From the Queen (5 page)

Annie steeled her face. She would not, must not reveal she saw Hyla.

Hyla carried a rope loose in her right hand.

Annie was suffused with thanksgiving and understanding. During their conference at the station break room, Hyla looked at Annie with suspicion, warned her against trying to set a trap for the thief. Hyla obviously wasn't persuaded Annie would remain quiescent. Probably she had been trailing behind when Annie went to the beach and the lifeguard stand, likely later explored and spotted the camera. She then figured Annie would set up a meeting. Once Hyla set out on a course, she never deviated. She would watch Annie's every move, day or night. She was outside when Calvin Pickett arrived. The instant he entered the back door without knocking, Hyla had been at work, likely summoning other officers as well.

Hyla lifted her left hand, touched her lips with a forefinger, then rapidly fluttered closed fingertips against her thumb.

Talk. Talk. Talk. She had to talk, keep Calvin talking.

A second figure eased into the doorway, stocky, powerfully built Officer Lou Pirelli, he in uniform. Lou was in a slight crouch, both hands holding his pistol, his eyes locked on Calvin. But Calvin Pickett was dangerous. If he realized they were behind him, he could whirl and fire. Possibly Lou might shoot in time. If not, if either Hyla or Lou were hurt, Annie was at fault.

Annie kept her gaze focused on Calvin. “You don't want to take this kind of chance. If you walk out …”

Calvin's eyes flickered away from her. His gaze was riveted for an instant beyond her. What was he seeing?

Too late she knew. On the wall behind her hung a large glass-covered framed print. The glass reflected the room, the shine of the lamp, Annie and Calvin face-to-face, and behind him in the doorway to the hall, Hyla and Lou.

Calvin took three fast steps, grabbed her arm, turned her to face the doorway. He pulled her in front of him, jammed the barrel of the gun against her neck.

Hyla started forward, Lou moved, too, his gun leveled toward them.

“Stop where you are. Drop the gun.” Calvin's low, hoarse voice held the darkness of death.

Hyla rocked to a stop, the cord in her hand moving eerily back and forth. Lou stopped too, his eyes measuring the distance between him and Calvin with a rigid Annie as a shield.

Chaotic thoughts seared Annie's mind. Everyone remained frozen in place … a tableau … Lou still held the gun … Calvin could push her ahead of him out into the night … Would he decide better to kill all of them now … her fault … gun looked huge in Lou's hand … superb shot … had to distract Calvin … up to her … she'd played roles in island theater … Elaine Harper in
Arsenic and Old Lace
… Judy Bernly in
Nine to Five
…

Annie wavered unsteadily… her body relaxed … she gave a sighing moan, sagged toward the floor, a terrified woman fainting …

The blast from the guns was huge, magnified in the small room, the smell of gunpowder acrid.

A grunt of pain. Calvin fell heavily across her, pushing her down.

Footsteps thudded. Shouts. “Grab him. Get him.”

A blow caught her in the ribs. Annie struggled to pull away from the terrible weight that pressed against her as they tangled in a struggle. Calvin pushed Annie out of the way, staggered to his feet. He punched with his left hand, kicked at Hyla as he lurched toward his gun lying a few feet away. Blood streamed from his shattered right hand. Lou moved in, used his gun as a truncheon.

Calvin dropped to the floor, a gash on the side of his head.

Annie waited on the boardwalk. All was well, bright sun, calm sea, seagulls wheeling above the marina, a day full of promise. Annie glanced at her watch. From what she'd learned since yesterday, Calvin Pickett, now in jail and charged with a series of crimes, lived in a small one-bedroom unit in a rundown apartment house on the north end of the island. How long could it possibly take to search that small space? It had been more than two hours since Hyla called, told her they had the warrant, were on their way.

Hyla Harrison strode around the corner of the shops, trim and athletic in her khaki uniform. Though Hyla moved with her head high, shoulders back, her narrow face was somber. She stopped a foot away, slowly shook her head.

Annie blurted, “You looked …”

“We looked everywhere. We went over every inch of his place. We even took the seats out of his car.” Hyla's nose wrinkled. “Found a dead mouse. Weird.”

