Deadly Valentine (32 page)

The phone rang.

“Hello.” Annie knew her voice sounded tired and more than a little tense. What next? her mind wondered. What next?

“Dreadful, isn’t it,” Henny said soberly. “Have you heard about Howard?”

Annie’s heart lurched. She had reached the point when any horror seemed possible. “Oh my God, what?”

“Back in jail. Charged with murdering Joel Graham.”

Had she and Max been wrong, all the way? And Laurel, too, of course. Was it that simple—or that profound? Had Howard Cahill loved his young wife and suffered tortures over her infidelities? Had a liaison with a man younger than his son driven him to murder?

Henny was still talking. “… autopsy report. Broken neck. They think he must have been sitting on that low wall that runs behind your pool. Somebody came up behind him, dropped a dog leash over his head and yanked. Hard. There’s a big bruise on Joel’s back. The murderer jammed him in the back with his knee when he pulled on the leash. It was quick. But Joel must have lurched as it happened and knocked over the vase that sat there. It’s at the bottom of the pool.”

“But why Howard?”

“Oh. The leash. It hung in his garage. An old one. Belonged to a spaniel that his wife had. First wife.” A thoughtful pause. “Carleton identified it.”

Annie glanced out of the bedroom window. She looked quickly past the pool. She didn’t like to think about the pool. Of course, rationally, the site had nothing to do with Joel’s death. Then again—she paused midway in the fastening of an earring—why their pool? An attempt to turn suspicion toward them? But the leash was such a giveaway.
Surely Cahill must have known it could be traced. Or had he assumed that no one would connect it to him? Would anyone have done so, had it not been for Carleton?

Her gaze scanned the lagoon.

Where was Max’s yellow rubber raft?

Where was Laurel?

Annie glanced toward the half-open bathroom door. Usually Max sang in the shower, a clear tenor. Annie loved to hear him sing, though she made it a point not to say so. Max was quite well pleased enough with himself and his talents. But this morning there was only the splatter of water against the shower tile. Not a morning for singing. She’d better not wait. She finished dressing in a flash and hurried for the stairs.

As she neared the landing, she could hear the scrape of furniture being moved. Hurrying on downstairs, she found Laurel trying to shift an immense wicker couch, which was much heavier than it looked.

Laurel smiled brightly at her. “Over against the wall, Annie, that’s a dear.”

Annie looked at the wall. Her eyes widened. Where was the tea cart? And the three planters? And the bric-a-brac stand? Her gaze swung around the room. Why was the Ping-Pong table folded? And the pool table shoved against the far wall? Where had Laurel found all these chairs, now arranged in neat rows? They looked suspiciously like the chairs from Death on Demand.

Henny poked her head into the garden room. “I can’t find anything that looks like a lectern. I could run—Oh hi, Annie, we’re getting everything ready. Listen, I don’t even care that you beat me to it. God knows, this has to end.”

“Ready?”

To say that she had not an inkling was totally accurate. She looked from Henny to her mother-in-law.

Laurel—surely those were fresh khakis—beamed impartially upon them. She clasped her hands, a pose that showed off the luster of her pale pink nails to advantage.

“Dear Saint Jude,” Laurel said. “He made it so clear. Of course, I didn’t want to distract you, so Henny and I are taking care of everything. I made the calls. Mobile phones
are such a convenience. The minute I knew, I started dialing. Henny borrowed the chief’s pickup to bring the chairs. Oh, Ingrid says Agatha is
much
happier since Dorothy L. disappeared. Not, of course, that she has disappeared.” Dorothy L. raced through the garden room, a streak of white fluff. Laurel smiled. “But in
Agatha’s
mind, I’m sure. In any event, I am determined that the mundane arrangements shall not be a burden to you. You must continue to bend every iota of concentration to the task at hand. But you need not worry. I am certain of our course. Such a
remarkable
demonstration of divine guidance.” Dark blue eyes glistened with amazement. “Exactly eleven anhingas!”

“Anhingas? Eleven anhingas?” Annie demanded wildly.

“This morning. Such glorious creatures. So
big
. I understand a wingspan of almost
eight feet
. And this morning, eleven of them. Then one broke off and dived, oh so close to the raft, and Annie, she looked just
like
you.”

