Carolyn G. Hart (46 page)

Gail looked shrunken. Her pale blue eyes were wide and staring, like a child who has wakened in terror from a nightmare. She averted them from her aunt’s body and clung to Frazier’s arm as she might to a lifeline in a turbulent sea.

The young reporter scrutinized Leighton and the police chief sharply, as if listening for words that weren’t spoken. His muscular body seemed ready to spring, and there was about him the look and air of a crouched panther.

Rouge stained Edith’s cheeks in bright patches, but her face was composed. Her white cotton pique dress gleamed fresh and crisp. Only her hands, balled into tight fists, betrayed her emotions.

For once, Sanford didn’t appear impatient. His hawklike face jutted forward, the smooth skin and hooded eyes expressionless, the thin lips tightly compressed. Annie doubted very much indeed that the dark doctor was experiencing any emotion over Corinne’s demise. Why then did he look so wary?

Miss Dora leaned on her stick and glowered malevolently at Annie.

Roscoe was as suitably grave as a mortician. Every
so often, he glanced up from the body to Leighton and back down again, but he said nothing.

Annie’s eyes moved toward the body, too. How odd that so many whose lives had been affected by Corinne now stood assembled at her death. But no grief was apparent in that silent circle, except, perhaps, for Leighton’s air of inchoate puzzlement. Instead, Annie sensed a strand of tension, verging on fear, joining them together.

“A vagrant,” Leighton said abruptly. “That’s what must have happened. Corinne startled someone, a robber perhaps, and she was struck down. We can’t let it destroy the work of the Society. It meant too much to her.”

Annie wondered if his plea rang as false to other ears as to hers, but the police chief was nodding.

“Be a damn mess with the crowds if they’re thrown on their own,” Wells said heavily. “Ephraim’s jammed right now. All right, open up.”

Open up. Just like that. Didn’t anybody have any idea of the problems involved? Annie could keep silent no longer.

“Look, I understand Mr. Webster’s feelings—and I’m sorry about the crowds, but it just isn’t possible! The gazebo—” She didn’t want to talk in terms of The Scene of the Crime. Not with Miss Dora’s malignant gaze still pinned to her. Backing up, she started over. “All the clues are in the gazebo—and Mr. Webster and Miss Prichard had agreed to play the roles of two of the suspects. I don’t think—”

Edith stepped forward. “Of course we can do it. There are others who will willingly take their places. In Corinne’s memory, we will do it.”

12

W
ERE THESE PEOPLE CRAZY?

Was sudden death merely a piquant addition to their mystery lust?

Apparently so, because the Mystery Night program was a sellout despite the ripple of rumors about Corinne’s murder, and tourists without tickets were pressed against the front fence, straining for a glimpse of police and any movement near the cane thicket.

Annie took a deep breath and climbed the steps to the platform facing the tents. She looked out over the cheerful spring scene. Pastel hues predominated in the encroaching dusk, women in pink, yellow, and white, men in light blue, gray, or tan. It might be any church picnic or annual firm outing except for the undercurrent of nervous excitement threading the hum of voices. The lights strung in the live oak trees and suspended inside the tents glowed a soft yellow. Most of
the men and women were sitting around the tables under the Suspect Interrogation and Detection Teams Conference Area tents. A few heartier eaters were in line to refill their plates with Low Country specialties. Her stomach rumbled hungrily. She hadn’t even had a bite of the Carolina trifle. She’d been hardpressed to scrub off the pond mud, change into a fresh straw-berry-and-lemon striped skirt and soft pink cotton blouse, move the crime scene to the rose arbor just east of the house, drill Max and Edith, who were pinch-hitting for Leighton and Gail as suspects, and make it to the foot of the platform only ten minutes after the mystery program was scheduled to begin.

She looked down the path leading to the pond and wondered if Corinne still lay defenseless on the gray sandy bank, her once lovely face sunken in death, her immaculate wool gabardine dress soiled by water, mud, and blood. A policeman, scarcely visible in the growing dusk, stood guard, turning away venturesome Mystery Night participants. This was the first moment she’d had time to think about her gruesome discovery and its ramifications. That hulking police chief wanted to hear her story—and he had called Leighton Mr. Mayor. But surely he wouldn’t cast her as the murderer just because she was from out of town. Her gaze skimmed the crowd surging closer to the platform, and Miss Dora’s wizened face popped into view. Annie fought a feeling of panic as she stared into those brooding, hostile eyes. Why had the old lady turned on her? And the answer hung in her mind: because she was a stranger. Jerking her glance away, she stared down at her notes. She had so many things to remember when she made her presentation, including two gruff demands from Chief Wells. She glanced to her left. The Mystery Night suspects, most of them
costumed suitably for an English house party in the late 1930s, stood in a line by the steps. They looked uneasy, their faces strained and subdued in the soft yellow light. And why not? Most of them were a good deal more concerned about the progress of the murder investigation unfolding a hundred yards to the northwest than they were the evening’s entertainment.

A sharp voice wafted up from immediately below her. “Are you working on the real murder? Can I help?”

Annie looked down into the fox-sharp eyes of Mrs. Brawley.

Mrs. Brawley stood on tiptoe. “What time did it happen? Maybe I saw something.”

“But the grounds weren’t open then. What would you have been doing?”

For once, Mrs. Brawley appeared at a loss. Then she mumbled, “Oh, looking here and there. Interested in flowers. Irises.” Glancing down at her watch, she yelped, “It’s almost fifteen after. You must get started,” and she turned and scuttled back toward the Suspect Interrogation Tent.

Swiftly, Annie translated. Mrs. Brawley had made a reconnaissance to get a jump on the other contestants and been prowling around the Prichard grounds. Obviously, she hadn’t seen the murder or she would be regaling Wells and the world with an embellished account. But it meant she’d cheated on the mystery program, no doubt about it. However, in the scheme of things, she didn’t at the moment give a bloody damn. Let Mrs. Brawley win. Just let this horrible, endless week be over, and then she would be free to return to Broward’s Rock and the uneventful (usually) life of a mystery bookstore owner.

Still, it rankled. She’d gone to a lot of effort to create
a neat mystery, and everybody who paid their ten bucks deserved a fair chance to win. But any attempt to disqualify Mrs. Brawley would delay the beginning of the program yet again and create an emotional tempest.

So, she loosened the microphone from the stand. The crowd shifted in anticipation. Her gaze swept over the throng and rested for an instant on a very familiar figure, the redoubtable Emma Clyde, the most famous mystery writer on Broward’s Rock. Emma’s stiff bronze curls had a fiery tint in the fading light. She wore a lime cotton top and a multi-pleated orange skirt. Shell earrings with a matching necklace and three bracelets affirmed a spring outfit. She looked like a housewife enjoying Wednesday night bingo, except for the piercing cornflower blue eyes that even at a distance crackled with intelligence. For an instant, their eyes met and held. As always, Annie felt a quiver of unease in Emma’s presence. The woman was so damned smart. Then Annie grinned and gave a little wave. If anybody could outwit Mrs. Brawley, it was Emma Clyde.

As she thumped the microphone, expectancy flickered among the crowd like summer lightning. She gave one last glance at her notes.

“On behalf of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society, I’m delighted to welcome all of you here tonight. It has been my pleasure to create a Mystery Night program for your enjoyment. Before we begin to delve, I want to ask: Did you enjoy your tours of the Benton, Prichard, and McIlwain houses and gardens?”

There was an enthusiastic chorus of affirmatives.

“Did you enjoy your Low Country dinner?”

“Yeees!”

“Are you ready to put together your mystery team
and begin the investigation of the English Manor Mystery, a k a ‘Alas, A Sticky Wicket’?”

Cheers rose.

“Excellent. We are ready, too. There are a few official procedures to be followed. Participants are requested to form teams of not more than ten members and to elect a Team Captain Detective, who will officially represent the team in the investigation and pose questions to the suspects. The investigation begins after I describe the background to our mystery and introduce your suspects.”

Looking out at the sea of eager faces, Annie described the functions of the three tents and the availability of materials in the Police Headquarters tent. “Each team, at the conclusion of the investigation, is to turn in a sealed envelope which contains: 1. The name of the murderer and 2. the reasons why the team accuses this suspect. Now,” she leaned forward, slipping in Chief Wells’s first order, “it is imperative that you list on the outside of the envelope the name of every member of your team, complete with address and phone number. Failure to include this information will disqualify your entry.” Listeners nodded, and some scrawled in open notebooks. “Your entry will be received by 10
P.M
. On Friday evening, you are invited to return here for the Denouement Ball, which begins at eight. You may dress as your favorite mystery sleuth or character. Prizes will be awarded for the five best costumes. At midnight, we will announce the winner, that is, the team which correctly identifies the murderer at the earliest time. Finally, one last warning.” The low hum of excited voices ceased. These people were serious mystery fans, and they avidly waited to hear Chief Well’s second instruction. She spoke distinctly. “The area open to Mystery Night detectives is limited to the
tents”—she pointed to each tent in turn—“and to the area around the tennis court, which is just east of the Prichard House. If a member of
any
team is discovered anywhere else, that
entire
team will be disqualified.” She smiled. “I know I can count on your cooperation. And now, Mystery Night sleuths, here is your crime.”

Heads bent, hands flew, as Annie related the sequence of events at Gemtree Court, the manor house home of Lady Alicia and Lord Algernon: the disappearance of The Red Maiden, and the discovery of Matilda Snooperton’s crumpled body beneath a rose arbor by the tennis court, not far from where only a few hours earlier the happy group had enjoyed croquet. “Detectives are encouraged to study the area near Miss Snooperton’s body closely. From police reports, it will be learned that a tool shed near the murder scene has been broken into. There are no fingerprints on the broken lock to the shed.

“You will find in the Police Headquarters tent copies of the statements made by each suspect, the autopsy report, and a table containing replicas of the clues. Each team may make application for one—repeat,
one
—search warrant, which will be granted only if you can convince the magistrate—
me
—” she paused for the laughter which greeted her pronouncement, “that you have sufficient reason. You may sign up at the clue table for your turn as a team to visit The Scene of the Crime.”

She tried to ignore a sudden vivid image of the pond and Corinne Webster’s crushed skull. In the pause before she forced herself to continue, she heard a contestant mutter happily, “I just love stately home murders. Have you read
Blue Blood Will Out
by Tim Heald?” Her companion nodded enthusiastically. “Loved it. Another
good one is
Lord Mullion’s Secret
by Michael Innes.”

Annie noted that both women, right on the front row, were plump and wore sensible tweeds and sturdy walking shoes. Mrs. Brawley faced sharp competition.

“Now, I’d like to present your suspects.”

Suspects
. Who would be the suspects in Corinne’s murder? Other than herself, the stranger in their midst. Discomfort moved in her stomach, and it wasn’t hunger. Would Wells remember to cherchez la femme? Or would that be lèse majesté to Mr. Mayor? But the police always looked first at the husband, didn’t they? Maybe not this time. Worry gnawed a little deeper.