“The book has to be somewhere.”

Hyla's face squeezed in thought. “He didn't expect trouble when he came to your place. So, it makes sense he hadn't hidden the book some place special. We've checked and he hadn't mailed any packages to himself. He didn't have a safety deposit box. Nobody who knows him admits to taking care of anything for him. Plus these folks are people we know and they wouldn't cover up for him when he's accused of attempted murder and kidnaping and resisting arrest and a bunch of stuff. So it figures,” Hyla worked it out, “that he left the book that night where he'd been keeping it. But,” she turned her thin hands up in expressive defeat, “we can't find it.”

Annie didn't ask if Hyla was sure. She knew Hyla. Any search she undertook would be careful, complete, exhaustive.

“… a locker at the Historical Society. Not much in it. Half empty bottle of bourbon. Thought Jane Corley would surely have a hissy fit …”

Annie knew, without pleasure, Jane Jessop Corley, director of the society, tall, thin, iron gray hair in rigid waves, humorless and self-important.

“… and I asked her,” there was a wicked gleam in Hyla's green eyes, “if bourbon was the drink of choice at the society. I imagine he sipped along as he worked. She wasn't amused, insisted I take my evidence case and leave. Very grudging about letting me see the locker.”

Annie imagined Calvin Pickett found it demeaning to be relegated to a small employee locker, probably enjoyed keeping whisky there. She remembered him sitting behind the old wooden table and the stack of books …

Jane Corley barred their way, her bony face flushed with anger. “You have no right to intrude here. He was an employee, nothing more. I permitted you access to his locker. I demand you leave …”

“Ma'am,” Hyla was stolid, “I have a search warrant that gives me the right to search the premises. If you wish to be arrested for impeding an officer in the discharge of her duties, I will escort you to the police station and then return and proceed to fulfil my orders.”

Jane drew herself up to her full height, folded her arms. “Very well. But I will have recourse to the law if you damage any society papers.”

Annie pointed to the table to the right of the entrance. “Look at the books stacked there.”

Jane followed them to the table, head jutting forward, face twisted in anger.

Hyla Harrison placed a fingerprint kit on the edge of the table. She flipped up the lid, pulled out plastic gloves, drew them on. She stepped around the table. She lifted up a book with leather covers that were crumbling, looked at Annie.

Annie came around the table, bent forward, shook her head.

One book, two, three …

The fourth book had a garish jacket with a woman's head bent back, long hair falling, gloved hands at her throat.

Not a likely book jacket to be found in a historical society.

“Take off the jacket.”

Hyla carefully eased the tattered cover away to reveal a white dusk jacket with a rectangular illustration in black and white of Hercule Poirot, formally attired in a bow tie, morning suit, and spats, carrying top hat and gloves in his right hand, cane in his left.

“That's it.” Annie was triumphant. No wonder Calvin had been amused when she came to the society and the book she sought was included in a stack in front of him.

“Everything in here belongs to the society.” Jane Corley had no doubt read in
The Gazette
about the missing book and its worth. If she could claim it for the society, there would be money to achieve great historical glory for the island. “No one can prove this is a book that belonged to someone else …”

Annie pointed at the book. “Do you see the plastic cover?”

Jane's gaze shifted to the book.

“Hyla, fingerprint that cover. My fingerprints will be on it because I put the book in that cover. Ellen Gallagher's prints will be on it because she took the plastic covered book and placed it in its knit cover. And besides,” she felt comfortable stretching the truth a bit, “a statement from the nursing home where the previous owner lived will prove the box belongs to Ellen Gallagher.”

The front door bell at Death on Demand sounded. Ellen Gallagher bolted to the cash desk, eyes wide behind the thick lens of her glasses. “I just heard. Annie, the book sold for,” her voice dropped to a shaky whisper, “one hundred and seventy thousand dollars.” She reached across the counter, took Annie's hand. “Thanks to you.”

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Carolyn Hart

Cover design by Kat Lee

978-1-5040-1647-6

Published in 2015 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com