Carolyn G. Hart (8 page)

Capt. Mac nodded. “She’s right. There was definitely a feeling of movement. I sensed it, too.”

Saulter scowled, but walked over to stand beside Annie’s chair. It was, she realized with a sinking feeling, almost directly in line with the body.

His artistic assistant trained his Polaroid on all of them in turn, then Saulter ordered fingerprints taken, a messy and subtly dispiriting chore. No one objected, not even Emma Clyde. Somehow, Annie didn’t think Emma Clyde relished ink on her fingers, but even she kept her mouth shut.

When the fingerprints were made, Saulter brusquely gave everyone permission to leave as soon as Billy Cameron wrote down their names and addresses. They stood in line by the coffee bar, uncomfortably close to the now sheet-shrouded form.

“Hey, Chief!” It was Capt. Mac, and his voice vibrated with intensity. Annie thought of the high, keen baying of a bloodhound.

“By God.” The stocky policeman crouched beside the wicker wastebasket by the far end of the coffee bar. “This answers some questions, all right.”

Everyone surged toward him, but Saulter barred the way. “Stand back.” Then he hurried to McElroy.

Once again, they all bent forward to listen.

“I don’t see—” Saulter began.

“Smell it, man.”

Saulter, too, hunkered down beside the wastebasket.

Capt. Mac pulled a couple of quarters from his trouser pocket and used them as pincers to lift out a sodden ball of white cotton.

Saulter sniffed. “Fingernail polish remover.” He stared blankly at Capt. Mac.

“I’ve only run across it once before,” the former policeman explained, “but I’ll bet my pension on it. The murderer covered the tips of his fingers with clear fingernail polish to keep from putting prints on the dart. I can see it now.” He pointed toward the coffee area and the tables. “The lights go out, the murderer has the dart hidden nearby. Probably on the floor by the wall. The murderer grabs the dart and throws it. While Annie’s going to see about the lights, there’s time to use the cotton drenched in polish remover to wipe off the polish, then drop the cotton
into the wastebasket. Saulter, there won’t be a damn print on that dart. By God, that’s clever.”

The two men stared at each other, then slowly rose to face the watching suspects.

“Fingernail polish remover,” Saulter repeated. He looked at the women in the room one by one, then his gaze locked on Annie.

Perhaps she should have kept quiet, but she was getting tired of his not so subtle suspicion.

“We all paint our fingernails, Chief.”

“But nobody knows this room as well as you do,” he retorted.

“We’ve all spent a lot of time here,” Capt. Mac said quickly. He cleared his throat. “Chief, I’d be glad to lend a hand with your investigation.”

“Thanks. We can take care of
our
job. For now, you’re all free to leave. We’ll be in touch with everyone tomorrow.”

Everyone started up the central aisle toward the front, but McElroy hung back. “I’d hate to see anybody get off on the wrong foot,” the retired policeman said. “Why, Annie couldn’t possibly have killed anybody.”

Harriet Edelman stopped and slapped her hands on her hips, and her bracelets clanged gratingly. “So you think little Miss Pretty Face shouldn’t be considered a suspect? I happen to know she and Morgan had a hell of a spat this morning.”

Saulter wanted to hear all about that, of course.

“I was going by on my bicycle when she slammed the door on him. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Annie hadn’t seen Harriet, which wasn’t too surprising. At that point, she had been so furious with Elliot she wouldn’t have noticed an audience of dancing tarantulas.

Saulter gestured impatiently for them to keep moving toward the door. “Don’t worry. I don’t give a damn about pretty faces, and I’ll be interviewing everybody tomorrow, including Miss Laurance, about their relationships with the deceased.”

“That’s reassuring.” Emma looked sardonic.

“Or pots of money, either.”

Agatha chose that moment to leap up on the Christie section and hiss.

Janis clutched at her husband.

Fritz Hemphill laughed.

“She wants out.” Annie opened the front door, and Agatha shot out into the night. Annie was right behind her. When she looked back, she met Saulter’s eyes. Now she knew how a fox felt when sighted by the hounds.

For once Max drove at a reasonable speed.

“I don’t understand why he sent us all home,” Annie mused.

“What else is he going to do?” Max peered through the night. “The Black Hole of Calcutta can’t hold a candle to a country lane on Broward’s Rock. No pun intended.”

