Death on Demand (19 page)

In Harriet’s office, her ITT was neatly hooded, her desk top clear.

Max eagerly pulled open the drawers. Check stubs and bill receipts in the first drawer, insurance policies in the second, publishing records in neat folders in the third.

Annie promptly located a row of cloth-backed books on the bottom shelf of the office bookshelves. Harriet’s diaries, neatly numbered on the spine and dated.

She reached down confidently, then paused. The last diary in the row was dated June 23-October 1 of that year.

Obviously Harriet had begun a new diary October 2- but it wasn’t on the shelf.

They looked in all the bookshelves. They checked the closets. They peered beneath the furniture and scanned the kitchen.

“Let’s try upstairs,” Annie suggested. “She probably wrote in it every night when she was ready for bed. That’s where it will be.”

She started up the stairs. Oyster-gray carpet on the treads. Harriet must not have expected much traffic. Annie, now excruciatingly aware of fingerprints, was careful not to touch the railing, which still glistened from its last polish with lemon oil. Her feeling of intrusion mounted. It seemed obscene for them to be here, poking their noses into Harriet’s private domain. They bypassed the two guest bedrooms. Harriet’s bedroom was dominated by a white, four-poster French provincial bed with a pink silk spread. A bisque-faced doll with delicate features and painted blue eyes—remarkably like Emma Clyde’s—sat atop the matching white chest. Who had given the doll to Harriet? Was it all that remained of her childhood? The doll’s delicate white lace dress looked freshly laundered.

Harriet’s bedroom was as scrupulously tidy as the rest of the house. Only the warm-up jacket carelessly dropped on the pink silk bedspread indicated anything out of the ordinary. Harriet must have been in a hurry, tossing down
the jacket, thinking she would fold it and put it away later.

It didn’t take long to search that well-ordered room or the closet with clothes hung so precisely for a wearer who would not return.

Finally Max shook his head. “It’s not here. The diary’s not in the damned house.”

He was right. Someone had beaten them to it. Once again, a quick, clever, determined figure moved ahead of them, blocking them. Someone else had known Harriet kept a diary—and been determined no one should read it.

They were at the head of the stairs when Max stopped and looked up.

“That’s funny. Why should that trapdoor be open—if that’s what it is.”

“It must lead up to Harriet’s widow’s walk.”

Careful, house-proud Harriet would never have gone off leaving the roof door open. The sunshine pouring in would quickly mark and fade the expensive oriental runner that lay below.

At least, she wouldn’t leave it open unless she were in a great hurry.

Annie and Max were neck and neck as they reached the ladder, but Max paused to let Annie swarm up the rungs first.

The widow’s walk commanded a magnificent panorama of the marsh, the mudflats, the open sound, and the maritime forest. Annie’s first reaction was surprise at the extent of the view. Her second, a sense of shock.

“Max, she could see both the front and back approaches to Elliot’s tree house.”

He tugged his crumpled map of the island from his back pocket and traced the curve of the salt marsh. As a crow flew, Harriet’s house was on a direct line with Elliot’s. Crows and Harriet standing in her widow’s walk would not have their vision obscured by the sea pines and live oaks.

“I thought no one was around. Why, Harriet could see everything. She must have seen me come—and climb in that window.”

Max reached down and picked up the pearl-inlaid binoculars and held them out to her.

Raising them to her eyes, she focused on the tree house. The kitchen window leapt to her eyes, every detail distinct.

“And look at this.”

Annie whirled around.

Max held a Minolta camera.

Binoculars. Camera.

They both spoke at once. “Max, do you suppose …” “Annie, I’ll bet …” They turned and looked toward Elliot’s tree house.

Annie felt like the Porsche had a big red X painted on it. She wasn’t cut out for a life of crime—or even one of concealing evidence. She was uncomfortably aware of her purse, which held Harriet’s film. Any way you cut it, that film was material evidence.

“Look, Max, we
have
to take that camera to Saulter.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to present him your head on a platter, too? That camera’s staying in the trunk until we can get to the mainland and get those photographs developed. Well take the ferry over as soon as we finish talking to the suspects.” On that point, he was immovable.

On one thing they did agree. Harriet didn’t have the Minolta in the widow’s walk as decorative art. She was prepared to take pictures. Presumably, she had seen Annie’s arrival and photographed it.

“But the killer came, too.”

“We don’t know when,” Max explained patiently. “She dropped the camera, scrambled downstairs so fest she just threw her jacket on the bed. She left the binoculars and camera in the widow’s walk, and the trapdoor open. She was in a hurry, Annie. She was ready to confront you and haul you off to Saulter. Did she get the killer’s picture, too? We’ve got to be sure before we let Saulter have that film.”

The evening ferry didn’t cross until six. Plenty of time to do their other interviews.

She finally tracked Fritz Hemphill to the tenth hole of the Island Hills Golf Course. She waited in the shade of a
yellow pine just short of the green until he sank a thirteen-foot putt. He was playing alone.

It was a gorgeous day for golf, and Fritz looked perfectly at home on the exquisitely manicured course. In his pale yellow slacks, white ribbed pullover, and white golf shoes, he looked every inch the country club golfer, except for his short, crisp crew cut.

As he bent to retrieve his ball, Annie called out, “May I walk to the next tee with you?”

He pocketed the ball and waved her to the cart.

“No walking permitted, but I’d be glad to have you along for the ride.” Despite the pleasantness of his voice, there was no mistaking the wariness in his eyes.