Annie pictured the familiar snakebird or water turkey, with the long sharp beak, glossy black body, and elongated tail.
“She
looked like
me?”
Annie asked faintly.

“Oh, it was a female, no doubt about it. Beige head and neck, rather than black. And, my sweet, it was
you
. So
serious
. So
intent
. So
single-minded
, diving right into the water, spearing the quarry. Why, I understood at once. Eleven o’clock. And you.”

The doorbell rang.

Henny moved toward the front hall.

Annie looked at the clock in horror.

Two minutes until eleven.

Dorcas Atwater was the first to arrive. Her hair was combed, but it hung straight and lusterless. Makeup only emphasized her pallor and couldn’t hide the dark smudges beneath her bloodshot blue eyes. In the morning light, the ravages of alcohol and sleeplessness were unmistakable in her puffy face. Her pale blue cotton blouse was fresh but unironed, the seersucker skirt wrinkled. As she came into the garden room with Henny, her eyes darted from Annie to Laurel. One eye quivered with a nervous tic.

“I don’t see why you called me to come. I heard on the radio that they arrested Howard.”

“Howard had nothing to do with Joel’s death.” Laurel spoke confidently.

Annie glared at her. So nice she knew that. Annie didn’t
know
a damned thing. How was she going to stop this, get rid of all these people?

Dorcas pushed back a lank strand of graying hair. “It’s all Howard’s fault. For bringing Sydney here. If he hadn’t brought her here, everything would have been different.”

Laurel came forward. “Now, Dorcas, you must stop brooding about the past. You must stop being so angry. Come, you can sit over here,” and she led the gaunt woman past Annie. “After all, dear Saint Philip Neri cautioned those who followed him not to be forever dwelling on their sins. He said they must leave a little something for the angels. And when you think of it, surely we should not dwell on the sins of others.
Especially
not on the sins of those whom we have loved, such as your Ted.” She settled Dorcas in the second row of chairs. With a little pat on her shoulder, she said, “Do give it some thought, my dear.” A kindly smile. “And as Saint Teresa of Avila once wrote a sick prioress, ‘For the love of God get well. Eat enough and do not be alone or think too much.’”

Dorcas stared blankly after her.

Annie could sympathize. Though surely Saint Teresa’s advice was sound. However, it was likely a strained perception of Saint Philip Neri’s advice at one remove. On the other hand—Annie shook her head irritably. She couldn’t afford to be deflected.

Max appeared in the archway from the hall just as the doorbell rang again. As always, her heart thrummed. He was such a grown-up Joe Hardy, short blond hair, regular features, an excellent build. His hair still damp from the shower, he looked inquiringly at his mother.

“Do move that piece for me, love,” she asked.

Annie darted toward him as he obediently realigned the couch against the empty space along the wall.

“Max,” she hissed, “Laurel’s done it this time. She’s called everybody to come and hear the solution to the
murders. Apparently even Posey’s going to show up, with Howard.”

He bent closer to her. “Who did it?” he whispered. “And how does Laurel know?”

“Max”—it was a muted wail—
“she
doesn’t know
anything
. She thinks Saint Jude will direct me at the proper moment, and I will reveal all.”

“Oh.” Max beamed at her and damned if he didn’t look just like his mother. “Why, honey, how could I have less faith in you than Laurel does!”

Posey was sweating. Annie could have turned up their air conditioning, but she was only glad that someone else was miserable, too. The portly circuit solicitor moved restively in the chair next to Howard Cahill. Posey’s six-foot-three-inch bulk dwarfed the chair. In a powder blue suit that strained across his paunch, Posey looked as impressive as a gunny sack. Cahill’s navy blue knit shirt and gray cord slacks fit him sleekly. The businessman looked trim, athletic, and in command, despite his obvious status as a prisoner. Carleton slumped beside his father, his long artistic hands tightly twined, his untidy blondish hair dangling over his somber eyes. Chief Saulter was at the end of the row, chin in hand, with a quizzical look.

George Graham sat on the couch. His red-rimmed eyes gazed dully at the floor. His wife held one slack hand tightly in both of her own. Lisa watched Laurel with an unwavering stare.

Laurel was in full spate.

“So difficult for all of us. I feel that in times such as these we should remember the words of dear Saint Bernard. ‘In any great trouble, in any strong temptation, call upon your guardian angel, who is your guide and your helper, in any difficulty and in any time of need.’”

