Murder Walks the Plank (24 page)

Annie stared at the container of fruit salad sitting on the table. “Do you think I should ask Ben if he'll put my fruit salad in the refrigerator?” If she carried it
around much longer, it might rival the amazing peregrinations of the Lady Baltimore cake in Phoebe Atwood Taylor's
File for Record
.

Max was checking the catch of the day on the sheet attached to the printed menu. “Mmm, poached grouper with clams.” He looked up. “Fruit salad? It'll be fine.”

Ben plunked down a huge glass of freshly brewed, unsweetened, perfect iced tea for Annie, and a Bud Light for Max. “I hear you two claim somebody bumped off Meg Heath. And they say that dude found out by Ghost Crab Pond had been to see her.”

Broward's Rock was a small town and Annie never doubted that Ben knew everybody and heard everything.

“That's right.” Annie was crisp. Ben would also know that Billy Cameron didn't agree with their theory.

“Yeah. Well”—Ben's eyes gleamed beneath his grizzled brows—“I saw that dude. He had lunch here Saturday.” Even now on a weekday the grill was packed and a line waited in the foyer. The rattle of crockery, the thump of boogie-woogie on the jukebox, and the dull roar of conversation signaled summer as clearly as bumper-to-bumper traffic and scantily covered sunburned bodies daubed with zinc oxide. Parotti's, however, required shirts and shoes. Shorts were okay. No wet swimsuits. “He told me the bait shop was the best he'd ever seen outside of the Keys.”

So far as Annie knew, this was the first definite placement of Tony Sherman by anyone other than the maid at the hotel. She clapped her hands together. “What did he look like? What did he say? Was anyone with him?”

“By himself.” Ben squinted. “Fried shrimp, fries, coleslaw, Dos Equis.”

Annie gave Max an amazed glance. Ben's memory was always excellent, but this was phenomenal. “Weren't you jammed at lunch on Saturday?” The locals knew to come early or late, and sometimes even that didn't help because of the influx of tourists. Oh the tourists, the tourists, the noisy but necessary tourists.

“Yep. But he was one dandy guy. Blue-and-white-striped sport coat. I had Jolene take a peek from the kitchen. Told her I'd like one for my birthday.” His face turned a dull red. “Not that I pay much attention to that sort of thing.”

Annie lifted her glass to hide a smile. Ben was decked out in a sport coat, white trousers, and white shoes, the epitome of southern manliness.

Ben talked fast to hide his embarrassment. “I remembered what he had on when I saw that story in the
Gazette
. Had to be the same guy. And everybody's been talking about Pamela—hey”—his face lighted with relief and good humor—“that's great news that Pamela's okay. Anyway, everybody says she saw him at Mrs. Heath's Friday morning and how Billy thinks Pamela fell and Mrs. Heath took an overdose and somebody carjacked the dude. Anyway, when I heard you two was looking around, I thought you might like to know that he was bright as a new penny Saturday. He was grinning, and every so often his face lit up with a million-dollar smile. I noticed as I went past to other tables. He wasn't looking at anybody else. No, he was sitting there eating and thinking and looked to me like he had a stack of travel brochures, and man, was he happy.”

Annie liked air-conditioning, but she didn't like the coldness that washed over her like a gray winter rain. Tony Sherman on Saturday was a happy man who had
only a few more hours to live. That happiness mattered. Her eyes met Max's. Whatever had ensued during Sherman's visit with Meg Heath, there had been a cheerful outcome. Jason Brown insisted Meg Heath was happy both Saturday and Sunday, although Jason hadn't mentioned the fact that he and his sister quarreled with Meg.

“Anyway”—Ben pulled out his order pad—“thought you'd want to know. What'll you have today?”

Annie put down her glass. She didn't need to say a word. Max knew.

“Annie”—there was only a hint of a sigh in Max's voice—“will have the usual—”

Annie always ordered a fried fish sandwich, except on sodden winter days when she opted for chili covered with corn kernels, Vidalia onions, and cheddar cheese. And of course she always wanted a basket of jalapeño corn muffins. She assumed a pious air. Everything in God's world had its place, including dee-licious food. Max should get over it.

“—and I'll take the grouper with clams and coleslaw.”

Annie squeezed the slices of lemon and lime in her iced tea, crushed the mint sprigs. “Tony Sherman was happy. Meg Heath was happy. Surely Billy will see that she didn't commit suicide.”

Max drank his beer, shrugged. “Billy's got an answer. He says she was probably waiting to hear from Sherman, and when he didn't call her on Sunday, she thought he'd dumped her again. She didn't know he was dead.”

