Tickled to Death (3 page)

I was not especially surprised when Agatha Anne took off with the fervor of an evangelist. “The Dunling Foundation is a nonprofit corporation which controls a four-thousand-acre bird sanctuary. Livia and Wharton donated the land and the use of the lodge, but we rely on fund-raisers to cover our yearly operations. Last year we netted nearly two hundred thousand dollars, one hundred percent of which went for our projects. We’re very proud of the fact that no one on the board takes so much as a nickel in salary or even reimbursements for out-of-pocket expenses. It adds to our credibility in the community.”

“What are your projects?” I asked politely, since I was sure she was going to tell me anyway.

“Mostly educational things like providing programs in the public schools, distributing material to civic groups, arranging barge tours for interested groups who want to see the eagles in their natural habitat. We also sponsor a treatment facility for wounded birds and animals. Anders Hammerqvist does a marvelous job patching up wings and broken legs. He’s lived here for a good twenty years, and was doctoring animals as a matter of conscience when the Dunlings persuaded him to apply for a license and work for the foundation.” She gave me a stern look. “Only licensed facilities can take in endangered species.”

I felt as though I’d been accused of harboring
eagles in my bedroom. For the record, I actively dislike dogs and cats, but I’ve always liked birds, particularly the kind one watches from a sofa in a living room—rather than the kind that one stalks through thorny, tick-infested undergrowth. Eagles appeared to belong to the second category, but thus far no one had suggested I take a hike. “I understand Becca became a volunteer,” I said to nudge her back into a more intriguing narrative.

Agatha Anne’s fervor faded, and she sat back in the chair. “Becca was so young and vivacious that we were all amazed when she voiced an interest in our work. She had beautiful golden-blond hair, wide gray eyes, a perfect figure, and an irresistible smile. She was always so generous and cooperative that we were in awe of her. We simply adored her. Dick did, too.”

“How did they meet?” Luanne asked as she stirred her drink with a piece of celery and affected indifference.

“Becca came three summers ago to stay with Scottie and Marilyn Gordon, who have the house on the second road past ours. She and Jan—Dick’s first wife—hit it off immediately. They went into town for lunch several times a week and played tennis so often that I finally had to speak to Jan about her responsibilities in the office. She did the books and paid bills, and we were beginning to get nasty notes from some of our suppliers. Jan was dark and unpretentious, but she radiated beauty in her own quiet way. Late
that summer she drowned in a tragic accident. Jillian dropped out of school for a semester, and Dick talked about selling this house because of the memories. Sid and I were dreadfully worried about him.”

“And this tragic accident?” I prompted her.

“Jan loved to swim in the moonlight. There’d been a party. Dick rarely drinks too much, but this particular night he admitted he passed out the minute he hit the pillow. When he awoke several hours later, Jan was gone. He found her clothes in a pile near the edge of the water and called the sheriff’s department and the lake patrol. They found the body shortly after dawn. The coroner ruled it an alcohol-related accident.”

I thought it over for a moment. “Was there any reason to suspect foul play? Did she often swim when she’d been drinking?”

“She usually persuaded Dick or Jillian to swim with her,” Agatha Anne said, for the first time sounding uncomfortable. “On that particular night, Jillian had gone to bed with a summer cold, and as I said, Dick was in no condition to join her. They did a blood test and determined that her alcohol level was twice the legal limit. They also found an empty brandy decanter near her clothes.”

“But Captain Gannet wasn’t satisfied,” I said, watching Agatha Anne carefully. “That’s part of the reason he’s continuing to investigate the second accident.”

“Dick didn’t have an alibi—but how could he? Jillian had taken the type of heavy-duty antihistamines that come with the warning about operating heavy machinery, and it took him five minutes to rouse her after he called the police.”

“And it happened more than three years ago,” I said. “If anyone had noticed anything, surely he or she would have come forward by now.”

“There was nothing to notice,” Luanne muttered.

