Deadly Valentine (16 page)

Howard—tough and capable. Upset, though he tried to mask it. But was his distress caused by the murder?

Carleton—obviously distraught, easily angered. He’d glared at his father at the party, then eyed him uneasily at the gazebo. What was he thinking?

General Houghton—mean-looking old bastard. A man who saw everyone but himself as immoral. A religious zealot? Or a spurned suitor? His wife, Eileen, wasn’t at the crime scene, but she’d eagerly awaited Posey’s attack on Howard. A bit of spice in an otherwise dull life?

And brief summaries about the remaining residents of Scarlet King (and Valentine party attendees) whom she intended to talk to as soon as possible:

George Graham—the bland-faced dentist. Would she ever forget the stark silence after the general unveiled moral depravity in progress and everyone near that alcove in the Cahill ballroom saw Graham smudged with Sydney’s lipstick? Obviously, Graham knew Sydney well. Was he grieving for Sydney? Or had
he
worn the lover’s false face and greeted her in the gazebo with blows instead of caresses? Annie inked thick black question marks after his name.

Lisa Graham—a rich man’s second wife. What had been her thoughts when her stepson apparently said something vulgar to Sydney? Where was she when the general’s cane revealed her husband embracing Sydney? And just how angry might she have been? Lisa was a superb tennis player. She, too, had an excellent overhead smash.

Joel Graham—George’s son by his first wife. From Annie’s occasional glimpses of him during their first week as residents of the Scarlet King compound, Joel had seemed on the surface to be a typical high school senior, with stylishly
baggy khaki trousers, a leather belt left dangling, blond hair spiky in front, long in back. But there had been nothing boyish about the way he spoke to Sydney at the Valentine party or, for that matter, about the look he’d given Annie one day when she’d jogged past him. That odd little encounter with Sydney—it seemed all wrong. Oh, not his sexual awareness of her. What man, young or old, was not sexually aware of Sydney? It was Sydney who had surprised her, Annie realized. Sydney had seemed jolted by that moment. But surely Sydney had been around the block too many times to be shocked by youthful lewdness. Unlikely as it seemed, had Sydney backed away because Joel was young? Could Joel have misinterpreted some earlier exchange? Could he have killed Sydney in a fury because she rejected his advances? Annie marked another series of question marks.

Buck Burger—he’d pawed Sydney at the party. So what else was new? Buck would paw any woman who let him. It might not have meant anything more than that. But Annie would have bet her first edition ($100 approx.) of Jim Thompson’s
Cropper’s Cabin
, Paperback Original Lion Book 108, that Buck knew Sydney damn well. She tapped the sheet with her pen. Buck was going to be a real challenge. Sure, his reddish face radiated geniality, but the warmth never reached his swamp-green eyes. As a flamboyant former criminal lawyer he had the edge, but she relished the prospect of going head to head.

Billye Burger—a very rich woman, who flaunted wealth as Sydney had paraded sexuality. From Billye’s white-gold hair to her red lizardskin high heels, from starburst diamonds to Hal Ferman originals, she was the epitome of the finest money can buy. Annie had no idea what kind of woman existed beneath the facade. Or whether she knew her husband was a womanizer.

Dorcas Atwater—Annie drew an oblong, dotted in wildly flared eyes and a droopy mouth, added straggly hair. And a rowboat. And tried to quell the creepy feeling that wreathed in her mind like London fog on a Jack-the-Ripper night. Dorcas hated Sydney. Why?

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“The bottom line is—” Henny paused.

Annie wasn’t sure what was expected. Henny’s voice had a smart-ass tone, and only an actress of her abilities could have invested four words with such a California nuance.

“Yeah?”

“I’m on the case, and I can’t be bought off. You can’t trust anybody.”

Of course, Henny, as was her custom, was exhibiting various investigative personae. This one was for sure a resident of the Golden Gate state. Problem was, Annie didn’t have any idea who was on stage at the moment. California teemed with fictional sleuths from Ross Macdonald’s aloof L.A. observer, Lew Archer, to Marcia Muller’s first-of-her-kind woman private eye, San Franciscan Sharon McCone.

“Uh—Jacob Asch?” Annie guessed.

“Not even close. Paul Marston, of course.”

Annie’s hand tightened on the receiver. She wished it were Henny’s neck.

