Deadly Valentine (19 page)

“Has she hurt Dorothy L.?” Annie demanded.

“Not yet. That isn’t to say I haven’t intervened a half dozen times. Now Agatha snarls every time she sees me. Annie, I tried to pet her and she almost took my hand off.”

Annie sighed. “What are we going to do?”

“Give it time, I guess. That’s what Henny advises. Hey, you know she’s off on a new kick.”

If Annie’s ears could have flattened, they would have. “Yep. Who is it this time?”

“You want the whole ambience, the jingle of gold chains, the Hollywoodese, the tired tinsel?”

“No. Give it to me straight.”

“Jake Weissman, a Hollywood agent in
Death Takes the Stage.”

“First novel?”

“You got it. By Donald Ward. Henny’s really laying it on that we don’t know him. She says Ward’s superfunny, a great new—”

“Ingrid.” It was a warning growl, probably reminding Ingrid of Agatha.

“All right, all right, but Henny’s so good at playing parts. And the book does sound terrific. I’ve ordered a half dozen. Besides, Henny’s really been busy.”

And Annie hadn’t? But huffiness didn’t become her. Henny was a damn good sleuth, so Annie tried hard not to sound pettish. “What’s she come up with?”

“It’s that valentine.” Ingrid didn’t have to explain which one. Forever after in Annie’s mind, ‘that valentine’ could only refer to the crumpled homemade heart found clutched in the dead woman’s hand. “Henny’s trying to find out when Sydney got it. For starters, Henny figures it had to be on Tuesday. Because the message doesn’t give a day. See, if it had come in the mail Monday, the message would have had to specify Tuesday night.”

Annie recalled the verses:
Roses are red, violets are blue. Wait in the gazebo, I’ll hurry to you. In the still of the night, our hearts can take flight. When the clock strikes one, our time will have come
.

Oh, sure. Of course. Annie began to feel a flicker of excitement. That narrowed it down without a doubt. Sydney
must
have received that message sometime during the day on Tuesday.

“It
didn’t
come through the mail,” Ingrid emphasized. “Henny talked to Sue Ann Hankins, who has that route. Sue Ann doesn’t keep track of everybody’s mail, of course, but there was a lot of volume Tuesday because it was Valentine’s Day. She remembers the Cahill house particularly because Howard got this huge round cylinder and she was glad there wasn’t any other mail, except a bunch of circulars.”

“She’s certain?”

“Henny says so.”

If Henny said so, that’s the way it was. She could ferret out facts with the tenacity of C. W. Grafton’s lawyer sleuth, Gil Henry.

“Henny’s hot on the trail now. She said shell get back to you.”

“Okay, Ingrid. Thanks. And listen, about Agatha. Why don’t you sauté her some chicken livers. Maybe that will put her in a better humor.”

“Maybe.” Ingrid didn’t sound convinced. “I think she’d prefer Dorothy L.’s head on a platter. But I’ll give it a try.”

“Thath thum.” Max’s neck ached, he was sure he was going to strangle, and he had the helpless feeling he always experienced when tilted back in a dentist’s chair. Annie sure had swell ideas. And how the hell did she expect Max to ask questions with George’s hand crammed in his mouth!

George Graham poked with a sharp tip. He was close enough for Max to count the freckles on his nose. “Looks good, Max. Can’t find anything wrong. Could be a hairline crack. We’ll see what the X-rays show. Does it hurt when you take a hot shower?”

Max wondered if this was the dental equivalent of a Rorschach test.

“No.”

“Good. So we aren’t talking a root canal.” And stuck his fist back in Max’s mouth. Graham’s tone was cheery. He
exuded reassurance, dependability, a faint scent of peppermint mouthwash, and the heavier aroma of a snappy men’s cologne.

Max wriggled like a stuck pig. Root canal! They sure as hell weren’t. “Mumph clomph woof.” The saccharine strains of “Harbor Lights” as mutilated by Muzak added to his misery.

Out came the fist. Graham began to peel off the latex gloves. “Could be a temporary sensitivity.”

“I’m sure it’s temporary,” Max said eagerly. “But I thought I should get it checked. Just in case. Thanks a lot for working me in this afternoon.”

