Carolyn G. Hart (40 page)

The lawyer leaned back in his chair and regarded Max over steepled fingers. “I wouldn’t go so far as to put it that directly.”

Max grinned. “No, I wouldn’t say you put it too directly, but that’s the substance, right?”

Slowly, Merrill nodded, his pale brown eyes alert.

“Why a woman?”

“It seems to me that it is a distinctly feminine attack.” Merrill rubbed his blunt nose thoughtfully. “Obviously, the letter was planned to humiliate Corinne in front of the Board. And the note to the newspaper editor seems an essentially feline touch.”

Max was tempted to describe some very feline men he’d encountered in his time, but instead concentrated on prizing loose information. “Did you check on that?”

Merrill pondered for a moment. He obviously didn’t relish imparting any information, but finally he conceded. “I spoke to Ed Hershey, the city editor. He received a note typed on plain white paper. No signature. He didn’t save it.”

So that was that. “Did Hershey print anything?”

“Not much,” Merrill said grimly. “Libel
per se
,
young man. But the paper carried a general report of plans for the house-and-garden tours and a brief story quoting Sybil about the question of Bond’s paintings being exhibited in New York.” His mouth compressed.

“What’s going to happen there?”

The pale brown eyes regarded Max with about as much enthusiasm as a Republican dowager opening the door to an ACLU pamphleteer.

“That is hardly relevant to the question of the forged mystery plot.”

“No?” Max leaned back comfortably in the luxurious embrace of the soft leather. “I’d think it might have some bearing. You suggest the perpetrator is a woman. Maybe Mrs. Giacomo was ticked off enough to put the show together.”

For the first time, interest flickered across Merrill’s face, followed immediately by dismissal. Max realized with a surge of excitement that Merrill felt certain of the letter writer’s identity.

The lawyer said drily, “Mrs. Giacomo is capable of a rather alarming number of rash acts—but this is much too devious—too quiet—for her.”

“You know who did it.”

Merrill immediately assumed the bland expression of a sunning crocodile. “Absolutely not. I have no more information than you, Mr. Darling.” He paused, then reached out and pensively selected a cherrywood pipe from a rack. Opening a wooden canister, he picked out a thick clump of aromatic tobacco and methodically tamped it in the bowl. When the tobacco was lit and drawing, he regarded Max through the smoke. “I assume we can speak confidentially, Mr. Darling.”

“Ms. Laurance and I work together.”

He blew a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. “Let me put it this way.” How many settlement conferences
had the canny lawyer begun with just that tone? “It is inevitable that jealousies arise when women work too hard and too fervently in organizations.” He smiled with all the warmth of a robot. “My wife has described situations to me that would shock you, Mr. Darling. I am confident that the unfortunate incident this morning was a direct response to this kind of pressure.”

Max wondered if he were being led down the primrose path, but he dutifully responded to the lure. “Did Mrs. Webster clobber somebody in the Society?”

“It could be viewed in that light. There may be some heartbreak here, Mr. Darling. Let us assume, hypothetically, of course, that a woman member has given herself heart and soul to the Society, served it in every capacity, devoted days and nights to its advancement, and then found herself refused the one office she desired. Now,” and he spoke precisely, “I wish to make it clear that I am not and will not be construed as referring to any particular individual. But that,” and he sucked on his pipe, “could be the answer to it.”

“How bitter is this woman?”

“What do you mean?” Merrill asked cautiously.

“How likely is she to sabotage Annie’s Mystery Nights?”

“That won’t happen. I’m confident that this was an isolated occurrence. It is over and done with. I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t want Annie embarrassed—or hurt in any way.”

“Mr. Darling, you can rest easy. I assure you it’s a closed chapter. The only thing that could cause more trouble would be for you to continue to pursue this. I feel that very strongly. And I’m asking you, as an officer
of the Board, as a member of our Chastain community, to let it rest. Will you do that?”

Salt water stung Max’s eyes, but, blurrily, he could see a familiar—and oh so shapely and touchable—body, or the half of it, beneath the surface. He stroked nearer and reached out and slipped his hand delicately up the back of her leg.

Annie shot out of the water like a Yellowstone geyser, bounced back down in the surf, and flailed wildly toward shore.

Max came up, laughing so hard that he swallowed a mouthful of salt water and began to choke.

She paused in mid-lunge. “You rat! I thought it was a shark.” She squinted at him. “How did you get here?”

“I drove back from Chastain, parked, changed in the cabana—”

She slapped her hand down against the water. “No, I mean
here
. I didn’t see you come.”

“Actually, my love, a school of hammerheads could have surrounded you. You were staring at the horizon in total absorption. I came up behind you, then swam underwater. The better to pretend I was a shark.”

“Max, will you ever grow up?”

“Hell, no.” He splashed to her and picked her up in his arms.

“Put me down.”

“Hell, no,” he said again, enthusiastically.

They toppled backwards, the water roiled, and they came up again, sputtering with laughter.

His report on Chastain could wait until later.

Much later.

•   •   •

Annie put a big red X on the paper tablecloth. “And that’s where I’ll put the corpse.”

Max moved his Bud Light for a better view.

The waiter arrived with two Caesar salads. She motioned for hers to be put to one side of the red X.

With true sophistication, the waiter didn’t change expression when she said, “I’m going to have her bashed over the head with a croquet mallet.”

“Oh, good going,” Max murmured, avoiding the waiter’s eye.

She leaned back and said in satisfaction, “So, I did pretty well today.”

The waiter cut his eyes toward her as he moved away.

“That’s great, honey.”

“And what happened in Chastain?”