But she might as well get it over with. “First novel?” she said sourly.

“Sure.
The Bottom Line Is Murder
by Robert Eversz.” A sly chuckle. “So sorry you are missing so
many
good books.”

Sure, she was sorry.

“All right, Henny. Spit it out.”

“Sure. The bottom line is that Sydney bed-hopped. I hit pay dirt at the club. I talked to Nicky Quentin, the tennis pro. It took some work, actually he’s rather gallant, doesn’t like to talk about his ladies, but he did finally admit, when I promised to be the soul of discretion, that he had a fling with her shortly before she married Howard. Nicky said, ‘You know, she really was beautiful and basically kind of plain-vanilla nice, but she stuck to you like glue. And she was so sappy, always wanting everything to be so romantic. That’s okay for a little while, but it gets old fast. Thank God, with Sydney, there was always some other guy out there, hot for her body. Which was—’ Then he turned bright red.” Henny added, a trifle put out, “Funny how young men always assume older women don’t know anything about sex. Why, I could tell him—but no point in
destroying his illusions. I wonder if it could be the same kind of situation as the victim in so many of Leslie Ford’s books.”

Annie processed that suggestion. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Ford’s seductive victims were stronger characters than Sydney.”

“Annie, that’s brilliant!”

Although it was always agreeable to be admired, Annie was a little uncertain as to her worthiness, at least in regard to this particular judgment. As a matter of fact, she’d thrown the remark out without a lot of thought. It was more of an automatic response.

But Henny was excited. “That cuts to the core of the matter. Just like Allison Moffit.”

Annie didn’t say a word.

“Such a
strong
personality.”

“Don’t know her.” Annie dropped the words as if she were casting out spoiled food from the refrigerator. (That seemed to happen to her too often. Could she help it if she forgot mundane things like the survival time for tomatoes?)

“Oh, my dear! Such an outstanding new writer. Mary Lou Bennett. Author of
Murder Once Done.”
A telling pause. When she continued, her accent was suddenly quite Mayfair. “Do read it when you have a moment. And think about what you said. I’ll get back to you soon, of course. There’s so much to be discussed. Really, quite an interesting crime. Ta ta.”

Annie slammed home the receiver, though she did recognize the final reference. Tessa Crichton, Anne Morice’s sleuth. Henny was going to push her too far one of these days. And what was brilliant about Annie’s analysis of Sydney?

Abruptly, she grabbed up her papers. She knew what needed to be done. And there was no putting it off any longer. No matter how difficult she envisioned the encounter.

As the extension number buzzed, Max weighed the options. Should he be a reporter, an insurance agent, an accountant, or a lawyer? This was even more fun than
community theater, although, of course, telephone work didn’t afford full scope for his talents. He recalled with pleasure his wonderful rendition of Mortimer Brewster in
Arsenic and Old Lace
. Now, there was a part. And he got to kiss the pretty girl, too. In fact, he—

“Personnel Records, Adeline Perkins speaking,” a nasal voice announced irritably.

Max warbled the first line of the old barbershop quartet song in his clear tenor, then boomed avuncularly, “My horoscope assured me I should be in contact with a musical soul today and I feel certain that prediction has come true.”

“You some kind of nut?” The nasal whine quivered with apprehension.

“My dear Adeline Perkins, of course not. This is Reginald Van Mackey”—he felt the Van added class—“a member of the Bluffton Men’s Dinner Club and I am calling to obtain information about our esteemed member, General Colville Houghton. I have been directed to you, Miss Perkins, as the sole individual in the Pentagon with the necessary expertise and intelligence to assist me. It is the happy task of my committee to be charged with the responsibility of writing a skit depicting the highlights of General Houghton’s life for presentation at our annual Founders’ Day Dinner.”

Adeline Perkins turned out to be an Aquarius and “the funny thing is my horoscope said I’d receive an unusual communication today!”

Information spewed forth on General Houghton and his career. Max damn near got writer’s cramp.

Carleton Cahill’s blue eyes had all the warmth of twin ice holes in a frozen Minnesota lake. He shoved back a thin lock of darkly blond hair with a shaking hand.

“All women are alike. They lie their goddam heads off. Goddammit, she promised not to tell.” His thin voice shook with anger.