Graham laughed, revealing even white teeth. “Wednesday afternoons are slow. Everybody plays golf. Except me, and I’ll take tennis anytime.” He looked like a tennis regular with his freckled golden skin and sun-touched brown hair.

“Slow days are one of the perks of living on Broward’s Rock,” Max said genially. “And Scarlet King has to be the best place to live on the whole island. Annie and I are crazy about our house.” He frowned gravely. “Of course, it’s hellish to think a murder happened right next door.”

“Terrible,” Graham agreed. He frowned, too, and for the first time looked middle-aged. Perhaps it was his perennially cheerful smile that made him look so young. For a moment, as his smile fled, he looked every one of his forty-six years. “God, what an awful thing to happen. I can’t believe Howard did it. But they say nobody but the residents could have been inside the compound. So who else could it have been?”

Max stayed away from that question. “At the party, it seemed pretty clear you and Sydney were old friends.”

Graham gave Max a level stare. “What the hell are you getting at, Darling?”

“I just wondered if you were the man Sydney was going to meet at the gazebo.”

There was nothing equable about Graham now. The man beneath the dentist’s pleasant public persona was suddenly apparent, and he was no pushover. “No way. I sure as hell wasn’t.”

“You mean she was making out with you in the alcove
but she was also going to meet the great love of her life a couple of hours later in the gazebo?”

Graham crumpled the used latex gloves in one hand. “Don’t be naive, Darling. Hell, what man on the island didn’t screw her, at one time or another. You have to admit she was damn pretty. Problem was, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I got the drift pretty quick. She couldn’t wait to describe every bed she’d been in for the past year and how men were so fickle, and how wonderful it was that I was so different. Jesus. About that time, I figured out the next thing she’d do was tell Howard, so I broke it off.”

“Broke it off,” Max repeated neutrally. “Then Tuesday night—”

Graham stepped on a trash can lever and dropped the gloves inside. As it clanged shut, he asked coldly, “What business is it of yours?”

“None,” Max agreed cheerfully. “But when the cops stop looking at Howard, they may be more than a little interested in you.”

“So I got a little bit Tuesday night. Hell, why not? She was up for grabs. It didn’t mean a thing.”

“What did Lisa think?”

Graham stiffened. “Wait a minute. You leave Lisa alone.”

“Maybe Lisa got ticked off Tuesday night when she saw you and Sydney in a big clinch. Maybe Lisa found Sydney in the gazebo.”

“And bashed Sydney’s brains out? Get real, Darling. Lisa was frosted all right. Mad as hell, as a matter of fact.” Graham heaved a put-upon sigh. “Jesus, I don’t know what women expect. They’ve got the goddamnedest ideas about sex. Lisa knew I wasn’t any plaster saint when we met. Fact is, I was still married to Kathleen then. But suddenly when we’re married, it’s supposed to be a different ball game. Most of the time it is. But Sydney—hell, you know how it is.”

Max knew. He also knew the dentist would be surprised to know Max’s views on monogamy. Max believed in it. Not that he didn’t appreciate the attraction of other women, but a deal was a deal.

“I mean, for God’s sake,” Graham complained, “I
married
Lisa. I didn’t marry any of the others. Even signed a prenuptial agreement guaranteeing Lisa an income of at least fifty thou a year. What the hell more does she want?”

Graham, obviously, thought wedding vows had to do primarily with real-property rights.

The dentist reached in his pocket and pulled out a packet of Trident. He waved it in Max’s direction. At his headshake, Graham popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “So you’re right. Lisa was ticked off, but she didn’t leave the house that night.” He slapped his thigh in disgust. “I left the goddamned house. She locked the goddamned door to the bedroom and wouldn’t let me in. So I got mad and slammed outside. I ended up out by the pool on one of those puffy overstuffed things. I got a couple of big towels out of the cabana and wrapped up. I could see the light in our bedroom, and it didn’t go off till after one-thirty. From what I hear, Sydney was dead long before then. So you can cross Lisa off your list.”

And Graham, too, of course. If anybody took his story as fact.

