Laughed ’Til He Died (11 page)

“Oh, ma’am.” The housekeeper darted a glance down a wide marble hallway with inset niches holding busts and vases. “
She
might not like it.”

The personal pronoun was not spoken with affection.

“Who’s to know? And help is best where it’s needed,” Henny said lightly. “You check the living room, I’ll take care of the rest. I’m Henny Brawley.” She looked inquiring.

“Beth Sullivan, ma’am.”

“All right, Beth, we’re a team. Is the kitchen straight ahead?” Henny moved swiftly, her shoes clipping on the marble floor. She had no trouble finding the huge kitchen and stood for only a moment to appraise the stainless steel Bosch appliances. Everything was of the best quality. The counter next to the double sink was piled with dirty dishes. Henny opened cupboards, found a lovely Limoges bowl, and filled it with the fresh-cut fruit. She placed the bowl on an island with other food gifts. Then she moved to the sink, ran water, and began to rinse soiled dishes.

Beth hurried in and out, bringing more dishes, carrying out freshly filled plates and bowls. She flashed a shy, thankful smile each time at Henny.

Henny wedged a few more glasses in the dishwasher. She
found detergent beneath the sink, filled the dispenser, and punched start.

Back with another tray, Beth heaved a tired sigh. “Ma’am, you saved my life. If you don’t mind, I won’t tell Mrs. Wagner you helped out in the kitchen. I told her you came for the Haven and brought fruit. Is that all right with you?”

Henny dried her hands. “That’s fine. Why wouldn’t Mrs. Wagner want anyone to help in the kitchen?”

“Oh, she’s very fancy. Everything is always la-di-da.” Her dark eyes were disdainful. “You’ve got me caught up now. Would you like some iced tea?”

They settled at the center island on tall stools. Orange slices and fresh mint garnished the glasses.

Henny chose her words carefully. She spoke in an inviting, confidential tone. “Murder is dreadful, but I understand Booth and Neva didn’t get along very well. I suppose that makes it much easier for her. Or much harder.”

Beth looked around to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “I’d say no love lost. She moved into her own room a few months ago and you know a marriage is on the rocks when that happens. She’s been white as a sheet today, but I don’t think she’s wasting any grief on him. She’s a lot more upset about her son than she is Mr. Wagner being dead. The kid’s been kind of nuts since the murder.”

“Was her son especially fond of Booth?”

Beth squeezed the orange, took a huge gulp. “I needed that. She’s run me ragged today. She treats me like I’m a robot, punch a button and watch me go. ‘The stairs down to the lower den aren’t clean.’ ‘I found dust in the laundry room.’ ‘Master Tim doesn’t like cinnamon on his toast.’ As for Master Tim, he’s kind of weird. Master Tim, that’s what I’m supposed to call him, it’s
Master Tim and Miss Meredith. I’ve worked for a lot of families, but I never had to call kids ‘master’ and ‘miss’ until here. Anyway, Master Tim’s scared out his mind. He kept screaming out in his sleep last night and she was up and down with him. But he wasn’t the least bit fond of Mr. Wagner. Master Tim could hardly stand to be in the same room with him, anybody could tell that.”

L
AUREL REMINDED HERSELF
to keep her thoughts on her goal, though it was difficult with dear Johnny so near. How lovely to be a woman and how enchanting to have such an attractive man pressing close. He was such a help with her follow-through. Such a gorgeous young man…This was not the moment for thoughts such as these, however.

“…If you turn your left wrist a little more, that will add loft to the ball.” He was lithe and athletic. Dark curls framed a matador-handsome face that reminded Laurel of Spanish grandees.

Laurel looked up, her lips curving into a smile. She knew she was at her best on a sunny summer afternoon, her hair a shimmering gold, her dark blue eyes softly glowing, her lips inviting.

Johnny Rodriguez took a deep breath.

Laurel understood. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It is hard sometimes to focus on the game.”

“Your wrist…”

“Someone told me that poor Van has had the hardest time lately keeping his mind on golf. Someone told me he was furious with Booth Wagner.” She arched golden brows in delicate inquiry.

Johnny looked appalled. “Who’s talking about Van?”

“Oh, everybody.” She was charmingly vague. “You know how interested people are in love affairs.”

