Murder Walks the Plank (28 page)

A tall thin man followed him. “Crime scene?” The British accent was partially mellowed by a drawl. “What's up, old chap?” He craned to see beyond the
wrecker that had backed until its rear wheels smashed into the reeds along the bank.

A foursome chugged toward them in a golf cart, clubs rattling in the bags sticking out the back. The lean women, all blond, all beautifully dressed in fashionable golf attire, wearing identical white visors, rolled to a stop. One of them, her husky voice excited, announced, “I told you, Serena. They're pulling a car out of the hazard.”

Lou's dark hair glistened like a crow's in the sunlight as he bent to attach the tape, moved briskly to pound another stake. He called over his shoulder. “Stolen property”—Lou pointed toward the lagoon and the backer winching up the front of a red Mustang convertible—“connected to a homicide.”

Billy Cameron gestured toward the wrecker, directing the truck to keep going. He wore plastic gloves on his hands. When the car, festooned with reeds, draped with algae, water spewing over the sides and back, was free of the lagoon, Billy chopped downward with his right hand. The wrecker stopped.

Billy shouted, “Lower it.”

The car eased to the ground.

Billy hurried forward, opened the driver's door. He jumped back as water gushed out, splashing his khaki uniform. He leaned inside the car, removed the keys. In two big strides he was at the trunk, unlocking it, lifting the lid. This time he moved faster, avoiding the wave of water.

Max stood on a rise near the green. “What did I tell you, Billy?” Max's tone was triumphant as he pointed at a nylon suitcase partially submerged in the residual water. “Sherman's killer went straight from the pond to the hotel, got Sherman's stuff.”

Billy pulled the sodden suitcase forward, flipped open the leather identification tag. He unzipped the case.

Even from a distance Max could see that the contents were a jumbled, sodden mass. The clothing must have been gathered up and stuffed inside with no thought of order. Tony Sherman hadn't packed his case. Tony Sherman was dead when a hand grabbed his belongings.

Billy pushed the suitcase to one side, bent closer to the trunk. He ran his hand back and forth in the brownish water and in a moment lifted up a drenched leather billfold. He eased it open. “Money.” His voice was gruff. “So it wasn't a robbery the way it looked at first.”

Max didn't change expression. The fact that Billy hadn't linked Sherman's murder to Meg Heath's death and the attack on Pamela didn't matter. What mattered was that Billy now knew all about Meg's plan to divest herself of a fortune and the upheaval at the Heath home on Saturday.

Billy placed the limp billfold atop the waterlogged clothing, pulled down the lid. He walked around to the side of the wrecker. “Haul it to the station. We'll work on it there.”

“Captain!” Lou's shout was sharp, urgent. He ran across the exquisitely groomed green, heedless of the gouges from his shoes. “Captain, nine-one-one…”

 

Rachel struggled against the painful grip. She was aware of overpowering strength, the feel of muscles rigid as steel, the smell of sweat, the scent of fear. A shirt button jabbed against her cheek. Pincer-tight fingers clamped on her shoulder. In a shocked portion of
her mind, she understood she was captive and in danger. Yet the somnolent summer sounds continued without pause, the cackle of clapper rails, a strident mockingbird trill, the derisive caw of crows, the whine of mosquitos, the rustle of cordgrass in the onshore breeze. Despite the heat of the sun, her skin was clammy with fear.

His breath tickled her ear. “Don't yell.”

“I won't.” She spoke in a faint whisper against the bruising fingers pressed against her lips. Slowly he relaxed the pressure and she was able to stand apart from him, though one hand still fastened on her shoulder.

He was breathing fast, in spasmodic jerks that lifted and dropped his chest.

Rachel trembled, one long shudder after another. She looked into wild, staring eyes, jerked her gaze away. “I just wanted to talk to Cole.” She knew her voice was high and thin.

He glanced toward the house. “You were coming over to see him? Nobody here but the two of you…”

Red stained her cheeks at the tone in his voice. “No, it's not—”

He wasn't listening. Without warning, he jerked her around until she was facing the house and one arm was pulled up behind her. “Let's walk that way.” He pushed her toward the side yard.