“She didn’t,” Annie replied quietly. Laurel’s reference in her parting words to bitterness and to a promise she’d made was not telling. Not exactly. It took someone of Annie’s subtlety (she refused
absolutely
to consider the possibility she
had a similar thought pattern to Laurel’s) to divine the message: Laurel got the jacket from that bitter young man, Carleton Cahill, but promised not to tell anyone. Actually, it was sweet of the old thing to ask for help. Annie felt flattered.

“Oh, sure.” His mouth twisted sarcastically beneath the scanty mustache. “I suppose a little bird told you.”

“Nobody told me. But she had to get that jacket somewhere. She was caught going away from this house. Who else is there?” And who else was bitter?

“Are you going to the cops?” Fists clenching, he lurched toward her.

Annie realized abruptly that they were very isolated in the enormous Cahill mansion. Would anyone even hear a scream? She looked past Howard Cahill’s angry son. The French windows of the library were closed and the thick green velvet curtains drawn, unlike the night of the murder. Behind her, the heavy oak door rested solidly in its frame.

She stood her ground and stared determinedly up into his flushed face.

“I could have told the police. I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you. Look”—Annie spread her hands in a gesture of appeal—“Laurel wants to help your father. We want to help Laurel. Let’s work together.”

He glared down at her, but he looked sullen rather than threatening.

Annie met his gaze calmly.

Slowly his fists relaxed. He turned and paced away from her. “Hell, that’s what
she
said. I don’t know what to do.” He swung around, a nervous hand plucking at his mustache. “It’s her fault Dad’s still in jail.”

Annie felt a rush of anger. What an ungrateful creep! Laurel was doing her best for his father, who was about as stiff-necked and unappreciative as a man could be. And now Carleton was blaming Laurel, for God’s sake!

“Now wait a minute—”

“That circuit solicitor convinced the judge he should keep Dad and Mrs. Roethke in jail because they would have an unparalleled opportunity to collude if they were released.”

It had a ring of authenticity. Who but Posey would talk in terms of an unparalleled opportunity to collude?

Annie didn’t care. She sprang to Laurel’s defense. “Look, Laurel wouldn’t be in jail at all if she hadn’t tried to get rid of that jacket. And I know damn well she got it from you. And you’re going to tell me what happened. Where did you get it?”

He dropped into a chair, his long arms and legs askew, his narrow face drooping almost to his chest. “Oh Jesus—”

Annie gasped. “Oh my God, it was you. I heard
you!”

He looked up with tortured eyes. “I found Sydney. God, it was awful. So much blood. So much
blood
. And the jacket was lying there beside her on the steps. And the mace—” He shook his head, as if to drive away a hideous memory. “Anybody could have taken it.” The plea in his voice couldn’t override the dull despair. “During the party. The armor’s been in the front hall ever since the house was built. The mace could be picked right up. It wasn’t attached to anything.”

The mace.

Annie remembered it only too clearly, remembered the heavy metal club studded with spikes atop the solid wood handle.

The metal had darkened with age.

And blood? Old blood turns black.

Now fresh blood stained it.

No wonder Sydney’s cranial bones shattered and broke.

“The mace.” Annie’s voice was so dry her throat hurt as she forced out the words. “It wasn’t there when I found her.”

Carleton didn’t respond. His eyes reflected remembered horror. But he didn’t have to answer. She understood now. His cry at the sight of the dead woman and his father’s bloodied jacket and the mace. He must have decided instantly on his course, grabbing up the jacket, gripping the handle of the weapon, and fleeing into the shadows as Annie approached.

“You made the noise in the bushes,” she figured out loud. “When I ran, you threw the mace in the lagoon.”

No answer.

“Have they found it yet?”

This time he looked at her and shook his head. “If you tell them”—life and anger surged again in his voice—“I’ll say you lied.”

“What did you do when I ran away?”

“I lit out for the house. All I could think about was getting rid of the jacket. I was afraid if I tossed it with the mace that it would come loose in the water. Maybe even float. I didn’t think I had much time. I knew the police would come soon.”

“You ran into the house?”

“I had to find a place for the jacket. Dad didn’t stand a chance if they found it.”

“Where did you hide it?”

For an instant, triumph glittered in his eyes. “Think they’re so goddam smart. The Buddha in the east wing is hollow. I stuffed it inside.”