Agatha Anne perched on the arm of Luanne’s chair to pat her shoulder. “Of course there wasn’t. Sid and I have known Dick since we were in college together twenty-five years ago. The idea of Gannet suspecting him makes me ill. I spoke to the sheriff, but he’s one of those fat, greasy politicians who’s more concerned with the next election than the mental well-being of a handful of rich people who vote in another county. Sid even offered to make a donation to his campaign fund, but the sheriff cackled like a wild turkey.”

I didn’t point out that turkeys reputedly gobbled, because I feared an onslaught of ornithologically correct specifics. “Tell me about Becca’s accident.”

“It was half an hour after sunset on the final Friday in March,” Agatha Anne said, wrinkling her forehead just enough to convey her scrupulous attempt to be precise without endangering her flawless complexion. “Georgiana and I went to Anders’s trailer to discuss the release date for
a red-tailed hawk that some ignorant chicken farmer had shot with a crossbow. Dick and Sid were in town. I came home at six-thirty and found a message from Becca on my answering machine. She said she was going out to Little Pine Island because of a report that an eagle was hurt. I drove to the marina, but just as I reached the dock, the boat exploded.” She buried her face in her hands and shivered. When at last she spoke, her voice was husky and laden with pain. “There was a horrible red ball of fire and clouds of black smoke. Bits and pieces of the boat came splashing down as if they’d been hurled from heaven. There was no hope whatsoever of recovering what might have remained of the body.”

“And you saw Becca on the boat?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, she was standing up while she drove, as she always did, with her hair streaming behind her and a can of diet soda in her hand. Bubo had seen her jump into the boat, and he was at the end of the dock yelling at her when I arrived. If only he’d been a little quicker, he could have stopped her, but he was inside selling bait or swilling beer or whatever he does to justify his salary.”

“Bubo Limpkin is the manager of the marina,” Luanne added in explanation. “He’s a despicable excuse for a human being. Dick said they’ve tried to get him fired every summer since he came five years ago, but he sobers up and wheedles the owner into giving him one more chance.”

I looked at Agatha Anne, who was checking
her reflection in the mirror of a gold compact. “And you’d reported a suspicious odor to him that same day?”

She snapped the compact shut and dropped it into her pocket. “That’s right. I’d thought about taking the boat out that morning, but there was a faint odor in the cabin. I hunted down Bubo and told him to check the propane tanks, and he said he would.”

“You didn’t tell anyone else?” I asked.

“I mentioned it to Georgiana, but Becca had gone into town and it didn’t occur to me that she might be using the boat later that same day. The Dunlings never take out the boat without first consulting me. They’re terribly considerate, considering it was their money that funded the foundation and paid for the boat.”

“But don’t forget the quiche,” Dick said as he came onto the deck, dressed in a fresh shirt and shorts. His face was smooth and his hair combed, but his eyes were still red and his eyelids puffy from a night of sleeplessness. “The fact that it was quiche rather than a meatball or a carrot stick really bugs Gannet. He’s convinced we get dressed in tuxedos and mink coats and stand around sipping champagne, stuffing ourselves with caviar, and making fun of the local rubes. He looked distinctly skeptical when I told him Wharton had already started the charcoal for hamburgers when Becca lost her temper.” He went to Luanne and put his arm around her
waist. “The lasagna is bubbling, so perhaps we might set the table soon. Agatha Anne, you will be joining us, won’t you?”

She shook her head. “I really do have to sign papers at the insurance office. The claims people have been dragging their heels all along, to the point I had to threaten to call our attorney.” She offered me a manicured hand that had never probed an alien mouth. “I do hope we’ll see you again, Claire. This has been such a thrill for me. I feel as though I’ve finally met Nancy Drew.”

I was about to offer an equally insincere reply when we heard a gunshot.

I hurried to the rail and searched for the source of the shot. Sailors and skiers were eyeing the shore with appropriate alarm, and a pair of fishermen were frantically reeling in their lines in preparation to flee the cove. The birds that had been at the Dunling Lodge feeders were well on their collective way to the far side of the lake.

“It sounded close by,” I said, wondering why the others were still seated and more interested in their drinks than in a potential homicide.