Rachel's gaze darted toward the cane. Even if she got away, there wasn't anyplace to run. The cane was thick and wild, she couldn't force her way through. A path angled off toward the water. She felt a spark of hope. At the end of the point there was a dilapidated cabin on posts and a pier that stuck out into the reed-
thick water. If someone was there…But the cabin drowsed in the afternoon sun.

Straight ahead was the marsh, the mudflats steaming, fiddler crabs swarming in search of food. A white ibis, red bill gleaming, stalked the crabs. The tide was coming in. Soon the water would reach the banks.

No place to run…

“Cole.” Reed's shout was hoarse. “I know you're here.” His eyes scanned the house in its dusty clearing, the marsh, the woods. “You couldn't have got past me. Well, you've got company. Your girlfriend's here.” His voice was pleased, confident. He inched Rachel's arm higher, brought a gasp of pain. The demand was harsh, swift. “What's your name?”

She bent forward, trying to ease the strain on her arm. “Rachel, but—”

“Rachel's here. Pretty girl. I'm sure you don't want her to get hurt. I'll tell you what, you come out and join us and we'll talk everything over, see if we can work things out.” There was a hideous parody of reasonableness in his tone. “I'll count to five. If you don't come—”

Rachel stumbled forward, almost fell as he let go of her.

“—she'll die. Take a look, Cole. I've got a gun and—”

Rachel felt the hard prod of metal against the back of her neck.

“—I'm ready to squeeze the trigger. I'll count to five, Cole. If you don't come out by the time I get to five…”

Rachel tried to speak. “No…” The strangled sound was lost in the crackle of the spartina grass and the rustle of the cane. Cole mustn't come. He couldn't save her. No one could save her. If Cole could get away…
What if she whirled and ran…But the gun hurt her neck. There wouldn't be time.

He shouted the words in a deep, harsh voice. “One…two…three…”

 

Annie drove with one hand, held her cell with the other. Only a few more blocks. It wasn't far. The next turning…“I called Rachel's cell phone and there wasn't any answer.” Her voice quivered.

Max was reassuring. “Don't panic. She may have forgotten to—”

“No. I told you. She called me just a few minutes before I got the message. She'd just gotten out of school. She always keeps her cell on after school. So I can get in touch with her. It's a rule we have.” Tears burned Annie's eyes. That was their rule, a rule in a safe and ordered world, a rule meant to keep Rachel safe. And she hadn't answered!

“We're coming as fast as we can, honey.” Billy's siren wailed over Max's words.

“Oh God. Maybe Billy should turn off the siren. What if Reed's there? What if—”

“Steady,” Max urged. “We don't know for sure that he's the one.”

Annie knew. Ladyfingers. Pop, pop, pop. She leaned forward to glimpse the street sign, slowed. “Max, I'm here.” She swung the wheel hard right, churned up the dusty gray road, wheeled around a curve, noted the modest houses. No cars. This was a working-class neighborhood. People weren't home in the daytime. The very last house, that's what Pudge had told her.

“Annie, wait for us.” It was a direct order.

She loved him, but she had to keep on. “I've got to find Rachel.” She turned off the cell, eased to a crawl. Around this curve…

 

“Let her go and I'll come out.” Cole's echoing voice sounded far away, muffled.

The pressure of the gun against her neck eased.

“Okay, Cole. That's sensible of you.” Relief buoyed Reed's voice. “We'll talk, work things out.”

Rachel knew this was a lie. What could be worked out? Mr. Reed had a gun and he'd threatened her. As long as they were alive, they could tell what he'd done.

“Cole, don't. He'll shoot you, too.” She shouted and tried to twist away.

Hard fingers caught her arm, pulled her back. The muzzle jabbed into her side.

Reed pulled breath deep into his lungs for another harsh shout. “She's not going anywhere until you come out. It's up to you, Cole, whether she lives or dies.”

Rachel felt dizzy. She'd never realized how precious the feel of the hot sun on her skin could be. She wanted to lift her face to the light. But death and darkness pressed against her.

“Four…”

A hinge squeaked. Part of the latticework at the back of the house swung out. Dusty, dirty, trailing spiderwebs, Cole edged out from beneath the house, eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun. He held up one hand to shade his face.

