Carolyn G. Hart (59 page)

After the last policeman finally left, Max and Annie slipped out the back door.

Annie glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you suppose Wells will arrest me if he finds out I’ve left my room?”

Max wasn’t worried. “No. You just hacked him, bringing up the letter again.”

They took the alley to the McIlwain grounds. Annie stiffened at the back gate, pointing to the placard jammed into the grayish dirt.

“Although this is now known as Whitsett’s Alley, after the proprietor of a print shop which stood here in the early 1800s, this is the site of the earliest Chastain
racecourse, which was laid out in January of 1735. Races began in February and nearby planters entered the pride of their stables. Prizes included silver cups, bowls, or salvers. Race week culminated annually in the Jockey Ball, which opened with a stately minuet but included vigorous country dancing. Supper might have included baked turkeys, terrapin stews, iced cakes, partridge, quail, and goose, Madeira and Port wines, and punch.”

Annie glanced wildly around. “That old woman is everywhere, but you never see her. It’s giving me the creeps!”

The gate screeched like a cat with a stepped-on tail, and Annie jumped a foot.

“Gothic heroine,” he murmured.

“Don’t be obnoxious,” she retorted.

They found Lucy at the side of the house, pruning a wisteria vine. She wore a floppy pink gardening hat, a denim skirt, and tailored cotton blouse. At the sound of their footsteps, she looked up, took a deep breath and visibly gathered strength.

“I suppose it’s true.” But she didn’t need their confirmation. “I don’t understand it, though. Corinne and Idell had nothing in common. Oh, they knew each other, of course. We all know each other. We’ve lived here so long, and we are neighbors. But why would anyone kill both Corinne and Idell? I don’t suppose Idell had a heart attack?” She looked at them hopefully. “Could it be that?”

“They aren’t sure yet what killed her,” Max said, “but I heard the cops talking about poison. That’s what they’re looking for.”

“It doesn’t make any kind of sense. Not Idell.”

“Actually, it does make sense.” Annie described
Idell’s interest in the reward, and the idea that she may have seen the writer of the plot letter.

Lucy’s face looked as though it had been chiseled out of pond ice.

“Louisa Binning insists the letter must have been written after hours,” Max explained.

“And that means the typist had a key to the Society building.”

Lucy drew her breath in sharply. “That’s dreadful.” If her face had looked worn before, now it appeared absolutely stricken. “Oh, my God. Someone with a key.” Then she shook her head. Her voice was high. “Chief Wells doesn’t believe the letter matters.”

Annie looked at her gravely. “Don’t you see how wrong that is? Lucy, please. You know these people. You know everyone who could have gotten into that building. Won’t you help us? Won’t you tell us what you really think?”

For an instant, Annie felt that it trembled in the balance, because Lucy understood.

Who could better judge the motives and passions of her longtime friends and neighbors? Lucy knew them all:

Leighton, the charming, handsome, not-so-grieved widower.

Gail, the emotional, love-struck, frightened niece.

Bobby, the abrasive, tough, self-serving reporter.

Roscoe, the self-contained but passionate lawyer.

John, the ambitious, determined, aloof doctor.

Sybil, the lusty, willful, spoiled sybarite.

Tim, the gifted, immature, self-centered artist.

Edith, the nervous, sensitive, hardworking clubwoman.

Miss Dora, the eccentric, unpredictable, waspish old woman.

Annie held her breath. Lucy could help them. She felt so sure of it. If only she would—

Lucy tucked the shears under her arm, slipped off her gardening gloves. Then she clasped her hands together to hide their trembling. Tears glistened in her eyes as she shook her head. “No.” Her voice was as faint as the whistle of wind in a cavern. “No!”

Max ordered veal marsala. Annie debated between corned beef on rye and a chili hamburger and picked the latter.

“There has been some mild concern of late about cholesterol,” he said converstionally.

“I think I’ll have chocolate fudge pie for dessert.”

“How about adding a dollop of whipped cream?”

“Good idea.”

He sighed. “You are almost Victorian in your pigginess.”

“If I could go back in time, for culinary pleasures, it would be difficult to pick between a Christmas dinner in Victorian England and a wedding feast in ancient Rome.”

“Does this mean you are going to develop a matronly figure in your old age?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Stick around and find out.”