“Look, it isn’t how it looks.” He was quick to defend his boss. “I mean, he and Neva were through. It was making him crazy. See, she broke things off because of this prenup agreement. I mean, she and Booth were kaput and had been ever since the kid got hurt. She was feeling pretty grim and Van was really nice to her and he thought they could work something out. I mean, he got it in the gut from his ex-wife. She took up with a drummer and walked out on him. But if Neva tried to get a divorce, she wouldn’t get anything and she’d lose health insurance and her kid still needs another couple of operations. So, it doesn’t do any good for Van to be mad. She had to make the choice and she stayed with the money. Seems to me, he’s better off. If a woman wants money more than she wants love, that’s a lousy deal for a guy.”

Laurel murmured, “Life can be so difficult.” Of course, death sometimes made everything simple. Possibly it had occurred to either Neva or Van that Booth’s death made certain Neva would receive whatever had been due to her under the prenuptial agreement. Likely the agreement provided nothing if she left him for another man. “Now, show me again,” she moved closer to Johnny, “just how do I turn my wrist?”

E
MMA
C
LYDE WAS
pleased that the crime scene tape had been removed, indicating the area had been searched and was now open for its customary use. Her square face creased in a grim smile. Customary use would not have included a further search by a noted mystery author. However, that was her intention and
she felt confident that she would make deductions and quite possibly realize information missed by all others. After all, she and Marigold had encountered much knottier challenges in their eighty-six books and counting.

Emma walked briskly to the stage. The blood had been washed away. Eyes narrowed, she re-created in her mind the moment before the shot rang out. Booth Wagner faced the audience straight-on, big, burly, self-confident, a showman enjoying his domination. Had he turned either to the left or right? She shook her head. The shot had propelled him forward, because he landed facedown. If he had turned, he would not have fallen as he did.

Emma jumped into Booth’s mind as the lights went out. She often jumped into character’s minds, the prerogative of a writer. Why hadn’t Booth turned to see about the lights? Her smile became even grimmer. Arrogance. An assumption that rectifying stage miscues was the work of underlings. It wasn’t for him to bumble about in the dark. He would wait, calm and in charge, until the momentary blackout ended. But when the lights came on, he was dead. That lack of movement afforded the murderer time to move after pulling out the cord from the battery pack.

Emma climbed onto the stage. Here was where Booth had stood. She marched forward, came to the back of the stage, stepped off. The four light stands were still in place. Emma walked to the battery pack. She looked at her watch, followed the second hand as she estimated the time between the cessation of light and the sound of the shot. Not more than nine seconds. Much can be accomplished in nine seconds if planned in advance. She reached down as if yanking the cord loose. She hurried to the woods and looked back at the stage. Of necessity, the shooter had to be able to see Booth, so the murderer had gone
no farther than here. She moved into that unknown mind. Possibly the murderer had night-vision goggles. Somehow Booth had been visible. She lifted her hand.

If Jean Hughes committed the crime, she had then returned to her place near the stage. If another hand held the gun, it was essential for the shooter to get away from the area.

Emma turned toward the trees. A few steps and she was out of sight from the stage. Then light had been needed. A small pencil flash would have sufficed.

She surveyed the trees. Not that live oak. A rope would have been necessary to reach the fork of the trunk. Her gaze moved. A satisfied smile lifted her lips. With a decided nod, she walked out of the woods and strode toward the Haven building.

J
EAN
H
UGHES WAS
unsparing. “I was too late smart.” Pale and composed, but with haunted eyes, she faced Max. “I should have known that a man like Booth wouldn’t really care for somebody like me, a singer in a second-rate jazz club. Always before, when guys gave me a rush and told me they weren’t married, I asked around. I didn’t ask around about Booth until it was way too late. I was a fool, but everything was so awful with Giselle getting sick that it seemed wonderful to have Booth be so kind and thoughtful. I guess I wanted to believe in happily ever after. He was good-looking and rich and charming. Did you know he could be charming?” Bitterness twisted her face. “He didn’t care about me. He used me to get back at the people on the board who dared disagree with him. So much for having dreams.”

Max heard the pain. He made an abrupt gesture. “Don’t give up on life, Jean.”