When he finished his report, Annie speared an anchovy. “Are you going to drop it?”

Max scooped up a garlicky chunk of cheese. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll decide in the morning.”

9

M
ax was sitting with his tasseled loafers resting on his Italian Renaissance desktop when Barbie buzzed. He flicked on the intercom.

“A lady to see you, Mr. Darling. About a missing painting.”

Work.

If he didn’t exactly feel a transport of joy, he did feel a moderate stirring of interest. But he hesitated. Did he want to take anything on? He certainly could delve further into the matter of the Forged Murder Plot. But that would just be depressing if it turned out as Roscoe Merrill predicted. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to this prospective client. A missing painting.

“Send her in.” Max rose and straightened his tie as Barbie opened the door for a little old lady with faded blue eyes, fluffy white hair, and an anxious expression.

“Mrs. Hilliard,” Barbie announced.

As Max solicitously directed her toward a chair, he felt her arm tremble under his hand. As he took his place behind the desk, he studied her.

She wore a navy-blue silk dress with a white ruffled lace collar. A brown and white cameo sprouted from the lace.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Hilliard?”

She looked around nervously. “Do you make records of everything in your office, Mr. Darling?”

For a moment, he was puzzled. “Records?”

“Recordings,” she amplified.

So the old darling watched TV.

“No, I don’t tape record anything.”

“So our conversation is confidential. Absolutely confidential?”

“Yes, of course.”

She paused, looked around once more, then said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “Mr. Darling, a painting has been stolen from my home. A very valuable painting.” Her strained, fuzzy blue eyes avoided looking at him directly, focusing instead on the silver letter opener that Barbie had arranged artistically in the dead center of his desk. “I believe it has been—I think the expression is—hocked. Can you investigate for me, and discover who sold it to this antique shop?”

“Mrs. Hilliard, if your property has been stolen and sold, you should contact the police.”

A flush crimsoned her plump cheeks. She clasped her hands together. “The police. Oh no, no, Mr. Darling. Never. Not the police. I just want to know what happened.”

It took another ten minutes to soothe her down, obtain the rest of the story, and discover her objective. She wanted him to interview the antique shop owner, get a description of the person who sold the painting,
and obtain a sworn statement from the shop owner. That was all.

He stared at her in puzzlement. There was something a good deal more complicated here than a simple theft. The old lady was clearly distraught—and not about a painting. He was intrigued, but if he took this on, it meant he would have to drop his inquiries in Chastain, just as Roscoe Merrill wanted him to. Max had a congenital dislike of doing what others desired. Actually, he hated to miss out on a session with Sybil the Magnificent. And Miss Dora might have an interesting perspective on Corinne and Chastain society. Moreover, Merrill obviously had an axe to grind. He didn’t want any more turmoil touching his precious Society. But he was probably on point in his assumption that nothing more untoward would happen in Chastain, and this frail old lady was waiting for his answer as if her life depended upon it. What the hell.

“I’ll check into it,” he promised.

His new client took a deep breath, as if an irrevocable step had been taken. “Thank you, Mr. Darling.” She gathered up her purse and rose. At the door she hesitated. Again, she didn’t look at him, but stared down at the floor. “Now, don’t forget. Not a word to anyone—like the police. I just want that written statement.”

When the door closed, he scribbled down the gist of their conversation, studied it for a moment with a puzzled frown, then nodded decisively. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Death on Demand.”

“Hi, Ingrid. Annie there?”

“She’s gone to Chastain to rent the tents and check the mystery inserts for the tour programs.”

“Okay. Tell her I’ve got a new case, but I’ll call her
later. Oh, and Ingrid—tell her I decided to drop the letter inquiry. I’m sure the only murder that will take place on the Murder Nights will be the one she’s planned.”

Dress rehearsal.

Or the next best thing. The meeting room at the Chastain Historical Preservation Society lacked the musty smell of a theater, and the upcoming session wouldn’t have the stomach-wrenching sensation of imminent disaster that Annie associated with the night before an opening, but she still quivered with anticipation. Tomorrow was The Day—the opening of Chastain’s Fifth Annual House and Garden tours, and the launching of Annie Laurance’s first mystery program. She could hear the cheers now. This might signal the beginning of a lucrative sideline to Death on Demand—if the Mystery Nights succeeded.

If. The old rhyme about a horseshoe nail flickered like a ticker tape in the back of her mind, even as she finished putting copies of the character sketches at each place around the refectory table. Damn, if anyone ever had to deal with the incalculability of the human personality, it was she. It had sounded so easy. Put together a plot, drill the cast, plant the body and, bam, start the show. That simple scenario had failed, however, to take Corinne and Sybil into account.

In fact, she had seriously considered canceling tonight’s rehearsal. After all, they’d met twice, and the cast members were bright if unschooled in acting. If she’d been able to restrict the rehearsals to cast members, all would have gone swimmingly. The difficulties came from the presence of Corinne and Sybil. She’d made it clear the sessions were intended for the players,
and the presence of other Board members wasn’t required. Edith and Miss Dora had gracefully, and perhaps gratefully, stayed away. Not so Corinne and Sybil, and Annie could see no way of barring them, especially since Sybil would ignore any polite subterfuge and claw her way with public clamor to the real reason—and that would be appalling. Although Corinne certainly was white meat. It should be obvious to her that Sybil’s honey-voiced pursuit of Leighton was calculated solely to infuriate. If Corinne would just ignore her, the game would cease to be fun and a bored Sybil would promptly drop it. But no, Corinne puffed up like an enraged cat, so Sybil smiled and intensified her campaign.