The problem, Annie knew, was that Billy's analysis was eminently reasonable. “Billy doesn't think anybody would kill three people just to keep everyone
from finding out that Tony Sherman came to the island.”

Max kneaded his cheek with his knuckles. “That can't be the reason. The lawyer made it crystal clear. Tony and Meg's marriage had no effect on her inheritance from Duff and therefore didn't endanger the prospects of her children or Claudette. So nobody has a motive.”

Ben served their food, tartar sauce squeezing from Annie's sandwich, the broth on Max's plate steaming.

Annie took a big bite of her sandwich, sighed with pleasure. She glanced at the fruit salad. It would gain entree to a house of mourning, but what then? Abruptly she slapped her free hand on the table.

Max looked at her inquiringly.

“Okay, Reed says Sherman's arrival didn't affect the disposition of Duff's estate. He should know. But Sherman's appearance on the island had to be the catalyst.” Annie took another big bite, chewed. Her words were indistinct but determined. “And right now, nobody knows we know about Sherman—”

Max's face brightened. “Jenna and Jason and Claudette. Right?”

“—so we can take them by surprise.”

C
ARS LINED THE CIRCULAR
drive to the Heath house. Annie turned into the lot hidden behind the palms. She recognized several cars belonging to women from the church. The ritual of food and caring was well under way. She parked at the far end and reached for the fruit salad. Her cell phone rang.

Annie punched on the phone, picked up the carton, tucked her purse under her arm. Once out of the car she hurried to the dappled shade beneath the spreading arms of a massive live oak. A cloud of no-see-ums swirled around her. She waved her hand, determined this should be one short call. Her nose crinkled at the acrid smell of burned wood doused in water. An oyster shell path curved around a stand of cane. A wisp of smoke curled above the cane.

“Hello.” Damn the no-see-ums. She moved in a restrained jog, knowing the tiny biting insects would not be the least dissuaded from attack. She wished she'd doused herself with repellent this morning, but she'd not planned on communing with nature. She preferred nature well tamed by insecticides.

“Annie, Henny here.” The cell phone crackled.

Annie felt a moment of breathlessness. “Is Pamela—”

“She's fine.” Henny's voice was calm and reassuring. “She drifts in and out of sleep. She's feeling better, though obviously her head hurts. A few minutes ago she was thrashing about, almost awake, not quite, and she kept muttering, ‘Ladyfingers. There were ladyfingers.' But when she woke up, she was confused and didn't seem to know what it meant, and now she's fallen back asleep.”

“Ladyfingers?” Annie was especially fond of the little sponge cakes when topped by pineapple, papaya, and honeydew flavored with tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. It was one of Max's specialities. “Do you think she's hungry?”

There was an instant of irritated silence. “Annie, I would not have called—”

The no-see-ums whirred around Annie. She flailed her arm and moved in a quick trot toward the path. They didn't like smoke. She came around the cane, stopped, and stared.

“—to talk about Pamela's appetite.” Henny was crisp. “I can't imagine how cakes could figure in, but something about ladyfingers terrifies her. She must associate them with the attack. I've tried to catch Emma—”

Annie was listening as she watched Claudette Taylor. The secretary stood with her back to the path, head bent forward, body slumped. She was a figure of dejection and misery, brooding at a desolate scene, charred beams thrust askew, fallen walls, an occasional trail of smoke rising to disappear in the hot bright sunlight.

Annie retreated until hidden by the cane. “That's
good. See if you can find Emma.” She whispered, hoping Claudette wouldn't hear. She wanted to catch the secretary unawares. “If anybody can figure out ladyfingers, it will be Emma, although right now she's busy trying to place all the passengers when Pamela went overboard.”

“Just wanted you to know. There was something about Pamela's voice.” Henny's pause was dramatic, portentous.

Annie's hand tightened on the cell phone.

“Ladyfingers.” Always the actress, Henny used a high, thin, faint voice to capture in the single word a frightful sense of horror and shock. Her voice once again clear, precise, and charming, she concluded, “I'll ask her again when she wakes up.” A pause. “Oh, Annie.” Again her tone made clear her intent, clothing the sentence in quote marks. ‘No one, however clever, should expect to get away with more than one murder.'”

Annie smiled. Henny was obviously relaxed and enjoying herself again. But Annie knew this one. “
Murder at School
. James Hilton. And I agree absolutely.”

“So do I. Bye.”

Annie turned off the cell phone. She didn't want any interruption when she spoke with Claudette. Ladyfingers…Annie shook her head and moved stealthily around the cane, taking care where she stepped.

