Deadly Valentine (25 page)

T
HE BEACH ON
a February morning—even one that promised uncommonly warm weather—was little populated. Joggers, of course. Max considered jogging an excessive activity, right on a par with overworking or overeating. He espoused moderation in all things. (Almost all things—afternoon delight, on the other hand …) But as far as sweat-producing exercise was concerned, he was convinced an amble along the strand was quite enough. Shading his eyes, he surveyed with a jaundiced eye and an inward sigh the jiggling bodies that passed by. What a waste of energy. And surely the waitress at the Good Times Bar and Grill was wrong in suggesting that Jed McClanahan—Max’s eyes widened. By God, who would believe it!

McClanahan, his back to the beach, stood ankle-deep in the gently surging water, arms crossed behind him, white duck pants rolled up to the knees. His balding head gleamed in the sunlight.

The air temperature might be deceptively warm, but Max knew the water was damn cold. He hoped McClanahan’s toes were turning blue.

“Hey Jed! Jed!”

The diminutive trial lawyer slowly turned.

Max tried to interpret the expression on McClanahan’s wizened, red-veined face. It looked like a cross between bemusement and idiocy.

McClanahan’s thin lips cupped in a gentle smile; his red-rimmed, watery blue eyes shone with fellowship. “Max, come join me in a moment’s meditation.”

Max’s scarcely-contained irritation with Laurel for hiring the whispery-voiced, grandstanding old windbag boiled over.

“Meditation, hell! We need to get to the courthouse before they call the docket and see if we can get Laurel out on bail!”

The South’s gift to the trial bar responded with a pious look tinged with condescension and splashed to shore. “My dear fellow, we will go at once. I can see that you are in dire need of counseling by your
remarkable
mother. As she pointed out to me, and I have taken it to heart—I’m writing poetry, now—we must always remember the wisdom of Saint Fulgentius of Ruspe: ‘He who walks in love neither can go astray nor be afraid.’”

“Oh God,” Max moaned.

McClanahan looked heavenward in dismay. “As Saint Francis Xavier so aptly remarked, ‘How many souls are led astray from the path of glory simply because of their indifference.’”

“Come down, Agatha. Lovely girl. Dearest cat in the whole wide world.”

Agatha’s amber eyes were pinpoints of fury.

“Come on, love.” Annie held up a bowl filled with fresh mackerel. “You’re the only cat here, the only cat in the whole world.”

Agreeable Dorothy L. had thought the cat carrier quite interesting and was still purring when Annie put the cushion-lined wooden carrier in the front seat of the car. (Maybe she should have named her Nancy P. after the charming first president of Sisters in Crime. Annie didn’t think the original Dorothy L. would have shown this much good humor.)

“Your store,” Annie crooned. “All yours, sweetheart.”

Agatha stood. And launched herself toward a nearby table.

This would have been quite acceptable except that she had been resting on a line of collectible books standing on end atop the Rare Books section.

Former President Johnson’s domino effect was illustrated in spades, or books. Six rare books (first editions, mint) tumbled down:
The Fools in Town Are on Our Side
by Ross Thomas,
The Blunderer
by Patricia Highsmith,
The Woman Chaser
by Charles Willeford,
The Lolly-Madonna War
by Sue Grafton,
The Deadly Truth
by Helen McCloy,
The Ghostway
by Tony Hillerman.

Annie could have sworn the whiskered face sported a diabolic grin.

By the time the court session was over, Max’s nerves were strung like a steel guitar. The agony of watching McClanahan posture (“Your Honor, it is my sincere pleasure and bona-fide delight to appear this morning in one of the greatest courts in the great State of South Carolina in defense of a noble lady whose Con-sti-tu-tion-al rights are in jeopardy”) was almost more than a reasonable man could bear.

Even worse—Max sank down in his seat and tried to look as if he had no connection with McClanahan at all—was when the gnomish little lawyer stood on tiptoe to peer earnestly up at the judge. “Your Honor, my client—and she is the finest lady that it’s ever been my pleasure to represent—has shared with me a precept which will edify all of the honorable ladies and gentlemen of the bar of the great State of South Carolina, and I would like to close by sharing with you this lovely lady’s admonishment. She told me—and I extend this to everyone herein—that we should all ponder thoughtfully Teilhard de Chardin’s wonderful advice that “we make our way to heaven by doing the work of the world.’”

The judge stared, gimlet-eyed, at the little attorney, cleared his throat, and mumbled, “Proceed, counselor.”

The interminable—to Max—session finally ended in victory, the judge granting bail both to Laurel and to Howard. Now all Max had to do was go to the jail, pick up his
mother, and return to Broward’s Rock. Restored to good humor at the prospect of soon being free of the feisty little lawyer, Max clapped him on the shoulder as they walked out of the courtroom. Max even managed to sound fairly sincere in his congratulations. “Great job, Jed. Well, you can go back to the beach—”

“The beach?” McClanahan looked around in alarm at the clusters of dark-suited attorneys thronging the halls. “What would the world’s greatest trial lawyer do at the beach?” He beamed at everyone in general. “Hello there, Curtis. Richmond. Harry. Selina Bea. Joe Bob. Winston. Carrie Ann. Great to be back in this courthouse. Some of my grandest battles have been here.” A whispery laugh. “Right against some of you very ladies and gentlemen. Gather round, I want all of you to meet Max Darling, the son of one of my best clients.”

Max’s plan to scoot from the courthouse to the jailhouse in record time went down in a welter of southern hospitality.