Posey glowered. “Look, Mrs. Roethke, I don’t intend to sit around here for much longer, wasting the taxpayers’ money.”

Laurel waggled an admonitory finger at him. “Now Mr. Posey, you know what Saint Thomas à Kempis warned: ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’”

Annie pressed her fingers to her temples. In a moment, Laurel would turn to her and expect in all good faith for Annie to trumpet aloud the name of the murderer.

Laurel nodded firmly at Posey, whose face was turning an unhealthy purple. “As I said,” she continued, “this has been a most difficult period for everyone here at Scarlet King. Sydney’s life touched all of our lives. For good or ill.”

It was suddenly very quiet. Sudden tears glistened in Howard’s eyes.

“Her death forced the authorities to focus on her relationship with everyone in this room. And to wonder just what might drive each of us to murder. They wondered if I, because I felt such an immediate kinship with her husband, might have been tempted to remove her. But, of course, anyone who knows me is aware that I much prefer a
civilized
approach to marital rearrangements.” A sweet smile.

Annie wondered sourly how the saints would evaluate that attitude.

“The police soon recognized that Sydney was not a faithful wife and so they suspected Howard. Moreover, he refused to make a statement about his whereabouts during the critical moments.” Laurel leaned forward and confided gently to her listeners. “So silly of him to suspect his son. But everyone knew Carleton hated his stepmother. And when Howard saw him running up the garden path from the gazebo, his face twisted with anxiety and panic, and clutching a bloody jacket, what could Howard think?”

“Goddammit …” Carleton exploded, his eyes wild.

“He had the jacket?” Posey demanded, lunging to his feet. Frowning ferociously, the prosecutor thundered at Carleton. “Listen here, young man, if—”

“Mr. Posey, please sit down.” Laurel waited, bending a stern though pleasant look at him. Annie loved it when Posey sank back into his seat. “And do be patient. If you can.” Once again addressing her listeners as a group, she said, “Carleton
found
Sydney dead. When he saw the mace and the jacket, which he recognized as his father’s, he panicked. He threw the mace into the pond and ran to the house to hide the jacket.”

“By God,” Posey exploded, “interfering with the evidence at the scene of—”

Laurel sailed on. “But they were not the only persons abroad in the night. I, myself, was on the premises, to view the roses. As everyone knows, Howard walked me home. He wouldn’t have had time to reach the gazebo
before
Sydney, so it’s obvious that he isn’t guilty. The murderer was within the dark gazebo and attacked Sydney as she walked up the steps. Carleton is innocent because the murderer used Howard’s jacket to incriminate him, but Carleton tried to hide it.”

Annie was more impressed by Laurel’s logic than she would ever be willing to admit.

Posey’s face furrowed in laborious thought.

General Houghton rasped, “Absolutely impermissible behavior,” and glared at Carleton.

“General Houghton, you were out Tuesday night, too,” Laurel observed.

“No secret to that. Responded to a woman’s cry. Duty to do so.”

“You are quite a believer in duty, aren’t you, General? You didn’t like Sydney. You thought her behavior was—”

“Disgusting!” A faint red flush touched his sallow cadaverous cheeks. “Women like that deserve what they get.”

“Women who are sexually promiscuous, General?” Laurel looked at him inquisitively.

Houghton ducked his head apologetically toward Howard, but persisted stubbornly. “Sorry to dwell on it. But the truth’s the truth.”

Howard ignored him.

“Others were abroad, too,” Laurel continued. She stared at George Graham. He pulled his hand free from Lisa’s and hid his eyes for a long moment. Finally, his hand dropped and he looked at Laurel.

“I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind,” George said, “but I still don’t understand. Joel tried to tell me something about Tuesday night. I thought he meant he had seen me take the path toward the Darlings. Yeah, I did.” His voice was flat and uninflected. “Lisa locked me out and I thought, screw it, I’ll go see Sydney. I guess I was a little bit drunk
and I remembered thinking she had something going at the gazebo and maybe I’d get in on it. When I got past the Darlings’ house, I heard somebody on the path and I didn’t want anybody to see me, so I turned around and went home. That’s all there was to it. But I knew the police would make it a big deal.”

“I asked Joel,” Annie offered. “He said he didn’t
see
anybody. Then he said, ‘I don’t know where everybody was.’”