“No street lights,” she replied absently. The tourists always complained, too.

“No lights of any kind. Not even moonlight.” The beams from the headlights scarcely pierced the gloom beneath the spreading live oak trees whose branches met over the roadway. The pleasantly cool night air, drifting through the open windows, smelled of marsh water. “Are you sure Hansel and Gretel don’t live down this way?”

“I guess it’s a little daunting at night.”

“I’d take Central Park after dark anytime.” He abruptly slammed on the brake, and she jolted forward, restrained by the seat belt.

“Good God, what’s that?”

The thick, low-slung creature darted swiftly across the dusty dirt road, clearly illuminated by the headlights. “That, city slicker, is a raccoon.”

Max eased the car forward.

“He didn’t even ask any questions.”

“Like, ‘Miss Laurance, did you do it?’ ”

“All right, smartass. Turn to the right, down that lane.”

Max slowed and swung the Porsche to the right, scowling. “This isn’t a lane. This is a bloody footpath.”

“Actually, it’s pretty rustic. Now, slow down. I live in that second tree.”

“The second tree. You did say
tree?”

“It’s a bargain. Some developer got the notion everybody would want to live like Robinson Crusoe, and he built a half dozen houses that are really platforms up in oak
trees. Unfortunately for him, they didn’t go over very well.”

The Porsche’s lights illuminated the tree house now. Wooden steps curved gracefully up from the ground to a circular house built around the main trunk.

“That is really homey,” Max commented drily. “Just you and the earwigs.”

“The realty company sprays every month,” she said severely. “I am bug-free.”

Max braked and clicked off the lights, but Annie was already opening her door. “That’s okay. You don’t have to get out.”

“I know I don’t, but behavior patterns are ingrained. I do not drop a girl off at her front door, especially when it is up in a tree in the middle of a swamp.”

“The South Carolina Tourist Association would frown on the term swamp.”

But he came around to take her arm and gallantly insisted on coming inside and checking every room.

Annie stood quietly in the center of her circular living room, waiting for Max, who was on his knees at the base of her bed, peering beneath it, to return. “Now, why did you do that, Max?”

“Because I’ve got the wild suspicion the island air isn’t too healthy right now.” He glanced around at the hexagonal living room. The walls were eleven-foot-tall sheets of glass, which, in daylight, bathed the room in light and warmth. Now, with the blinds up, the night pressed against the glass, threatening, disturbingly inimical.

Annie quickly lowered the slatted, tropical blinds, and leaned down to turn on a Tiffany lamp. With the night closed out, she felt a good deal more secure. The room was familiar again, the comfortable rattan furniture, fortunately so appropriate for a seaside dwelling, and so affordable. Here, too, as at Death On Demand, bright cushions provided splotches of orange, burnt sienna, and Texas red clay. Her latest photographs were pinned haphazardly to a square bulletin board in the center of the bookcases that filled the wall between the living room and bedroom. She was especially proud of the shot she’d taken at dawn near Moccasin Creek of a Little Blue Heron, his feathers slate blue on his body and purplish red on his
neck. Her Nikon lay on an end table, next to her trophy for being the winning pitcher for the Island Dolphins. The colorful paperbacks stuffed into every inch of the bookcases added another note of cheer. Her favorite books: all the Agathas, the wonderfully funny Leonidas Witherall books written by Phoebe Atwood Taylor as Alice Tilton, the Constance and Gwenyth Little books. Her room, safe and friendly.

“Nobody would want to hurt me.”

“How do we know that?”

Annie dropped down on the largest wicker couch, and Max settled right beside her. There would have been room left over for several others to sit. She scooted over a few inches. He followed.

“Look, Elliot was begging for trouble. He was threatening to talk about—well, you heard him—he was going to rattle skeletons. Somebody didn’t want his or her bones disturbed.”

“What about the lady vet?”

Annie sighed. “I can’t imagine. Oh, Max, she was such a lovely person. Right after I came here to visit Uncle Ambrose this summer, Boots was hit by a car.”

She would never forget how Boots had dragged himself to her uncle’s house, his back legs useless, his fur matted and streaked with dirt and blood. The memory still hurt.

