Carolyn G. Hart (18 page)

They both looked at her blankly.

“It’s a matter of principle.” Hildegarde Withers could not have been more priggish. “Elliot was not trustworthy. Therefore, I can’t possibly reveal the information he gave me until I have the opportunity to interview the accused person and confirm or deny Elliot’s accusations. In our system of government, in our world view, all are innocent until proven guilty. Well, that’s the way it is with me.” A ringing speech, worthy of Perry Mason. Annie stood up. “So Max and I will get back to work. That’s what we were doing, Chief, when your motorcycle cop so rudely stopped us.”

Alas, Saulter wasn’t quite that easy or that dumb.

“Ms. Laurance, just one more thing.”

She paused at the doorway.

“You said Elliot gave you this material.”

The sinking feeling swept Annie again. One peril past and on to the next. It was like surviving a ten-foot wave and looking up to see a fifteen-footer.

“When did he give it to you, and where is it?”

“When?”

Saulter didn’t pong. He waited.

If she admitted the disk came in the mail on Monday, the chief could attack her for hiding evidence. Hiding it?
He could accuse her of losing it, because that’s precisely what she had done. And she couldn’t claim to have a typewritten copy, or she would have to account for that. She had
nada
to show Saulter. If she told him about the disk, he’d want to know what happened to it—and if he ever had any hint that she’d been in Elliot’s house when Harriet was killed, Annie was one plucked goose.

She took a deep breath. “He didn’t exactly give it to me.”

“No?” The question was chillingly genial.

“My client has nothing further to say,” Max interposed.

Saulter shook his head. “Oh, no, Mr. Darling. She’s going to answer this one. Or I’m going to arrest her as a material witness.”

Desperately, Annie glanced around the chief’s office. A battered old Remington sat on a typing table. She remembered the outer office. Two secondhand desks for his two policemen, one desk for his secretary. Not a VDT in sight.

When in doubt, tell some of the truth.

“Elliot mailed me a floppy disk. You know, he was used to working on computers. She carefully did not suggest the disk had been produced on his own computer, and maybe, God willing, even in this electronic age, Chief Saulter might not realize that the material recorded on a floppy disk using one particular program and machine could not be read by any incompatible program and different machine. “Anyway, I read the disk—and I was so outraged by what he’d put down that I erased it.”

“You what?”

“Erased it.” She looked at him inquiringly. “Do you have a computer, Chief Saulter?”

When he shook his head, she felt Max’s sigh. She leaned forward. “This is how it works …”

Max came out of Parotti’s store bearing two Bud Lights.

“Parotti says no strangers came across yesterday.”

Annie took the beer and looked puzzled.

“Just making sure,” Max explained. “Whoever killed Harriet was already on the island by Sunday or came by private boat.”

“Whoever killed Harriet was here Saturday night because the person who killed Harriet also killed Jill—and Elliot, of course.”

“I believe it, but a defense lawyer could make some argument if some strangers arrived Monday.”

Annie choked on her beer.

“Pretty weak defense.”

Max shook his head. “Annie, did anybody ever tell you that you have mouthitis?”

“It sounds scaly.”

“It can be terminal,” he said bitterly. “And what the hell are we going to do when Saulter finds out that any disk Elliot produced could be read only on his machine?”

“I read it on my machine,” she said stubbornly. “So Elliot must have had access to an Apple.”

This time Max choked on his beer.

Annie sipped hers daintily.

“All right, Miss Clever Tongue. What are you going to tell the chief when he discovers that package arrived in the mail on
Monday
morning
after
Elliot’s unfortunate demise? I mean, while he’s busy charging you with destroying evidence.”

Would Saulter check with her mailman? Would he begin to wonder about the accuracy of everything she’d said? Would he talk to somebody like Capt. Mac, who liked to repair computers for fun?

“How much time do you think we have?” she asked grimly.

“The rest of today. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Then I suggest we get started.”

A
green lizard clung to the side of the house. The drapes were closed against the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. Afternoon sunlight flooded the deck with light and deepened the shadows beneath the eighty-foot
sea pines. The only sounds were the occasional rustle as squirrels scampered from limb to limb, the soft thud of falling cones, and the tap of fragrant pine needles against the pitched roof of the house.

Sweat beaded Annie’s face, slid down her back and thighs. Actually, it wasn’t terribly hot, a pleasant seventy-eight degrees and not humid. The last time she broke into someone’s house, the results—for her—were catastrophic. Think of what nearly happened to Grace Kelly in
Rear Window
. But this time she wasn’t alone.

She turned her head slightly and whispered, “It looks okay.”

Max put out a restraining hand. “I’ll scout in front. If I don’t see anybody, then I’ll knock. You stick tight here and wait for me.”

They’d agreed that Harriet’s house deserved a once-over. After all, something must have prompted Harriet to show up at Elliot’s house at—for her—just the wrong moment.

Had Harriet been suspicious of a particular person? If so, would there be anything in her desk or diary to reflect it? Annie knew she kept a diary. Harriet bought the blank-page books from Death On Demand, never failing to mention each time she did so that all
real
writers had the compulsion to record their thoughts and feelings for posterity.

Ho hum.

But now it might matter.

Annie crept forward and touched the low limb of a live oak. The warm air lapping against her was as soothing as a hot tub.

Today and maybe tomorrow. They had so little time. They still needed to talk to Fritz Hemphill, Capt. Mac, and Kelly Rizzoli. But what good would any of it do? What if they came up with a motive for everyone, but not a single shred of evidence linking a particular person to the murders?

Somewhere there had to be evidence. Real, physical, concrete evidence. How could anyone move unseen and commit three murders? Had Saulter checked to see if anyone out late had seen a car near the Island Hills Veterinary Clinic? But, of course, he would have. He was
probably asking all and sundry if they had seen her 1982 blue Volvo.