“And have a lot of fun along the way.”

“I’ll shake on that,” and she stuck out a hand. She pumped his hand hard for an instant, then paused and the pleasure seeped out of her face, replaced by worry and discouragement. “Dammit, Lucy knows who wrote that letter. Don’t you think? Why else would she always get in such a swivet when we ask her about it?”

Max put down his fork, looking about as stricken as Lucy had.

She mumbled past a mouthful of chili hamburger. “What’s wrong?”

“God, do you suppose Gail wrote it?”

Annie stopped chewing to stare at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Lucy’s crazy about Gail—and she’s looked like hell ever since Corinne got bumped off.”

She put her burger down on the plate. “That makes just enough sense to be true.” She squinted in concentration. “No, no, wait a minute. That doesn’t jibe, because Gail’s panicked about Bobby.”

“Is she?” Max said coolly.

“Sure she is. She ran to us to see if we could help. She’s acted like a heroine tied to the rails every time Bobby is mentioned.”

“Look at it this way,” Max suggested. “If she’s a double murderess, that lavender blue persona of hers has to be more than a little contrived. There may be a hell of a lot more to her than just a pretty face.”

Annie looked at him admiringly. “Beneath that Jack Armstrong exterior lurks a Stephen King imagination. I’m impressed.”

He smiled modestly.

They ate in silence for a moment, then, as Annie swallowed her last fat-laden bite, she said purposefully, “Okay, we’ve got first-class analytical brains. Right?”

“Of course.”

“So let’s think. Why was the letter written?”

“One, to embarrass Corinne,” Max suggested. “Or, two, to warn her. You know, something on the order of those street corner signs: repent while you have time.”

“Or, three,” Annie offered, “it might have been designed to stir up trouble between Corinne and the not-so-well-disguised suspects in the Moneypot plot so
that the water would be well-muddied when Corinne was murdered. Or, four, to implicate me.”

Max pounced on the last two. “But they would presuppose that murder was intended when the letter was first written.”

Annie sighed heavily. “Maybe we don’t have first-class brains.”

The waiter removed their plates, and Max ordered two beers.

Annie reached for the dessert menu, murmuring, “Fudge pie.”

“Nobody would mix beer and fudge pie.” But his tone wasn’t altogether certain.

Annie reluctantly put down the dessert menu. “Actually, I’m full. Another time.”

Max returned to the letter. “If we knew the real reason it was written, it would be a hell of a lot easier to pick out the writer.”

She propped her chin on her hand. “Sure. Reason one is motivated by anger. Reason two is more ambivalent. The writer is mad but willing to give her another chance. But reasons three and four—”

He nodded. “Yeah. The die is cast.”

Max pulled an envelope from his pocket and listed their suspects.

Annie nodded at the first name. “Okay. Let’s take Leighton. He married Corinne and lost the career he wanted. No kids. Not much to care about in his life, so he started to go to seed. Drank too much. But always a gentleman. Then he meets this attractive young woman, who cares about him as a person, not as the financial underpinning of a big house.”

“If he wrote it, it would have to be Reason Three.”

“Because he wasn’t really mad at Corinne, was he? He was disillusioned, and maybe a little bitter. But not
mad. And he wouldn’t expect that letter to change her, certainly not in any way that could benefit him. Her pride would never allow her to agree to a divorce. So his only motive to write the letter would be to provide a handful of suspects in her murder.”

“Which it should have accomplished—except the police chief suffers from xenophobia.” Max put a checkmark by Leighton’s name.

“Is Leighton that kind of man?” Annie wondered doubtfully. “Devious and crafty? He seems so aboveboard, so likable—”

“Such a gentleman,” Max parroted sarcastically.

“Well, he is!”

“Yeah. But he’s a man, too. And he’d fallen in love. What was it worth to him?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at Max for a moment. What was his love worth to her? Everything. Anything. Yes, maybe she had to reconsider Leighton’s motives.

“As for Gail, I hate to say it, but I sure can see her writing the letter.”

Annie nodded reluctantly. Gail was weak, but she had the cunning and stubbornness of the weak. She would fight for what mattered to her, with any weapon she could find. “She could have written it to strike back at her aunt.”

“Or she could have figured that a letter like that would go a long way to spread the wealth in a murder investigation.”