“Mr. Reed, listen, I got an idea.” Cole talked fast. He moved stiffly toward Rachel and her captor.

“Rachel and I can go out in a boat. C'mere, Rachel.”
His face was white as paste. His eyes looked huge. A spiderweb hung down over one ear. He would have looked silly, like a Halloween joke, except for the dreadful understanding in his glance. He knew that Death was there, waiting for them. He gestured toward Rachel, urging her to come toward him.

Rachel took one step, then another away from Reed.

“See, I've got a rowboat”—Cole pointed toward the distant dock that poked out into the Sound—“and we can go for a row while you—” Cole was even with her now. He stepped past her, moved closer to Reed. He was close enough that Rachel could see the spatter of freckles standing out against his dead white face. Cole pointed again toward the Sound. His face suddenly lightened. “Oh, hey, wait a minute. There's Mr. Durrell. See, he's coming—”

Reed jerked to his right, looked toward the marsh. He was a figure of danger and desperation, his face wolflike, his shoulders hunched to do battle. The hand with the gun swerved, too.

Cole's right foot flew up. The kick caught Reed's wrist. The gun went off, the sound enormous in the silence of the summer afternoon. Cole lunged forward, his face desperate and afraid. With the rigid side of one hand, Cole chopped at Reed's neck. The lawyer grunted in pain, wavered on his feet. The gun clattered onto the ground.

Cole yelled, “Run, Rachel.”

Reed clawed at his throat. He took a halting step, then another, toward the gun, which lay near the base of a ragged saw palmetto.

His breathing ragged, air whistling through half-open lips, Cole started after him, his hand lifted to strike again.

Reed twisted and caught Cole's arm, flung him heavily to the ground, then reached down, pulled him to his feet, and heaved him through the air. Cole smacked against the ground, lay still, panting for breath.

Rachel wanted to run. She wanted to escape the dreadful struggle, the harshly drawn breaths, but Cole had come out to save her and she couldn't leave him alone to face this terrible danger. Her eyes fixed on the shiny blue-black metal of the gun, she stumbled forward, grabbed it, and turned to aim at the shambling figure coming toward her, face twisted in anger, hands outstretched.

Car brakes squealed. A door slammed. “Rachel!” Annie's agonized cry rose in the bright afternoon.

Rachel backed away as Reed came nearer and nearer. She held the gun straight, the barrel pointed at Reed's chest. She had to shoot. She must. He was close now, only a few feet away. If he got the gun…Rachel whirled, using every ounce of strength, and threw the gun in a high arc toward the marsh.

Reed's scream of anger was as vicious as a blow, harsher than the sirens shrilling nearer and nearer. Dust plumed beneath their wheels as two police cars roared down the street and bucked across the dusty yard. Doors opened and officers jumped out, service revolvers in hand.

Reed broke into a heavy-footed run.

The shout blared over a bullhorn. “Police. Halt. You're under arrest.”

Reed was almost to the marsh when a swift Lou Pirelli came up from behind and slammed him to the ground. “Got him, Chief.” The lawyer lay facedown in the gray dirt. Lou knelt, manacled his captive's hands behind him, jerked him to his feet.

Annie closed her arms around Rachel and Cole. Max gathered them all into a tight embrace.

Rachel twisted to watch as Lou escorted Reed to the police car. “He was going to kill us.” Her voice wavered, high and thin and breathless. “But Cole came right up to him and karate-kicked the gun out of his hand and that's the only reason he didn't shoot us.” She looked at Cole's pale face and dark eyes so near her own. “You saved my life.”

Cole took a deep breath. “And you saved mine.”

H
ENNY
B
RAWLEY BEAMED
at the assembled guests. She was a regal figure atop the temporary wooden stage, a rhinestone tiara perched on her silvered chignon. A loop of her long red chiffon dress was draped over one arm. Matching rhinestone buckles glistened on white pumps. She might have been at the opera or a music hall. Annie was thrilled that Henny was playing her role so magnificently. Only Henny could carry off such a dramatic costume at a watermelon feast on a sweltering August afternoon. They'd sent invitations, of course, to everyone who had attended the mystery cruise.

