Carolyn G. Hart (53 page)

“Can you tell us how you earn your living, Mr. Hoxton?”

Sanford lolled back in his chair, a wolfish smile on his dark face. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a round white collar and pale blue slacks. It wasn’t nineteen-thirtyish, but he was the epitome of a man from whom you wouldn’t want to buy a used car. For the first time, Annie suspected the abrasive doctor of having a sense of humor.

“Investments,” he replied airily.

“Investments in what, Mr. Hoxton?” the lawyer persisted.

“One business today, another one tomorrow.”

“Perhaps your real business is taking advantage of women, Mr. Hoxton.”

“Those, sir, are scurrilous words.”

“Oh? Can you explain the testimony of Lady Alicia’s maid? She tells us Lady Alicia owed you 3,400 pounds.”

“Lies, all lies.”

“Agnes tells us you have badgered her poor mistress for huge sums of money, claiming she owes them to you for losses at cards. Is this true, Mr. Hoxton?”

Smiling, Annie moved on and came up behind the circle of questioners around Agnes.

Her smile faded. Poor Lucy was obviously miserable. She sat unsmiling and rigid in her chair. Tonight she wore an attractive black-and-white silk dress and
white gloves. Her face carried an unaccustomed splash of color on each cheek, and Annie knew she’d tried to use make-up to hide her pallor. Lucy listened attentively to her questioners, answering each question dutifully, but her gloved hands were clenched in her lap.

“Agnes, what exactly did you hear Mr. Nigel say to Miss Snooperton?”

Lucy glanced down at her prep cards. “It was shocking to me, sir,
that
I can tell you. Mr. Nigel was all upset. He kept saying he wanted to know how long she’d been seeing Lord Algernon on the sly. Miss Snooperton denied it had ever happened. Mr. Nigel said he wasn’t going to marry anyone who would lie to him, but Miss Snooperton told him he’d given his word and she wore his ring and it would be a scandal if he broke it off. Mr. Nigel stormed away, but she called after him that she’d talk to him later, as they’d planned.”

Team Captain No. 6 probed deeper. “Funny how you can see and hear so much about everyone but your mistress. Tell us now, when was the last time you saw the necklace in her possession?”

Lucy’s distrait silence was perfect. Finally, she responded sharply, “I know that necklace like my own hand. I saw it that very morning. But you can’t fault me for having eyes and ears, and Mr. Nigel’s not telling all he knows.”

A high, sharp voice urged her teammates, “Oh, let’s hurry. Let’s get a search warrant against Nigel Davies.”

Annie would know that voice anywhere. As the team members broke into a trot, heading for the Police Investigation Tent, she called out, “Mrs. Brawley.”

Slowly, reluctantly, a slight figure with a fox-sharp face paused for an instant.

Annie reached out, gripped a bony elbow. “You were here last night.”

Mrs. Brawley lifted her chin defiantly. “I have a ticket tonight, too.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“There’s not a thing in the rules that says you can’t come every night, if you buy a ticket.” Mrs. Brawley shook free of Annie’s hand. “And I bought a ticket for every single night.” She darted away.

Annie stared after her.

Obviously, it was cheating. By the time she’d been on four different teams, it would be a bloody miracle if she weren’t the first to figure the mystery out.

But Mrs. Brawley was right. There wasn’t a single thing in the rules to prevent it.

It was not, Annie decided, a surprise that so many murders occurred, but so few.

She stalked after Mrs. Brawley and her team, and arrived in time to see the members receive their information from the search warrant on Nigel Davies.

They learned: Nigel Davies had been expected to marry his girlhood sweetheart, Susannah Greatheart, and friends had been surprised when his engagement to the worldly Miss Snooperton was announced. Nigel and Miss Snooperton had been observed quarreling, with Nigel threatening to break the engagement. The search of his room at the Manor revealed a note from Miss Greatheart, which threatened suicide if he did not return to her.

With happy clucks of anticipation, the team rumbled off en masse to return to the Suspect Interrogation tent and a session with Miss Greatheart.

Annie glanced at her watch. Nine-forty. Thank heavens, the madness would soon be over.

“Miss Laurance.”

She knew that voice, too.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?”

It was politely phrased, but Bobby Frazier’s tone brooked no disagreement. His face was shadowed by a tall, perfumed pittisporum shrub.

“Certainly.”

He jerked his head toward the Benton House. “Let’s walk over by the fence.”

They found an oasis of quiet near the gate between the two houses.

In the yellowish glare of the overhead security light, he looked drawn and tired, tension lines bracketing his mouth.

“What did Gail tell you?”

Annie didn’t like his peremptory tone.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Frazier swallowed jerkily. “Look, I’ve got to know. I’ve got to know what the hell is going on.”

“Pick up a phone,” she retorted. “Call her.”

“I can’t.” He grabbed a bar of the fence. He should have looked inoffensive, a young man in khaki slacks and a yellow sports shirt with pencils poking out of the pocket, but he reminded Annie uncomfortably of a predator crouched to spring, every muscle taut, every nerve stretched to the highest pitch. Then, with evident effort, he smoothed out his tone. “Look, Miss Laurance, I just want to know what she told you. It’s no state secret, right?”

“She told me about her talks with you the day Corinne was murdered.”

His hand tightened convulsively on the bar. “You may have gotten the wrong impression.”

She waited.

“Gail’s a nice girl, but she’s not interested in me—and I’m not interested in her.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We’re just friends. That’s all.”

“I guess you forgot to tell her.”

He reached out, gripped her arm so tightly that Annie gasped softly. “What the hell do you mean?”

Because his tone frightened her, Annie responded fiercely. “Gail is a nice kid, Mr. Frazier. She doesn’t know any better than to tell the truth, and she’s telling everybody—and I’ll bet that includes Chief Wells—that you didn’t give a damn about her not having any money and you intended to go on seeing one another.”

“Oh, shit.” His fingers unloosed her, and he banged through the gate and was gone.

Annie stared after the yellow shirt until it was swallowed by the darkness. What did that mean? Nothing good for Gail. Was this a less than graceful effort by Bobby Frazier to remove himself from suspicion?

Annie sighed, turned to return to the fray, and froze. Was there a rustle in the bushes behind her? Swinging around, heart thudding, she peered into the shadows. Yes, there was movement and a dark splotch of cloth. Suddenly, she shivered. The bushes lay quiescent now. But she had glimpsed a wizened face and malevolent eyes.

Hadn’t she?

With a feeling of horror, she plunged up the path toward the tents.

17

A
nnie watched in dismay as Max poured their coffee. “Can’t you see? It’s
yellow
. It’s not even brown.”

“We could walk down the street to the Harbor Lights. I understand they have wonderful Belgian waffles and excellent coffee.”

Annie glowered down into her coffee cup. “She’d find out, then we’d never get another word out of her.”

“I’m not sure she knows anything.” Max’s tone was reasonable.

“She
has
to. She’s too nosy not to know something useful. Shh-h. Here she comes.”

Idell Gordon swept into the patio, smiling in satisfaction at the crowded tables. She stopped beside Annie and Max.

“Good morning. And how are our detectives this morning?” she asked archly.

After a restless night on a lumpy mattress, a two
A.M
.
search for a three-inch cockroach, and a rapid approach of a crise de nerfs because of severe caffeine withdrawal, an honest reply quivered on the tip of Annie’s tongue. However, she forced a grim smile and remained tactfully silent.

Max, annoyingly, rose gallantly to his feet. “Will you join us for some breakfast, Mrs. Gordon?”

“Oh, my dear boy, I’ve been up since dawn. A proprietor’s work is never done, you know.” She waved him back to his seat. Her protuberant, questing eyes dropped to the newspaper, the Wednesday edition of the
Chastain Courier
, with its screaming headlines about the investigation into Corinne’s murder. “Did you notice who wrote the story?”

She didn’t have to say which article.

They nodded. It was bylined to Bobby Frazier.

“What would Corinne think, if she knew?”

Considering the question rhetorical, they waited.

This morning, Idell had ill-advisedly chosen to wear a faded pink shirt and tight white polyester slacks. Neither were flattering. She stood by their table and stared down at the newspaper, her eyes shiny. “Did you see where Leighton is offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer?” She looked at them sharply. “Are you going to try for the reward?”

Max shook his head. “No. We hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Are you?” Annie asked.

Idell stepped back a pace, a hand at her wrinkled throat. “Oh, no, no. Of course not. How would I do that? Well, enjoy your breakfast. I must check the kitchen now,” and she scuttled away.

“She has something on her mind,” Annie observed,
tartly, “but it will be a cold day in hell before she tells us.”

“Do you really think so?” He yawned and picked up the paper.

Annie sighed and took another sip of what purported to be coffee. “Anything new in the story?”

“A few things. Let’s see, Mrs. Webster was last seen by the cook, starting down the path from the kitchen steps. That was about five o’clock. Nobody admits seeing her after that time.”

Annie fished the spiral notebook out of her skirt pocket and flipped to a fresh page.

5:00—
C.W. leaves Prichard House
.

5:30—
Annie discovers body
.

She checked back at some earlier notations.

4:25—
Annie at gazebo, Gail and Bobby arrive and quarrel
.

4:30—
Bobby follows Gail, tells her to find out what happened to C.W.’s check
.

4:35—
Gail to Prichard House, calls back, quarrels with C.W
.

4:50—
Gail leaves in search of Bobby, finds him, tells him C. W. intends to block her inheritance. Gail returns to house, Bobby where?

5:00—
C.W. leaves house. Why?

She studied her times. “Where was Corinne going?”

“Since I don’t specialize in seances, I can’t tell you.”

“Max, be serious. This is important. Why did Corinne leave the house? Where was she going?”

“Maybe she was ready for the start of the evening’s festivities.”

“It wasn’t time. The gates were to open at six. So where was she hotfooting it at five?”

He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the three stories of balconies, which slanted suspiciously
toward the patio. “One good earthquake and I’ll bet this place collapses.” At her impatient wiggle, he held up a broad hand. “I
am
pondering. Why did Corinne leave the house? Oh, offhand I can imagine at least six reasons. She wanted to come and harass you a little more. She was going to check on the arrival of the caterer. She decided it was an opportune moment to commune with nature. She had a secret lover, and they planned a rendezvous behind a yew hedge. She was on her way to Roscoe Merrill’s office to deal him a little grief, or ditto Dr. Sanford. That’s six, isn’t it?”

“Five o’clock,” she muttered. “She must have had something specific in mind. It wasn’t time for the gala to start, and she’d already been on my case several times. No, this is important. We’ve got to find out
why
she left the house.”

Chloe was small, dark, and weary. “No’m, Miss Corinne she didn’t say nothin’.”

Sunlight sparkled in the immaculate kitchen of Prichard House. The copper cookware above the chopping block glistened. The smell of apple pie and roasting meat hung in the air, but there was no corresponding holiday mood. Chloe was preparing food for the family after the funeral that afternoon.