“Anyway, I took Boots to the Island Hills Clinic. I didn’t know Jill then, and Dr. Foster took a look at poor Boots. He was nice enough but disinterested. He told me the only thing to do was to put Boots down, there was no hope. I asked what they would do, and he said they’d give him a shot of succinyl-choline, and he would be out like a light. A girl came in while Foster was talking, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. Foster left, and I was saying goodbye to Boots when a boy came to get him. She spoke up and said, ‘Don’t give him succinyl-choline. Use 5 cc.’s concentrated sodium pentabarbitol. Of course, I wanted to know what the heck, and then she told me. Foster was old-fashioned and a lot of vets might use succinyl-choline, but she didn’t advise it. She said the animal suffocated. She said it was cruel.” Tears filled Annie’s eyes. “So you see, it couldn’t be a
personal
murder with Jill. Maybe it
will turn out to be something like a drug robbery, after all.”

Somehow, Max’s arm was now tightly around her shoulders.

“I don’t have a glimmer why anybody coshed her, but two murders on an island within twenty-four hours! They’re connected, or I’ll eat that raccoon.”

“It isn’t our problem,” she objected. She was unbelievably tired. “It’s that unpleasant man’s problem. But I still don’t understand why he sent us all home. He did say nobody was allowed to leave the island, but there isn’t a ferry until morning anyway. He didn’t even
try
to find out anything.”

“I imagine he’s busy doing that right now, my dear. And they have to examine the crime scene. Your old chum was still hanging around as we left.”

Her old chum. Max meant Capt. Mac. Suddenly, Annie wished fervently that Capt. Mac were in charge of this investigation.

“Max, did you see the way Saulter looked at me?”

The floor creaked.

Annie swam up from the depths of sleep, rolled over, and stifled a scream. She bolted upright, her hair tousled, realized her nightgown was more than drooping low, and hastily yanked a sheet up to her chin.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You are at risk,” Max intoned sternly.

Annie yawned and started to rub her eyes, then grabbed again at the sheet. “Let’s start over,” she said patiently. “
I
am in bed.
I
am asleep. Perhaps
you
could tell me what
you
are doing in my bedroom at the crack of dawn?”

“Anybody could get in this house. I spent the night in my car—and I’ve got a stiff neck.” He milked a pause for sympathy and tried to rotate his head. “Ouch.”

“You rented a condo. Why don’t you stay in it?”

“Because there is a double killer somewhere on this island …”

“Not in my bedroom,” Annie objected.

“He could be.”

“Or she.”

“Annie, listen to me. This house is as full of holes as Swiss cheese. Do you know how I got in?”

Annie was stubbornly silent.

“I picked up a stick at the foot of the steps, tiptoed up, and pried open a window in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“You sleep like an elephant, my lovely. The point is, this place isn’t secure. So I’m going to get my stuff—”

“No.”

“There’s plenty of room. I can curl up on the couch.”

“You won’t have a stiff neck, you’ll have a rigid spine. No, Max. I appreciate it, but I’m a big girl, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

They squabbled about it all the way through breakfast.

Annie poured each of them a second cup of coffee and watched with fascination as Max wolfed down his fifth sugar-covered doughnut. They sat on the airy porch outside the kitchen. The soft air was fragrant with pine, marsh, and tar; sunlight slanted through the tall sea pines. A blacktopped path disappeared into a dense clump of palmettos, southern red cedars, yuccas, and bayberry shrubs. The beach was only a ten-minute bicycle ride away. For a fleeting moment Annie wished that today could be a holiday for her and Max, that they could go walk down a dune with an October splash of flowering herbs, violet, magenta, yellow and cream, to the long spread of gray sand with nothing more to think of than sun and water and play.

“I guess I’ll open the store as usual.”

Max nodded, his mouth full, then said indistinctly, “That’s the best thing to do. Act completely normal.” He swallowed and said clearly, “Besides, I bet a buck they’ll all come by, one by one, to see if you know anything.”

“Who’ll come by?”

“Our suspects.”

“God, I hope not.”

“Hey, Annie, don’t be silly. This will be our chance to pump them.”

“I don’t want to pump them. Why should I?”

“Saulter is a dummy. Anybody can see that. We can solve it.”

“Oh, no. Count me out. I don’t want any part of it.”

Max licked a trickle of sugar from the corner of his mouth, and rattled the empty doughnut bag. “We need to do some grocery shopping. Don’t you ever eat at home?”