The boardwalk by the marina was jammed. An accordion, tuba, and trombone oompahed the “Tic-Toc Polka.” The summery crowd flowed in and out of Death on Demand. Many of the customers clutched newly purchased books. Children played hide-and-seek near a huge oak tree. Teenagers spit watermelon seeds in a distance contest. A cocker spaniel danced at the end of its leash, yapping at a schnauzer. The schnauzer's lips drew back in a ferocious growl.

Henny held up a garish costume jewelry necklace of shiny green stones. “Here are the fruits of the theft. As all of you on last Sunday's cruise will remember…”

Pamela Potts looked up happily at Annie. A bright orange tam hid most of the discreet white bandage on the back of her head. “I loved the little play!” Pamela was still pale, but her eyes sparkled from the warm reception she'd received. She was abashed to be the center of attention, but basking in her welcome from friends and well-wishers.

Annie patted Pamela's shoulder. “Thanks, Pamela. I didn't know you would remember.”

“Oh yes.” Pamela's eyes glowed. “I remember the play. Annie, it was so clever. And Henny's narration was wonderful. First she described the crime scene, an antebellum tabby house with double verandahs, Ionic columns on the first floor, Doric on the second—”

Annie didn't listen closely. After all, she knew the play. She'd written it! Her shopkeeper's eyes scanned the throng on the boardwalk. Whoopdedoo, the turnout had surpassed her most hopeful expectations. She grinned. A red-faced and beaming Duane Webb stood just outside Death on Demand, waving his straw boater in a pitch-perfect imitation of a carnival barker: “Step right in, ladies and gentlemen, books for every taste. Come right in and get your armchair passage to Zanzibar, St. Mary Mead, Istanbul, every destination guaranteed.”

Pamela waved a hand at the live oaks on the terrace. “…a country house with live oaks and azaleas. It's springtime and the yucca and magnolias and daylilies are blooming. Wildlife abounds, otters and turtles and raccoons and possums….”

Annie and Pamela applauded as Henny introduced the cast members one by one. “…Wanda Wintersmith, mistress of Mudhen Manor. Wanda is dressing for a dinner dance. When she emerges from her bath, she finds that
the famous Green Fire necklace of matched emeralds has disappeared from the dresser in her bedroom. Present at the antebellum mansion that evening are her husband, Walter, niece, Periwinkle Patton, nephew, Augustus Abernathy, and two guests, Heather Hayworthy, an aspiring actress much admired by Walter Wintersmith, and Moose Mountebank, a handsome young man who has been attentive to Wanda.” As each name was called, the player crossed the stage to thunderous applause.

Pamela clapped enthusiastically. “And such wonderful motives! Mrs. Wintersmith is mad at her husband because he's having an affair with Heather. Mr. Wintersmith needs money because Heather is a gold-digger. Heather's told everyone how great she would look in the emeralds. Periwinkle wants to escape to the isle of Capri and write the great American novel but her aunt won't give her any money. Augustus has embezzled from his bank and the auditors are coming next week. Moose told Heather maybe they should run away together, but neither one has a bean.”

Annie's gaze moved on to a picnic table only a few feet from the stage. Her eyes misted. She swiped with an impatient hand. Now was no time to be emotional. Pamela Potts's arrival had brought forth cheers, and the watermelon feast to conclude the interrupted mystery cruise was a resounding success. But Annie was too near the trauma of Rachel and Cole's near rendezvous with death to be cavalier when she looked at those she loved. Once again thankfulness swept her. They had been a quiet and reflective but joyful group when they gathered for hamburgers Friday night. Cole had been recognized as their hero. But Rachel's rescuer had been somber, still shaken by Wayne Reed's arrest and the heartbreak for Stuart Reed. Cole had taken some comfort from knowing
that Stuart had left the island, gone to join his mother. But right now they were all here, everyone who mattered to Annie, gathered happily at the picnic table. They were here and they were safe—Max and Rachel and Laurel and Pudge, along with Sylvia Crandall and Cole. A grinning Cole, carrying two plates loaded with watermelon slices, held one just out of Rachel's reach. His mother, shoulder to shoulder with Pudge, called out, “Don't tease, Cole.” Rachel whooped and grabbed Cole's baseball cap and backpedaled. “Catch me if you can.”