She managed a tremulous smile. “People like you and Annie
prove not everybody lies. And Giselle…Do you know how brave she is? I could never be that brave. She’s dying and she smiles. She thinks of me. She tries to make me feel good. She’s always thought that I was wonderful. I don’t know how she could, but she does.”

“She knows you.” Max’s voice was gentle. “She knows you are good and kind. That’s why the kids at the Haven love you.”

“The kids.” There was a depth of sadness in her tired voice. “I didn’t know when I came that I’d care the way I do. There’s Mickey, who isn’t quite right. He’s stiff and can’t look at you. But I got him to painting the sun and now every day when he comes he goes straight to the art room and he fills pages with suns and they’re as bright as gold. Sometimes he smiles. He brings me a sun painting every day. There’s Willamae, who loves everybody and everybody loves her. There’s Bud. He’s always angry. I got one of those punching dummies, you know, you blow them up and they have a heavy base and you can knock them around. I asked Bud if he’d like to have some boxing gloves. He thought about it and then one day he came and said, ‘Yes,’ and every day he goes to the dummy and he hits and hits. There are the fun ones and the sad ones. I want things to be good for all of them. Most everybody will probably be back by Monday. I called Mr. Gilbert, told him I may have to take some time off. If I get put in jail. He was real nice, even though I know he didn’t want me back. He said maybe everything will work out. Anyway, I told him Rosalind can take care of things just fine. She’s done a great job this summer. She’s another good person like you and Annie and Giselle. I got to hold on to knowing about good people to keep me from being so upset about Booth. See, when I got to the island, I was working hard to try and learn everything I needed to know. I didn’t even realize at first that I wasn’t see
ing much of Booth. And then maybe it was only after a week or two, I found out he and his wife were still together. I didn’t know what to think. I have a friend, a guy I knew at the club. I’d helped him out when his daughter was sick. Anyway, he’s a private detective. I asked him if he’d find out what he could about Booth, but I didn’t have much money. Ben said he’d be glad to and it wouldn’t cost me a cent. I told him I didn’t want to take up his time, but he said he could find out a bunch in no time flat.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a manila envelope. “He found out a lot. You can have his report. I found out more than I ever wanted to know.” She pushed back her chair, stood. “Now, I got to get back to the Haven.”

E
MMA NODDED AT
Officer Harrison.

“Morning, Mrs. Clyde.” Hyla Harrison was crisp in her uniform. As always, her demeanor was that of a careful, thorough, thoughtful cop.

“Good morning, officer. Everything going all right?”

“Just fine, ma’am. I’m keeping a close eye on everything.”

Emma nodded approval and strolled around the side of the building. She stopped to watch a vigorous volleyball game. The middle hitter on the north side spiked the ball into the opposite court for a kill. As a player darted out to pick up the ball, Emma held up a hand. “Your attention, please.” Her deep voice was at its most stentorian.

Obediently, the players turned to look.

“Your game can resume in a few minutes. However, I need assistance. I’m here on behalf of Miss Jean.” Emma would have hotly insisted that she spoke accurately. Any effort made to solve the murder of the Haven board member would benefit the Ha
ven and therefore its director, so Emma’s actions were being taken on behalf of Jean Hughes, whether she knew it or not. That her listeners would assume she came to them as an emissary from Jean Hughes simply demonstrated how easily a statement could be misconstrued. “Which one of you is the best tree climber?”

Every player immediately claimed to be best.

Emma nodded gravely. “I see. Since all of you are equally expert, it will have to be a matter of chance. I am thinking,” she glanced over the possibilities, “of a number between one and twenty. Whoever comes nearest will win.”

The numbers rang out.

Emma immediately pointed at a tall, skinny teenager who hadn’t yet grown to fit his huge hands and feet. “You win. What’s your name?”

“Craig.” His sunburn couldn’t compete with the flush that stained his face at what was clearly unaccustomed attention.

“Very well, Craig. Follow me.” She pointed toward the woods behind the stage. “The rest of you can come, too. But mind now, only cheers, no jeers.”

At the edge of the woods, she arranged the players in a semicircle. “All right, Craig.” She pulled a pair of gardening gloves from her capacious purse. She handed them to him. “I don’t want you to leave any fingerprints as you go.”