Agatha Anne laughed. “Wharton has declared war on a groundhog that lives near his vegetable garden on the other side of the lodge. He’s tried all manner of traps and poisons, and even attached a hose to the exhaust pipe of his car and tried to asphyxiate the creature in its burrow. The day he tried dynamite has become a local legend. Lately, he’s been crouching behind a bush with a shotgun. Livia’s furious because the noise frightens away the birds and terrifies the hikers,
but Wharton is beyond listening to her or anyone else. Nobody dares use the G-word in his presence.”

“Wharton misses the good old days,” Dick added, “when the enemy had the courtesy to stand up and offer himself as a target. This groundhog plays dirty. The garden is enclosed by a chain-link fence, three strands of electrified wire, and a final buffer of concertina wire. With the addition of guard towers and spotlights, it could serve as a prison camp. None of us could steal a tomato if we were starving, but the groundhog never misses a meal and seems to thrive on whatever poison Wharton feeds it. Livia swears it must weigh twenty pounds.”

I studied the yard around Dunling Lodge, but no one clad in camouflage was on the prowl with a shotgun. “Your group doesn’t object?” I asked Agatha Anne.

“Wharton’s groundhog is the only one that’s endangered. They’re pests and have been known to spread rabies. I must run along to the claims office. If you encounter Wharton, for God’s sake don’t wiggle your nose and whistle at him.” She went down the steps and around the corner of the house.

Luanne mumbled something about silverware and went inside. Dick waited until the sliding glass door was closed, then perched on the rail beside me and said, “Now that you’ve heard the
details, can you pick out the clue that will exonerate me?”

“Both of the incidents sound like accidents,” I said with a shrug. Despite his relaxed smile, there was an edge to him, an undertone of anxiety in both his voice and his demeanor. It didn’t seem likely that he’d been involved with his wives’ deaths, but I wasn’t pleased with Luanne’s mindless denial. I’d encountered congenial murderers in the past, from college students to white-haired teachers who were benignly cleansing the community of undesirables. For all I knew, the man sitting by me might find divorce a morally abhorrent way to end a marriage. However, for Luanne’s sake, I forced myself to return his smile. “Surely Captain Gannet will find other crimes to occupy himself.”

“I doubt it. He’s obsessed with my guilt, and convinced that eventually he’ll find proof or I’ll break down and confess. He’s probably building a gallows in his backyard in anticipation of the happy day.”

“It’s too bad that you and Becca had an argument the previous night, and in front of witnesses. I heard she nailed you with a piece of quiche.”

“Quiche Lorraine, to be precise.”

I gave him a chance to elaborate (not on the recipe, but on the gist of the argument), but he looked out at the lake with a faint frown. Luanne
returned with a stack of plates and utensils, and I abandoned the rail to help her set the table.

We ate lunch and managed to talk about Farberville politics and the omnipresence of the weather. After Dick excused himself to watch a baseball game on television, Luanne and I carried plates and bowls into the kitchen.

“Well?” she said as she began to load a dishwasher imposing enough to be found in a busy restaurant.

I put the remains of the salad in a vast refrigerator, noting the plethora of fancy cheeses and champagne bottles competing for space with low-fat yogurt cartons and six-packs of designer water. No doubt the cases of caviar were kept in the pantry.

“Well, what?” I said. “The first accident happened three years ago, and the second three months ago. Even if I were inclined to nose around, I wouldn’t find a smoking gun. The police have already scooped up whatever clues there were. The coroner has pronounced the deaths to be accidental. I’m sorry that Dick is being dogged by this Gannet, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

To my horror, she began to sniffle. Seconds later she was sniveling and wiping her nose on a linen napkin. “I know I’m acting like a teenager, but what I feel is more than a goofy crush. I’m in love with Dick. I swore off marriage a long time ago, but now I lie awake at night trying to de
cide what to wear at the wedding and whether to ask Jillian to be the attendant. Should we honeymoon in Hawaii or Montreal? Will I ever learn how to operate his microwave? Can I feign pleasure in televised sports?”

