Dune to Death by Mary Daheim

warily.
    â€œWhy are we acting like a pair of fugitives?” asked Renie. “You said the boathouse was part of the package.”
    â€œBecause the guy who was hanging around down here wasn’t,” replied Judith, who had paused to examine the sand some twenty feet from the small structure. “It looks as if the tide never gets any further than here, so there’s not much in the way of clear footprints. The sand’s too soft and dry.”
    â€œI don’t know why you’re looking for footprints at this late date,” said Renie, as they moved slowly up to the four steps that led to the tiny porch. “And even if you found some, there are so many people all over this beach, nobody could possibly sort out one set from another.”
    â€œTrue. Alas.” Judith jiggled the doorknob. To her surprise, the door opened easily. The cousins edged inside.
    The boathouse looked much better from the inside than the outside. Although the furnishings were worn, even tattered in the case of the floral sofa, it was apparent that somebody was keeping the place tidy. Judith took in the rest of the small room, with its two easy chairs, a large cherrywood coffee table, a pair of floor lamps, and a magazine rack which she noticed held the latest issues of People and Good Housekeeping . The sagging floorboards creaked beneath their feet, reminding Judith of her house on Thurlow Street.
    Straight through the small sitting room was a kitchen, with two stools pulled up to the counter, a stove, sink, refrigerator, and even a microwave oven. There were no windows and the far wall was covered with nautical charts. A coffeepot was plugged in, a casserole dish was covered with aluminum foil, and the sink contained half a dozen dirty dishes.
    â€œThe lived-in look,” murmured Renie.
    Judith glanced down at the linoleum which displayed a starfish pattern and looked comparatively new. “The man I saw might be whoever’s living here,” she remarked, feeling the ever-present sand underfoot. “He might also be coming back, since the coffee’s on. There’s no rear entrance. We’d better scoot.”
    â€œRight,” agreed Renie as they exited the little kitchen. She stopped to open one of the doors on each side of the open entry into the sitting room. “A half-bath,” she said. “Sink, toilet, shower. Clam shells on the shower curtain. Or are they abalone?”
    Not to be outdone, Judith tugged at the other door. It was a small closet, housing clothes for both genders. Judith arched an eyebrow. “My Mysterious Stranger has a girlfriend. Unless he gets a kick out of wearing ugly dresses and pantsuits.”
    â€œTakes all kinds,” said Renie, coming to look over Judith’s shoulder. “Gee, I haven’t seen that much corduroysince Grandma Grover used to make all of us cousins jumpers for school every fall.”
    â€œAnd corduroy party dresses with mother-of-pearl buttons from collar to hem. I always looked like a can of Crisco and you looked like a bean pole.” Judith smiled in reminiscence. “Cousin Sue insisted she was too old for the jumpers when she got to high school but Grandma made her one anyway and stitched a picture of the team mascot on the back.”
    Renie’s brown eyes twinkled. “Do you think Grandma was serious?”
    Judith grinned. “Was she ever?” No one could have been more of a pixie incarnate than Grandma Grover. Judith lived by two of her axioms, “It’s always better to laugh than to cry” and “Keep your pecker up.” Renie preferred “It’ll all be the same a hundred years from now.” But the real heritage Grandma Grover had passed on was the gift of laughter, which Judith considered the rarest form of courage.
    â€œYou know,” Judith mused as they started out of the boathouse, “there are times when I can actually hear Grandma saying something in my ear,