When the storage building was intact, it would not have been possible to see beyond it to the graveled road that disappeared into the pines. Most likely the road curved around to join the Heath drive. Now, with the walls collapsed into blackened masses, the road was clearly visible. Even from this distance, Annie could see the ruts made by the fire engines in the
muddy gray dirt. A yellow warning banner fluttered from a stake, declaring the area an arson scene and prohibiting entry.

The secluded yet convenient storage building was ingeniously placed, on a par with the hidden parking lot opposite the main stairway to the house. Obviously Duff Heath had spared no expense when the house was built, this airy, cheerful, elegant mansion-on-the-sea. He must have been very rich. So Meg had been very rich. Now Jason and Jenna were very rich.

Annie picked her way across the sandy ground, her shoes sinking into the moist ground. She stepped on a pinecone. The snap wasn't loud, but Claudette whirled to face her.

Annie was appalled. Yesterday Claudette had been upset, her blue eyes dazed, but her porcelain white skin had been lovely, her faded ginger hair loose on her shoulders yet shiny. She had appeared shocked by her employer's death, but not stricken. Today her face was pasty gray, her features locked in a scowl, her eyes reddened by weeping. Ash smudged her light blue, very summery shirtwaist dress, clumped on her canvas gardening gloves. Ash and mud discolored her espadrilles, a fashionable match for her dress and meant for sunny days and happy times.

“Claudette”—Annie walked slowly forward, spoke gently—“I'm sorry.” Annie felt compelled to give comfort where comfort obviously was needed.

“All gone.” Claudette's voice was deep with bitterness and anger. The words were a condemnation.

Annie cast a puzzled look at the destruction. Yes, it was ugly, but no life had been lost. “It's a mess.” But that was all, wasn't it? It was an ugly scene, but surely not dreadful enough to account for Claudette's dis
tress. She stopped beside Claudette, stared at the charred remnants.

Claudette's hands clenched into fists. “Nothing left. All his work, his papers, the scrapbooks, everything's gone. I put together most of the scrapbooks. I went with them on holidays. I took care of everything, the hotels and rentals for umbrellas and bicycles at the beach or skis and lift tickets in the mountains. They were such happy days. June”—the secretary's thin lips curved in a smile that looked odd on her ravaged face—“June was always kind and sweet. Gentle. She was lovely to me. I think she knew how I felt about Duff. We never talked about it. She understood he had no idea I cared for him. Happy days. Duff was doing so well. Everything he touched turned to gold. That was before Duff and Peter quarreled. That was such a heartbreak, and all because they were so much alike, both of them determined to have their own way, go their own way. I kept hoping they'd be reconciled, but it never happened. And then June died.” She pulled her fingers through her tangled hair. “Now there's nothing left of Duff, nothing at all.”

Annie began to understand something of the complex web of emotions that linked Meg and Duff and Claudette. Despite the sauna-hot afternoon, Annie felt cold. Duff, Duff, everything was Duff for Claudette. She didn't seem to care that all Meg's memorabilia had been lost, too.

Out of a sense of fairness to Meg, Annie spoke sharply. “Meg's papers are gone, too. That's why the fire was set, of course.”

Claudette reached out, gripped Annie's arm. “Why did it happen? Who did it?”

The feel of the damp, dirty canvas glove was un
comfortable. Annie wanted to jerk away, but forced herself to remain still. “Meg's murderer wanted to keep the police from finding out the identity of the dead man at Ghost Crab Pond. You knew who he was, didn't you?” Annie wasn't certain of her accusation, but her instinct told her that Meg wasn't one to keep good news to herself. Meg would have told everyone about Tony Sherman's return. “Why did you keep it a secret? You and Jenna.”

Claudette didn't respond. Her silence was an answer of a sort. She didn't pretend she hadn't known about Tony's return or the discovery of his body. Her grip on Annie suddenly loosened. She brushed back a strand of hair, leaving yet another swipe of ash on her pallid face.

Annie felt sorry for Claudette but dismayed by her, sorry for her evident anguish, dismayed by her selfish preoccupation. Claudette hated the burning of Duff's belongings, but murder twice accomplished and once attempted left her unmoved. “You knew who he was when you read the description in the
Gazette
.” There was an edge of disdain in Annie's voice. “You didn't call the police. You didn't do a thing.”

“About Tony Sherman?” Claudette's bleak face twisted in furious anger. “I don't owe him anything.” She turned and headed across the clearing, walking fast.

Annie called after her. “How about Meg? Don't you owe Meg justice? You and Jason and Jenna?”

Claudette ignored Annie. She disappeared around the cane.