“You’ve known him for all of three weeks, Luanne—and you’re not acting like a teenager. Caron and Inez would find your behavior hopelessly infantile.” I crossed my arms and glared at her like a proper British nanny in the doorway of the nursery. “Just let this relationship progress at a reasonable pace. He seems to be a nice man, and at some point the investigation will fizzle and his performance in the sack will meet your expectations again.”

“You’re about as romantic as this dirty glass,” she said as she held up the offending object.

“Peter would be the first to agree. His latest ruse was an invitation for a Caribbean cruise. He gave me some altruistic nonsense about going to chaperon his mother, but I could see through his pathetic ploy.”

“The man’s a monster,” Luanne said as she finished loading the dishwasher and inspected the countertops for an errant crumb that, she admitted ruefully, might offend Jillian. We returned to the deck, but neither of us was in the mood to talk. I finally asked her to draw me a map, thanked her for lunch, and went to my car. As I braked at the top of the driveway to prop my map on the dashboard, I heard another gunshot.
It was followed by an enraged bellow that included the phrase “you hairy bastard” and a rather picturesque string of expletives. It was not difficult to deduce the groundhog was alive and well—fed, that is.

I made it back to Farberville without incident and parked in the gravel lot next to the Book Depot. College students rolled by on bicycles and in cars with blaring radios, all apparently content to enjoy the sunny afternoon without the intrusion of literature. A beer bottle sailed over the fence of the beer garden and shattered on the railroad tracks. The only birds in sight were scruffy pigeons outside the health food café.

Caron and Inez were playing cards by the cash register, which was preferable to shrieking tidbits of prurient prose. I continued to a rack in a dim corner and found a bird book.

“Eagles winter in this area from December through March,” I announced to the girls as I scanned the pertinent entry, “then return to Alaska and areas of northern and eastern Canada to breed. They were selected as a national symbol by Congress in 1782, but were hunted to near extinction in 1940 by Western ranchers, who thought they posed a threat to livestock, and by fishermen in the Northwest, who worried about salmon. Their population has been seriously depleted in the last few decades because they eat dead fish, which has caused them to absorb large amounts of pesticides. This interferes with their
calcium metabolism and results in thin-shelled and often infertile eggs.”

Caron snapped down a card. “How utterly fascinating, Mother. I can only pray that an eagle will not mistake my pale skin for that of a bloated perch and swoop down to rip out my eyeballs with its talons. It’s your play, Inez. Stop dithering and do something.”

“I’m thinking.” Inez took a card from her hand, wrinkled her nose, and replaced it. As she reached for another, her martyred opponent sighed.

I turned the page. “The red-tailed hawk, commonly but erroneously called a chicken hawk, is a much-maligned species. It rarely eats poultry, but instead prefers rodents. Its cry is similar to yours.”

“Gin,” Inez said guardedly.

Caron threw down her cards and gestured imperiously for Inez to put them away. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mother?”

“It produces a high-pitched descending scream with a hoarse quality,” I said, squinting at the print. I’d vowed not to succumb to reading glasses until I turned forty. Said birthday loomed within a matter of months, as did Caron’s sixteenth. I’d been treated to quite a few high-pitched descending screams involving her desire to drive a shiny red convertible to school on the first day—and my inability to buy her so much as a vintage Volkswagen. This reminded me of another source of friction. “Did you find out about driver’s ed?”
I asked her. “The insurance agent says it’ll save ten percent a year on the premium.”

“My mother called the school last week,” Inez said as she put the deck of cards in a drawer and closed it silently. Caron, when motivated to close a drawer, invariably slams it. “My parents are going to make me take it, too. They probably won’t let me drive until I’m eighteen, but they want me to start practicing now.”

“I think it’s a waste of time,” Caron said, “but if you want to pay one hundred and seventy-eight dollars so that I can drive around in a Chevrolet with a bunch of nerds, it’s fine with me.”

I shut the bird book and sat down on the stool behind the counter. “It costs money?”

