't talked to much.”

Judith sampled the spicy
pâté en croute chaud
they had decided to share for a starter. “She doesn't want to talk to us, as far as I can tell.”

“Or anybody else,” agreed Renie. “At least we shouldn't feel picked on.”

“Or so the story goes,” mused Judith. She twirled the stem of her aperitif glass in her fingers. “Has it struck you as strange that after seven years of apparent seclusion, Alice has come out of the woodwork?”

Renie considered. “But has she? Having her sister murdered sort of forces her to put on a public face.”

Judith allowed Renie to finish the last of the pâté. “I don't mean that so much as the fact that she started seeing Neil Clooney, she allowed the Limas to park their RV on her property, and she didn't prevent the younger Hokes from making the trip from Pocatello. Why have all these things happened now? And about the same time that Leona Ogilvie shows up in town?”

A waiter, whose aura was more evocative of Anaheim than Avignon, ushered them to their table in the
salon
. Lace curtains fluttered at the windows; lace draperies depended from the ceiling lamps. A mural depicting joyous
farmers under sun-drenched skies in the fields of southern France covered one end of the room. Dried flowers stood in various gleaming copper utensils. The cousins smiled their approval.

“So what you're saying,” Renie noted after they'd given their dinner orders, “is that Alice Hoke played the hermit for what—seven years?—and suddenly emerges when her sister shows up? Psychologically, that might not be too hard to explain. Bill would say that when Leona returned, Alice had a need to establish her own identity so she…”

Judith waved a hand. “Don't give me Bill's deep-thinking crap, coz. Not,” she added hastily, seeing Renie's face fall, “that there might not be something to it. But Alice reestablishing her identity wouldn't get her sister killed. I'm looking for logic. Facts. Motives.”

Renie brightened at the sight of her big salad topped with warm chicken livers. “Were you saying that Alice refused to let her kids visit until now?”

Judith shrugged. “It sounds like it. From what I gather, neither Larissa nor Augie has been to Buccaneer Beach since their father died. Larissa and Donn Bobb may have been on the rodeo circuit. Augie and Amy were probably too busy having babies. But any normal grandmother would want to see the kids, even if it meant Alice going to Idaho.”