M
AX TWISTED LIKE
a pretzel until the hand vibrator reached the tight muscles behind his left shoulder. He was ready to quit for the day. But it was only half past four. He quirked a blond eyebrow at the picture of Annie that graced his desk. Dear Annie. Her eyes gazed at him soberly from the silver frame. Such serious gray eyes. He winked in return. Because she wasn’t always serious. Her kissable mouth could widen in an infectious grin, and her eyes could sparkle with delight.

But if he went home at four-thirty with his task incomplete, those same eyes would look as mournful as lieutenant Nathan Shapiro surveying the New York City of Frances and Richard Lockridge.

A prisoner to duty, Max clicked off the vibrator, stretched, and reached for the telephone. He glanced at his notes. Susie Dunlap, reputed to have been Sydney Cahill’s best friend. He stared at the name, then smiled. Sure. It was close indeed to that of a famous West Coast mystery writer, Susan Dunlap. Annie had held a signing for her not too long ago, featuring Dunlap’s latest book,
Pious Deception
, and her new sleuth, Kiernan O’Shaughnessy, a former forensic pathologist turned private eye. Dunlap was also the
creator of the Berkeley policewoman, Lieutenant Jill Smith, and the remarkable gas company meter reader, Veronica “Vejay” Haskell. Max hoped the Susie he was calling wasn’t as perceptive as the author. As he dialed, he considered what role he might play this time.

“Hello.” She packed a lot of living into two syllables, her throaty contralto as smooth as Johnny Walker Black easing into a tumbler.

“Susie Dunlap?” He tried for an amused, confident tone.

“Yes.”

“John Wells here. For the
New York Star.”

“John Wells.” The way she said it made Max wish the name belonged to him, and he was a single newspaperman from up north. But just for an instant. Those serious gray eyes were watching. “Nice name,” Susie said huskily. “Are you a nice man?”

Max guessed that John Wells was a very nice man. Sometime he’d have to ask Wells’s creator, Keith Peterson. As for right now—he brushed the sweat off his upper lip—for right now, it was probably a good thing this was going to be a phone interview.

“Nicest guy I know,” he said lightly.

A sultry laugh. “What can I do for you, Nice Guy?”

The white Lincoln Continental sported a Dallas Cowboys bumper sticker. The drive also held a red Mercedes coupe and a Ford pickup with a gun rack in the back window. As Annie passed the pickup, she noted muddy hunting boots, a couple of well-worn ball caps, a dirt-stained, bramble-pricked camouflage jacket, and a beat-up Styrofoam cooler. Appurtenances of a good old boy.

But there was nothing down-home about Buck and Billye Burgers’ Tudor mansion. The antique brickwork, half timbering, and sharply peaked gables looked only a little odd among the live oaks and stubby palmettos. This kind of construction, dating to the 1920s when period building was in vogue, dotted every wealthy suburb in Texas. Annie would guess the Burgers’ home in Dallas was a blood sister to this house. As she pressed the bell, she admired the Tudor stone arch over the front door.

When the door opened, Annie knew immediately why Laurel had decided a watchman lived on the Burger property. Though the man standing in the Burgers’ doorway might be serving at this moment as a butler, he had nothing in common with those she had come to know from Christie novels and short stories—Alton in
Thirteen at Dinner
, Carson in
Endless Night
, Lanscombe in
Funerals Are Fatal
, Graves in
Poirot Investigates
, and Holmes in “The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding.” Her picture of the English butler was indelibly affected by Lanscombe. (Dear Lanscombe. So
nearsighted
.) The striking difference from this man’s English counterparts wasn’t simply in his choice of clothing, a navy turtleneck beneath a blue blazer, and gray slacks. None of Christie’s butlers resembled NFL linemen, 260 pounds of muscle with a battered face and light golden eyes as impersonal as those of a marauding tiger.

“Is either Mr. or Mrs. Burger at home?”

“Who’s calling?” His high, soft voice was impersonal, too, and gave her the creeps.

“I’m their neighbor, Mrs. Darling. Please tell them I’ve come about a neighborhood problem.”

He nodded impassively and closed the door.

Max tugged at the collar of his shirt. It wasn’t hot in his office, but he could have done with a tall, cool one.