“One hundred and seventy-eight dollars,” Inez repeated for her best friend’s witless mother. “My mother was pretty mad about it, but Coach Scoter explained that driver’s ed isn’t a mandatory part of the curriculum and the school board thinks—”

“As if the school board ever thinks,” Caron said as she shoved Inez toward the door. “Let’s go watch the last half of the college baseball game. We’ll have to walk All The Way to the stadium, but we can sit behind the dugout and ogle the players.”

“Wait a minute,” I said in my steeliest maternal voice. “I can’t afford to pay for this, especially while business is so bad.”

“Suit yourself. I never expressed any desire to
drive around in a Chevrolet with a bunch of nerds. Rhonda Maguire wasn’t forced to take driver’s ed, and right after she passed the test, her mother just gave her the car key and some money for gas.”

“Rhonda Maguire’s mother has nothing to do with this,” I said while I hunted in the drawer for a bottle of aspirin. “You have to take this course, and you’ll have to find the money yourself. How much is in your savings account?”

“You’re making me pay to be humiliated?” She was going to elaborate, but Inez whispered something to her and her incipient outrage was replaced with calculation. “Look, I’ll do this Chevrolet thing if you insist, but I have less than twenty dollars in my savings account. I’m baby-sitting tonight for the Verdins, but I’ll be lucky if they pay me more than ten dollars. They’re more miserly than you are.”

“I am not miserly, dear. I simply don’t have a place in the budget for an unexpected one hundred and…whatever it is.”

“Seventy-eight dollars,” Inez contributed.

“Seventy-eight dollars,” I said with a groan. “Business is always slack in the summer, and I’m behind with several publishers already. One of them has threatened me with a collection agency. You’d better find yourself a job to earn the money.”

“I’m supposed to earn the money?” gasped Caron. The idea was enough to send her staggering into Inez, who yelped but held her ground.
“The baseball team already has a batboy, so I guess that’s out. Shall I try to get on a road crew and spread hot tar in the blazing sun?”

“I hear the pay’s quite good,” I said. “Having a job won’t ruin the remainder of your life. I’m sure you can find something less laborious than spreading hot tar if you develop a positive attitude.”

Her lower lip shot out. “Okay, this positively sucks.”

I retreated to my office. Shortly thereafter, the bell above the front door jangled, and I was left alone to ponder this newest financial tribulation while I pawed through drawers and boxes of junk in search of an aspirin. I wondered what it would be like to be able to volunteer my time to a charitable organization rather than work twelve hours a day to pay the rent. Agatha Anne had no need to reimburse herself for expenses, and I was certain she had a gold pillbox filled with aspirin. She would know exactly where it was, too.

Peter was off at a training session, and Luanne was on the deck at Turnstone Lake, so I spent the rest of the weekend peddling books and listening to Caron whine about my revolutionary (read: revolting) suggestion that she earn money rather than spend it. Child labor laws, the Emancipation Proclamation, Ebenezer Scrooge, and Rhonda Maguire’s mother dominated the diatribes.

On Monday morning she announced that she was going to the unemployment office in order
to find a squalid and demeaning job, although I suspected she had hopes that she might qualify in some obscurely logical way for unemployment benefits. Inez followed dutifully, and I was reading a guide to money management and wishing I had some to manage when they burst into the store an hour later.

“I have a fabulous job!” Caron announced as she swaggered past me and into the office, where I occasionally stash cans of soda. “I’ll make plenty of money to pay for that stupid course,” she yelled as things rattled and banged, “and have enough left over to buy a new bathing suit. There’s a neat string bikini on sale at the mall.”

I frowned at Inez, who was hovering by the mystery section. “Why did Caron change her mind about driver’s ed?”

“Louis has to take it this summer,” she said so softly I could barely hear her. “His sister told me he’s signed up for the second semester.”

“And Rhonda won’t be sitting in the backseat between us,” Caron said as she appeared in the doorway, her empty hands indicative of the futility of her mission. This in no way diminished her ebullient mood. “We have to endure a bunch of films about seat belts and drunken drivers, then Coach Scoter has everybody pile in the car and we take turns driving around town. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if we saw Rhonda at a stoplight and waved at her? It’ll be worth a hundred and seventy-eight dollars to see her choke.”