There wouldn’t be any fingerprints at the Clinic, not after that evening when Capt. Mac had so thoroughly demonstrated just what did and did not hold prints.

Would there be fingerprints at Death On Demand? Of course there would be, and everyone could shrug them away. After all, they’d been there many times. All Saulter cared about was her prints on the fuse box.

As for Elliot’s house … She had that empty feeling that precedes awful knowledge. Had she left prints on the window sill or the floor? She’d scrubbed everything she thought she’d touched. She could always say she’d been at Elliot’s for dinner a few weeks earlier. Still, her prints in a hard-to-explain site would be all that Saulter needed to clap her in leg irons. Once again, she felt a terrible impatience to be active. Surely if they looked long enough, hard enough, there would be a clue to reveal the murderer. Where the heck was Max? As if in answer, she heard his rattling knock on Harriet’s front door. There was a pause, followed by another loud round of knocking.

In a moment more, he rounded the corner of the house. Annie gestured at him impatiently. He responded with a thumbs-up. Obviously, he was enjoying himself. She could see it in the glint in his dark blue eyes. He probably read
The Saint
as a boy. She’d have to ask him later.

“All clear,” he whispered.

They crept across the flagstoned patio, Max in the lead. Annie was irresistibly reminded of playing Cowboys and Indians as a child.

Max tugged on the patio door.

Annie touched his elbow, pointed at the broomstick wedged inside in the door track.

“Was the front door locked?” she asked softly.

“I didn’t try. There’s a house across the street. It didn’t look as though anyone was home, but I thought we’d better try back here.”

The McGuires, Annie knew, lived across from Harriet. Mildred McGuire was a Sara Paretsky freak who had given
copies of
Deadlock
to all her friends and had named her parrot Boom Boom.

Annie nodded, then motioned to him to follow. Feeling extremely conspicuous, she moved around the side of the house and tried the first door they reached. It opened, and they stepped into a laundry room. Light from the opened door illuminated a windowless, square utility room. Two concrete steps beside the washer and dryer led up to a door into the house.

“I’ll bet the kitchen door is open. Hardly anybody locks up.”

“Broward’s Rock—robber’s delight,” Max commented drily.

“Until now, we’ve never had to worry about robbers—or murderers.”

The kitchen door was unlocked.

Yesterday afternoon Harriet had left her home with no idea that she would never return. Ivy glistened in the kitchen window in a ceramic gingerbread house. The drainboards were immaculate. Harriet didn’t litter. Annie thought regretfully about her own kitchen and the haphazard piling of bags of Fritos, pound cake, and cookies when the breadbox was full.

A recently vaccumed peach-and-cream oriental runner ran the length of the main hall. The living room, shadowy because the periwinkle drapes were drawn, reflected a warmth and taste that seemed oddly at variance with Harriet’s abrasive personality. Obviously, she had treasured loveliness: Oil paintings of the Riviera coast hung above an unstained pine mantel holding matching cut glass vases. An ornately carved rosewood grand piano took pride of place before the closed French windows. October issues of
Antiques
and
Architectural Digest
lay on the square rose marble coffee table. The pale blue-and-gray oriental rug repeated the colors in the patterned wallpaper.

Harriet’s housekeeping skills were evident throughout the house. No dust marred the butler’s table in the entry hall or the mahogany desk in the library. Annie paused before the extensive collection of books on France, Impressionist painting, French cooking, wildflowers, and, of course, mysteries, and admired what appeared to be a
complete collection of Rex Stouts. One even looked like a first edition—maybe even autographed—but she resisted the impulse to check.

In Harriet’s office, her ITT was neatly hooded, her desk top clear.

Max eagerly pulled open the drawers. Check stubs and bill receipts in the first drawer, insurance policies in the second, publishing records in neat folders in the third.

Annie promptly located a row of cloth-backed books on the bottom shelf of the office bookshelves. Harriet’s diaries, neatly numbered on the spine and dated.

She reached down confidently, then paused. The last diary in the row was dated June 23–October 1 of that year.

Obviously Harriet had begun a new diary October 2– but it wasn’t on the shelf.

They looked in all the bookshelves. They checked the closets. They peered beneath the furniture and scanned the kitchen.

“Let’s try upstairs,” Annie suggested. “She probably wrote in it every night when she was ready for bed. That’s where it will be.”

She started up the stairs. Oyster-gray carpet on the treads. Harriet must not have expected much traffic. Annie, now excruciatingly aware of fingerprints, was careful not to touch the railing, which still glistened from its last polish with lemon oil. Her feeling of intrusion mounted. It seemed obscene for them to be here, poking their noses into Harriet’s private domain. They bypassed the two guest bedrooms. Harriet’s bedroom was dominated by a white, four-poster French provincial bed with a pink silk spread. A bisque-faced doll with delicate features and painted blue eyes—remarkably like Emma Clyde’s—sat atop the matching white chest. Who had given the doll to Harriet? Was it all that remained of her childhood? The doll’s delicate white lace dress looked freshly laundered.

Harriet’s bedroom was as scrupulously tidy as the rest of the house. Only the warm-up jacket carelessly dropped on the pink silk bedspread indicated anything out of the ordinary. Harriet must have been in a hurry, tossing down
the jacket, thinking she would fold it and put it away later.

It didn’t take long to search that well-ordered room or the closet with clothes hung so precisely for a wearer who would not return.

Finally, Max shook his head. “It’s not here. The diary’s not in the damned house.”

He was right. Someone had beaten them to it. Once again, a quick, clever, determined figure moved ahead of them, blocking them. Someone else had known Harriet kept a diary—and been determined no one should read it.

They were at the head of the stairs when Max stopped and looked up.