Annie didn't hurry after her. It would do no good to try to confront her now. Claudette had made her position clear. She cared only for the memory of the man she'd loved. Claudette had loved Duff. Had she hated
Meg? But however she felt about Meg, it could not have been Claudette who set fire to the storage building. She was obviously distraught at the loss of Duff's papers and mementos. If Claudette did not set the fire, she had to be innocent of Meg's murder. Moreover, Claudette had agreed that there should be an autopsy when Annie suggested Meg's death might be deliberate. Yet if Claudette was guilty, what better way to demonstrate innocence than to acquiesce when an autopsy was suggested and to destroy material obviously dear to her. Wasn't her demeanor too distraught to be over a fire?

Annie strode swiftly toward the house. No, she couldn't dismiss Claudette as a suspect. There were still three suspects, Claudette, Jenna, and Jason.

 

The two-story pink stucco condominiums reminded Max of Bermuda, but palmettos lined the walkways instead of masses of flowering bougainvillea. Max glanced at the slip in his hand with Jason Brown's address, then checked the numbers at the front. Even numbers on the shore side, so 107 faced the water. Max walked around the end of the building. Everything was in excellent repair. The lawn was as well kept as a golf green. On the ocean side, he shaded his eyes, admired the Olympic-size pool and, beyond, the sand dunes with their fringe of sea oats and the sweep of the Atlantic dotted with shrimp boats and pleasure craft. A faraway freighter looked small against the horizon. A Coast Guard helicopter whopped overhead.

The shutters of Jason's condo were closed. Several
Gazettes
lay near the front steps. Letters and magazines bunched out of the mailbox. Max frowned and ran lightly up the steps. He lifted the bronze knocker,
pounded. According to Annie, Jason's abrupt departure from the bookstore bordered on flight. Had he truly not known that his mother's second husband was dead? If he didn't know, why was that news such a shock? Obviously he had never met the man. Why should he care? Max knocked again.

The door swung in. “Yeah?” A frowning young man peered out, his long thin face tight with irritation. “What do you want?”

Max recognized him from Annie's description, coal-dark hair, his mother's elegant features, but he had an air of distress, the look of a man shocked and shaken. Max held out his hand. “Max Darling. You came to my wife's bookstore. Annie said you think your mother was murdered. We do, too, and we hope you will help us convince the police that she didn't commit suicide.”

Max's assertion was true as far as it went. That it didn't reveal the true nature of his quest was fair enough in the circumstances. Yes, it was important to change the focus of Billy's investigation, but Max wanted above all to find out why Jason and Jenna quarreled with their mother Saturday afternoon. Since Sherman's arrival had no effect on the disposition of Duff's estate, why should it have mattered one way or the other to Meg's children? And if they didn't quarrel with her about Sherman, what was the cause of their anger?

“She never did.” Jason's anguish was evident, but just as apparent was the flicker of fear in his eyes. “I don't know.” It was a mumble of uncertainty. “God, I can't believe…” Pleading eyes looked at Max. “I know what it looks like. But it can't be true.” He raked his
knuckles across his jaw, his eyes desperate. “Not Jenna.” The disclaimer was scarcely spoken, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Max stiffened. The implication was obvious and explained Jason's distress. Jason was panicked at the thought that his sister was responsible for Meg's death. But if he believed Jenna to be guilty—or, a cautious amendment, was himself guilty and intended to use his sister as a decoy—there had to be a powerful motive, a motive both powerful and urgent. Urgent…

Max's gaze was accusing, his voice cold. “You and Jenna quarreled with your mother Saturday afternoon. I suppose that's when she told you. It must have been a shock.”

Jason took a step back, his eyes wide with alarm. Clearly he had no idea anyone knew.

“You were overheard.” Max folded his arms, waited.

“Oh God.” Jason turned away, blundered down the hallway.

Max stepped inside. A suitcase sat at the foot of the stairs. Annie had said that Jason's departure had the air of flight. Was he actually planning to leave the island? Max followed Jason into a cheerless living room, the sun blocked by shutters, papers and magazines strewn haphazardly, the bright cushions on the wicker furniture dulled by the dimness. Soiled plates and glasses were stacked by the wet bar. There was a fusty smell of yesterday's whisky and pizza.

Jason walked blindly to an oversize leather chair, flung himself down. He sagged into the chair, his face a study in misery and fear, his posture stricken, defenseless.

Max felt a pang of sympathy. But two people were
dead and Jason might know why. Max moved across the room, stood by the chair, staring down. “You yelled at your mother that she shouldn't be a damn fool.”