“That’s too Machiavellian for her,” Annie objected.

“How about Bobby? He could have gotten Gail’s key to the Society.”

Annie shook her head vehemently.

“Sure he could have,” Max insisted.

“Oh, I know that. But he wouldn’t have written that letter. He’s too direct. Too masculine.”

Max’s brows drew down in a dark frown. “I seem to notice a pattern to your objections. Apparently, good-looking men are exempted from suspicion.”

“Don’t be silly. I can’t help it if Leighton and Bobby are attractive.”

“How about Sanford?”

“He isn’t attractive, but that’s not the reason I can see him doing the letter. Actually, he’s a natural. He acted furious when I read the letter, but that could be a cover.” She remembered his angry face in his office, and his cold laughter.
I could have strangled her
. She shivered. “He’s kind of scary.”

“How about Roscoe?”

“No way. He’s much too
careful
to do something like that. I mean, he is a lawyer. He’d figure out the letter could be traced to the Society. He’d think it was a crazy idea.”

“Something no lawyer would dream of doing. Right?”

“Oh.” She considered it. “He might have done it because he’d figure nobody would expect him to do it. That would be doubly clever.”

“He’s a very clever fellow.”

“How about Jessica?” she asked.

“Jessica would act out of pure anger, if she knew how Corinne were upsetting Roscoe.”

“The same would go for Edith. And believe me, Edith would have loved to sandbag Corinne. As would have Sybil.” Her mouth twisted dryly. “But I doubt if Sybil can write her name. And the same goes for Tim.”

“Oh, I think you underestimate Sybil,” Max began.

Annie almost rose to the bait, until she saw the mischievous pleasure in his dark blue eyes. She folded her lips firmly shut.

Max made a star by the last name. “Of course, Lucy’s
an excellent suspect. She has keys and lives right next door to the Prichard House.”

“She certainly could have managed it,” Annie agreed, “but what happens when we try on the motives? Did she have any reason to be angry with Corinne? All we’ve picked up is an old story about Gail’s father. Seems a little weak to me.” She finished her beer, thought briefly about fudge pie, and turned her hands up in defeat. “I still think it’s Miss Dora. Or maybe it’s like
Murder On The Orient Express
. The Board members all got together at three in the morning and wrote the damned thing together.”

Every time Annie saw one of the people on their list that evening during the final Mystery Night program, she wondered: Did you write the letter? Kill Corinne? And Idell?

The Mystery Night crowd was sparse. Only fifty-seven showed up, although the evening had been a sell-out like all the others. Both detectives and Mystery Night suspects showed a marked lack of enthusiasm and a tendency to look over their collective shoulders, except, of course, for the indefatigable Mrs. Brawley, who cornered Annie in the Suspect Interrogation Tent.

“Was the footprint at The Scene of the Crime traced to Nigel Davies?”

Annie looked at her blankly, her mind still juggling the names and faces of the Board members. “Footprint. Oh yes, it matches the shoes he was wearing after tea.”

Mrs. Brawley’s fox-sharp nose twitched. “After tea. Then he
lied
in his statement.” With a whoop, she turned and lunged across the room to the Investigation table. “A search warrant against Nigel Davies. At once!”

The warrant revealed: A note from Susannah Greatheart to Matilda Snooperton, angrily demanding that she release Nigel from a loveless engagement.

Information in hand, Mrs. Brawley scooted across the tent to Roscoe Merrill.

“Your footprint places you at The Scene of the Crime!”

Roscoe went through his lines accurately but without verve, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“I dispute your assumption.”

“It is admitted,” Mrs. Brawley pressed, “that you wore these shoes
after
tea. Therefore, your presence at the site where Miss Snooperton died cannot be denied. Further, in your room, the search revealed a letter from Miss Greatheart to Miss Snooperton. How could it have come into your possession if you did not take it from Miss Snooperton, dead or alive?”

Roscoe skirted the attack. “I did not take it from Miss Snooperton. I found it in the area where she was killed. It must have dropped from her hand. But I did not see her to speak to.”

A careful, lawyerlike response. Annie would have smiled, if murder were a topic for smiles. At this moment, it was not.

At nine o’clock, she looked up to see Chief Wells standing near the main entrance to the Suspect Interrogation Tent. He motioned for her to join him.