Catch me if you can…. Annie took a deep breath. They had arrived in Painted Lady Lane with not a minute to spare. If they hadn't sped to the house, if Reed had found that gun in the marsh…But Lou Pirelli caught Reed in time. Now the lawyer was in jail and Annie felt sure he would be convicted. There was so much evidence once they started to look. The accountants had quickly discovered how he had plundered Meg's estate, a bogus sale of the great Mandarin Copper Mine through a dummy company. He'd tried to hide his tracks, setting fire to the storage building with all Duff Heath's business records. He'd told Meg the mine had been sold at a loss. Reed had pocketed almost two million dollars. There was no likelihood of discovery unless the worth of Meg's inheritance came into question.

“…but of course the telling clue was about the raccoon who sat in the live oak tree to listen to Mozart.” Pamela nodded decisively.

Annie jerked toward her, stared at her in amazement.

Pamela was emphatic. “Oh yes, I saw it at once. The emeralds left on the dresser, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open windows to the verandah”—Pamela looked wise—“spring, you know.
There was so much emphasis on the season, I knew it had to be important. Well, you only have open windows in the spring. And then Henny said how the raccoon—Harry, I think he's called—was known to climb up the live oak tree and listen when Mrs. Wintersmith played CDs. That made everything clear, especially since the door from her bedroom into the hall was locked and I doubted her husband had a key since they weren't on very good terms, and how could the others have gained access? Oh it was clear to me right from the start, and so clever of you, Annie, theft by a masked intruder, Harry the raccoon. I wonder who's going to win?” She looked eagerly up at the stage.

Annie knew the answer. She took Pamela by the hand. “Let's go up close to the stage.”

Henny moved to the edge of the stage, microphone in hand. “Despite the brilliant minds of our sleuth passengers, I am amazed to report that no one—”

Annie started up the platform steps. “We have a winner.” She turned, tugged on Pamela's hand. “Right up here, Pamela.”

Henny looked startled. “We didn't have an entry from Pamela.”

Annie reached for the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the mystery of the jewel theft has been solved by Pamela Potts, who told me the correct answer just a moment ago. As most of you know, Pamela was the victim of an attack aboard the
Island Packet
Sunday night and so had no opportunity to submit a formal entry. However, I know all of you will be delighted that Pamela tonight revealed the identity of the jewel thief, and it is”—Annie paused for dramatic effect—“Harry the raccoon, the masked intruder who entered Mrs. Wintersmith's bedroom by
way of the live oak tree and the verandah. Ladies and gentleman, our winner, Miss Pamela Potts.”

Cheers mingled with a few boos. Annie was sure the boos were not directed at Pamela but at Harry as the miscreant. Annie nodded toward Henny.

Henny reached out, shook Pamela's hand. “Pamela, the prize is a hundred-dollar gift certificate to Death on Demand. Congratulations!”

Pamela's face flushed a bright pink. “Oh, Annie, I don't know what to say.”

“Come on, let's go inside. You can start picking out books.” They were stopped a half dozen times as they made their way across the street, and Annie was pushed to defend Harry as the culprit. She was a trifle defensive by the time they reached the coffee bar. “I think Harry was a fair choice.”

Pamela's gaze was serious. “Of course it was fair. After all, no one else was wearing a mask.”

Annie decided not to analyze Pamela's deductive reasoning. There had been quite a few clues to Harry, including the fact that there were no prints on the floor, and all the others would have left prints. Annie was recounting to herself the trail that would have been left by the others for one reason or another—wet feet, shoe polish, bath powder, mulch, sequins, mud—when she realized Pamela was pointing at the paintings.

“I love all these books—
Death at Wentwater Court
by Carola Dunn,
Masquerade
by Walter Satterthwaite,
Death by Misadventure
by Kerry Greenwood,
The Cincinnati Red Stalkings
by Troy Soos, and
Our Man in Washington
by Roy Hoopes.”

“Pamela”—Annie's voice rose in awe—“you are definitely on a roll.”