Read Online Dune to Death by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online Page A

puzzling over the missing rental receipt. At three, she was wishing she’d gotten a better look at the young man she had seen through the picture window. And at four, she finally drifted off to sleep, but dreamed of a furtive figure, rowing a boat and sinking slowly in dry sand at the foot of the staircase that led to the beach.
    Judith knew she was sunk, too.

FIVE
    J UDITH TRIED TO pretend it was an ordinary day at Buccaneer Beach. Mike called from Whitefish, Montana, shortly after eight-thirty. He’d only gotten in the night before because he’d spent Monday with his girlfriend, Kristin, and her family on their wheat farm in the rolling hills of the Palouse. It had been over ninety degrees on the other side of the mountains, and they’d sat around all day, drinking lemonade and beer under the shade of a big weeping willow. He hadn’t yet seen his supervisor in the Forest Service, so didn’t know exactly what his assignment would be. He promised to call back in a couple of days, either at the beach or when Judith got home.
    â€œHow come you didn’t tell him about Joe’s accident?” asked Renie, looking semialert over ham and waffles.
    Judith didn’t meet her cousin’s bleary-eyed gaze. “Oh—I didn’t want to worry him. He’ll have a lot on his mind with a new job.”
    Renie started to say something in response, but decided to drop the subject. There were few topics thecousins avoided, but the relationship between Joe and Mike struck Renie as one of them. At least for the moment.
    â€œWe ought to call our mothers tonight,” Renie said instead.
    â€œRight,” Judith agreed without enthusiasm. “And I should check in with Arlene and make sure everything is going okay at the B&B.” She poured syrup over her waffle and gave Renie a surreptitious glance. “I think we’ll skip the pinochle session this morning.”
    â€œOh?” Renie’s reaction was one of innocence. “How come, coz? Did you want to spend a lot of time at the outlet mall?”
    â€œThe least we can do is find out who got killed out there in the living room,” said Judith, her mind in gear and her thought process assuming its usual logical order. “I turned the radio on this morning when I got up, but this town doesn’t have a local station. The weekly paper comes out today, so it was probably printed before we found the body. After we go see Joe, we ought to stop by the police department—or the sheriff’s office—and see what we can find out.”
    â€œOkay,” agreed Renie. “Then what?”
    Judith considered. “I’d like to check out the boathouse. For all I know, that man I saw lives there. Maybe he’s a homeless person.”
    â€œAnd?” Renie was stuffing her mouth with waffle.
    â€œI wish I’d noticed the license number on that Buick. I know it was an Oregon plate and it had some fours in it.” She started to cut up her ham, then realized that Renie was taking the sudden plunge into detection much too complacently. “Well?” demanded Judith. “Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of getting involved?”
    Renie, whose mouth was still full, shook her head. Judith was faintly exasperated; she despised being so predictable. A hammering at the back door prevented Judith from defending herself.
    A young man with flaming red hair and a dusting of freckles stood on the threshold with a tape recorder and anotebook. “Terrence O’Toole, Buccaneer Beach Bugler ,” he said with an eager, gap-toothed smile.
    â€œSo where’s your bugle?” asked Judith, who assumed he was identifying himself.
    â€œNo, no, sorry, no music, no magazines, no encyclopedias,” he said, looking apologetic and wiggling his unruly red eyebrows. “I mean, I’m not a salesman, I’m a reporter from the Buccaneer Beach Bugler . The local newspaper?” He eyed Judith