“Fritz, I might as well come right to the point.”

The cart whirred onto the golf path.

“Elliot sent me a copy of what he intended to say Sunday night.”

“So?”

“You know what he was going to say about you.”

Fritz pulled a cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it, then blew out a stream of smoke.

“No. What was he going to say?”

It was like taking a step in the dark and missing a tread.

Annie spun through the brief number of facts she knew about Fritz. The very brief number.

Number one. He was an ex-cop.

That gave him his credibility and was a good part of the reason for his success. A cop telling it the way it is for cops. His hero cop, Dan Lundy, always fought against urban corruption and won. Fritz chiseled his prose with the gritty reality of a Joseph Wambaugh.

“If what you did came out, you might end up in jail.”

The cart jolted to a stop. Fritz ignored her as he slid out and reached back to pick up his bag. As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he looked directly at her.

With a feeling of surprise, she realized she’d never looked into his eyes before. They were almost black and flat, like the eyes of a squid.

“Nobody ever proved a thing.” His thin mouth stretched in an empty smile. “Funny thing is, Annie, dead men don’t talk.”

“He did it.” Annie was adamant.

Max held up both hands. “No favorites yet,” he protested.

“We still haven’t talked to Capt. Mac or Kelly. Besides, my money’s on Emma Clyde. That is one tough broad.”

“Max, you don’t know how sinister it was. He snarled out of the side of his mouth, just like Al Capone.” She paused portentously. “Besides, he was the only one who wasn’t upset. And he said he didn’t
know
what Elliot was going to say. He just waited for me to tell him—and the murderer is the only one who knows I didn’t have a chance to look at those files.”

“Right. But then again Hemphill may have learned a long time ago that the less you ante, the less you can lose.”

“Maybe,” Annie murmured doubtfully. “But we need to check into it. We’ve got to see if we can link Fritz to some dead men.”

Max pounded the steering wheel once, hard. “By God, maybe it’s just that simple. He was a cop. Maybe it was some kind of shootout, and maybe there are some cops or somebody who suspect Fritz didn’t have to shoot. Something of that kind.”

“Because why else would he stop being a cop? Fritz isn’t old enough to retire like Capt. Mac. I wonder if he’s really made all of his money from books?”

“Write all of that down,” Max urged. “When we finish talking to everybody, we’ll get onto these things. Like who might have seen Emma Clyde give the big push.”

“We’re getting some place, Max. We really are.” She glanced down at her purse. “We need to get that film developed. Why don’t we hire a boat?”

“Saulter’d be sure you were escaping and he’d haul you off to jail. Just be patient, Annie. Six o’clock.”

She glanced at her watch. Two. Four hours to go.

The Porsche curved around Hook Point and turned onto the main road.

As they eased forward to a stop sign, their argument began again. Who should they see first, Capt. Mac or Kelly Rizzoli?

C
apt. Mac beamed. “Annie, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

He was the first person that day to evidence any pleasure whatsoever in her arrival. She hated to replace his smile with a glower, but she wanted to do it before she got inside. Annie Laurance’s progress in the winning of enemies and antagonists. How did Peter McKimsey do it? Subtly, Annie my girl, and with charm.

“I wanted to talk to you before I went to see Chief Saulter.”

“Sure. Be glad to help.” He looked over her head as he stepped out onto the front porch. “Isn’t that your young man’s car out there?”

“He isn’t my young man.”

“Oh, so there’s hope for us old dogs yet. Hey there, Darling. Come on up.”

They found themselves shepherded briskly around the side of the house to the patio and offered mint juleps. Capt. Mac’s patio was the ultimate in comfort, the white plastic webbed furniture scattered around the figure-eight pool, the shiny black, obviously new outdoor barbecue without any stains of weather or salt corrosion, the woven hammock which swung invitingly in the dappled shade of the spreading live oak. Not a single weed marred the perfection of the flowerbeds of late-blooming marigolds and zinnias. No effort or expense had been spared.

Capt. Mac returned with the juleps in frosted glasses. Sprigs of fresh mint poked over the rims. He was an eager host, providing bowls of cashews and peanuts.

“Now, what can I do for you?”

Annie was enjoying the julep, and she hated to ruin the pleasant moment. Max’s eyes prodded her, but he cowardly dropped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and remained silent.

“You know that Chief Saulter thinks I killed Elliot.”

“I keep telling Frank that’s damn nonsense.”

With every word, Annie grew more uncomfortable. Here he was trying to use his influence for her benefit, and she was steeling her courage to accuse him of some kind of buried wrongdoing, including, of course, four homicides.

“Annie and I are trying to clear it up ourselves,” Max said firmly, to remind Annie why they were there.

Capt. Mac managed not to look too astounded, but his obvious surprise discouraged Annie, too. How could she and Max hope to solve the crime by themselves?

“I wish you’d help us,” she blurted. She very carefully did not look toward Max. After all, Miss Marple sought the support of Sir Henry Clithering. Max should understand, if he weren’t such a jealous pig.

“Sweetheart, I’ll give you all the help I can.”

If Max had been a toad, he would have swelled. Such is jealousy.

“We think Elliot was killed because of the Sunday night session. After all, we all knew he was getting ready to tell nasty secrets about everyone there.”

Capt. Mac swirled the ice in his glass meditatively. “I wouldn’t take all that too seriously. Elliot loved to be the center of attention. It wouldn’t have amounted to anything.”