Annie put the cat carrier down in the middle of the kitchen and opened it.

Dorothy L. immediately popped out, purring, and frolicked into the sun room. Annie spread out an
Island Gazette
and opened a can of tuna. “Now, don’t think this is going to be standard fare. I just haven’t stocked up here with cat food. And you might as well count on being a house cat. There’s an alligator out in that pond who thinks cats are hors d’oeuvres.”

Would Dorothy L.’s disappearance appease Agatha? Or was her sleek black feline friend irretrievably estranged?

Annie glanced at the clock. After eleven. No wonder she was so hungry. But first she must see about her messages. Not, of course, that she was a slave to curiosity. But it might be important. Maybe her mail-order ticket had won the Illinois lottery. En route to the phone, she stopped in the downstairs bath to splash rubbing alcohol on her latest wound from Agatha, a two-inch scratch on the back of her right hand.

The first message was from Eileen Houghton. Annie
clapped a hand to her head. Of course, she should have called the woman first thing this morning. But Eileen Houghton was so confident of her social eminence, it apparently hadn’t occurred to her that she’d been ignored.

“So sorry neither the general nor I were at home this morning to receive your call. I’m at the hospital for a board meeting and this is the general’s morning to have his checkup. I did talk to Howard Cahill’s son and Howard is still being detained. The general and I are appalled at the obvious miscarriage of justice that is occurring. Although I hesitate to interfere in the lives of others, I feel that I
must
reveal information which may affect the investigation. I have been unable to contact Chief Saulter or the circuit solicitor, so I will hope to utilize your good offices. Please meet me at two this afternoon at our pier.”

The second message was from Henny and it lacked her usual pizzazz. “Haven’t found Reba yet. It’s her day off. Her mother thinks she went fishing. But I’ll find her.”

Henny rang off without a reference to a first mystery. Annie hated to take pleasure in others’ discomfiture but—(The imps turned and, arms entwined, shoulders drooping, drifted sadly into the nether world inhabited by good intentions.)

The third message was from her normally unflappable husband. Max’s usually mellow tone was absent. He sounded, in fact, both irritated, disgruntled, and a shade worried. “Annie, I’m at the office, waiting to hear the latest lab reports. Give me a ring as soon as you can.”

Annie promptly dialed Confidential Commissions, and Barbie put her right through.

Max went straight to the point. “Where’s Laurel?”

Since he had left the island bright and early to spring his mother from the county jail, the question and its accusatory tone seemed a bit unreasonable to Annie.

“How should I know? Did you get her out of jail?”

A burdened sigh. “Yes, finally.”

As Max described his morning, Annie stifled her giggle. She really did enjoy being married.

There was a long silence after Max concluded his report. Annie, truly, could think of nothing to say.

Max didn’t seem to notice, apparently still engrossed in his own thoughts. Finally, he asked plaintively, “Annie, do you suppose by work of the world, she meant going to jail?”

Annie was glad she didn’t have to face him and answer. Some questions are far better left in rhetorical limbo. Especially if they concerned Laurel. She made a noncommittal noise.

“Anyway,” he continued wearily, “it went okay in court. The judge agreed that not granting bail to Laurel and Howard was absurd. Posey immediately amended the charges to murder and conspiracy to commit murder, but the judge granted bail anyway. Said the accused were respectable members of the community, and the likelihood of their jumping bail was nil.”

Annie wisely didn’t share her thought that the judge obviously didn’t know Laurel.

“Thing is, McClanahan ran into a bunch of old cronies—I mean, they never told me in law school there were lawyers like
these
—anyway, by the time I finally shook free of the mob and got over to the jail, Laurel had already left. Now, dammit, Annie, don’t you think she could have waited for me? She should have known I was coming!” An outraged snort. “She
did
know I was coming. She left a message for me.” He breathed heavily.

“Max, perhaps if you used your mantra …”

Laurel had chosen a lovely mantra for Max when she was in the midst of her psychic studies.

“Annie, that is not funny.”

She realized she might have gone too far. Instantly sympathetic, she cooed, “Laurel’s message?”

“Annie, if you see Laurel, corner her until she explains. Here, listen to this note she left for me: ‘Dearest Max. And Annie, of course. So
sweet
of you to think of me. I’ve used this quiet period to direct an appeal to wonderful Saint Jude, the Saint of Those in Desperate Straits, the Saint of the Impossible. As you know, Saint Jude is
always
willing to help, but he
does
expect us to take charge of our own lives.’” Max heaved a worried sigh. “Annie, what the hell do you suppose she’s up to?”

For once, the trite rejoinder suited: “The good Lord only knows,” Annie murmured.

Liverwurst had
such
a delicious tang. (Dorothy L. obviously agreed; she clambered atop the tiger-pine breakfast table three times before Annie surrendered and put a slice in her bowl.) Time was when health fiends
urged
consumption of organ meats as a source of all-important iron. Annie was not a fairweather friend. This anticholesterol craze was obviously out of control. She tucked in another sliver of Vidalia onion, finished the sandwich, and nobly resisted the impulse to fix a second. However, a delicious lunch deserved a cup of excellent coffee. She brewed several cups of Irish Creme, washed the dishes and settled at the table with her coffee and the stack of bios. She picked up Dorcas Atwater’s and skimmed to the end:

Annie picked up the next bio. Oh yes, that charming fellow, the general, with his ashen face, icy gaze, and arrogant demeanor.

Annie drew her breath in sharply. One son dead in the war, one son dead by his own hand. No wonder the general was such an embittered man.

She read on: