Something Wicked (9 page)

Of course, she couldn’t help wondering whether there was a connection between the sabotage at the theater and the illness at the Petrees’ party. She’d persuaded Max to see what he could find out, not because she gave a damn about the Petrees, but she still cared about
Arsenic and Old Lace.
She really couldn’t take the time to nose around too much because these were the very best bookselling days, and it was unfair to expect Ingrid to handle the flood of tourists alone. Moreover, there were so many unsettled issues in the planning of the wedding. She flicked a hunted look at the telephone. Still, she itched to be involved.

But she had work to do, and fun work it was, choosing the books to be displayed in the north window. She’d already prepared the background poster:
Died Laughing, or Fifty Years of Funny Mysteries.
The window space lent itself beautifully to a semicircle of five novels. More than that seemed cluttered. Of course, she must include
A Blunt Instrument
by Georgette Heyer. Her mouth curved as she remembered P. C. Glass and his Biblical injunctions. Then she realized she was smiling at the unresponsive form of Edgar, the stuffed raven perched by the front door. Edgar was a wonderful symbol to mystery lovers since his namesake, Edgar Allan Poe, is credited with creating the mystery, but she suspected the somber bird’s personal taste in crime fiction might run more to the terrifying, such as Stanley Ellin’s
The Dark Fantastic
or Jim Thompson’s
The Killer Inside Me.
She gave Edgar’s sleek feathers a swift pat. “I’ll do your kind of book next month.” Eager to fill her display, she hurried down the central aisle and paused to study the caper/comedy shelves.
A Blunt Instrument.
Oh, and of course she would pick
Murder’s Little Sister
by Pamela Branch. Or should she
select Branch’s
The Wooden Overcoat,
with its many moveable corpses? But
Murder’s Little Sister
was so wry, so sardonic, so absolutely marvelous. Annie slipped both titles off the shelf and tucked them under her arm. She spent several long minutes surveying the Constance and Gwenyth Little books. Which one?
The Black Shrouds?
Or maybe
Black Corridors?
Oh, well, she’d come back in a minute. She reached the T’s and nodded decisively. A Leonidas Witherall mystery was a must. Annie adored the erudite sleuth, who could compare the final rousting of a murderer to Cannae, a famous battle in 216
B.C
. in which Hannibal defeated a superior Roman force. Witherall looked like Shakespeare and was the delightful creation of Phoebe Atwood Taylor writing as Alice Tilton. After considerable thought, she settled on
File For Record.
Her eyes moved up. Oh, yes. A Craig Rice. She retrieved
Home Sweet Homicide,
or the kiddie brigade to the rescue. Her hand darted out unerringly for
God Save the Mark,
Donald E. Westlake’s hilarious recounting of the saga of Fred Fitch, the quintessential sucker. Or should she choose
Dancing Aztecs?
Maybe she could cheat, put one behind the other and count it as a single entry. Oh, dear, she knew this would happen. She couldn’t leave out Joyce Porter and her gluttonous Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover. And how about those fresh funny voices belonging to Joan Hess, Bill Crider, and Frank McConnell? She picked out more titles and carried her treasures to the front desk. She had the best of intentions to winnow, but, before she knew it, in between ringing up purchases, she was deep in the adventures of Leonidas Witherall, aka Bill Shakespeare, as he struggled to compose a letter about a lost-and-found department, French bread, and laundry hampers to his friend, Ross Haymaker.

The phone rang, and she reached out absently to answer.

“Death on Demand.”

“Oooh,” the golden voice cried. “Such a
grim
name, when the world needs Love on Demand. Oh, no, no, that doesn’t have quite the right ring. Perhaps”—a pause for thought, then a triumphant pronouncement—“Oh, yes, I have it. Love Forevermore.”

Annie strove for patience and forbearance, those saintly qualities. “This is a mystery store, Laurel.”

“But love
is
a mystery, my dear.”

Annie knew just how Doc Cummings often felt in the Asey Mayo books: speechless.

Laurel burbled ahead. “Max tells me you are adamant about the red wedding gown.” There was the tiniest upward inflection to wedding gown.

“Yes. Yes. Definitely yes.” Then Annie wondered wildly if she should have been shouting
No.

“Your dressmaker—did I tell you I’ve been talking to her? Dear Mrs. Crabtree.
She
thinks red might be an enchanting theme color. We could special-order those glorious tulips from Holland. Of course, there’s always the difficulty of season, but in hothouses—”

“Not red.”

“How succinct you are, darling. It must come from all your reading. Oh, well”—Laurel was never one to beat a dead horse—“there are so many ways we can proclaim our love for mankind while we prepare for the ceremony. There is so much
unity
to be achieved. And I want you to take very good care of yourself.”

Was it a non sequitur?

“Yes, we definitely want to pamper you as much as we can.”

Annie waited with growing apprehension.

“Every society has its customs.”

Here it comes. Annie’s knuckles whitened on the receiver.

“In Morocco, the bride enjoys a ceremonial bath five days before the ceremony. Her friends adorn her with makeup and jewels”—a pause, then in a hopeful flood—“and help her paint henna swirls on her hands and feet.”

“Laurel, I know you mean well.” The words almost stuck in her throat, but Annie forced them out. “I mean, I really know you do. But I’m not going to—”

“They wouldn’t show,” Laurel said plaintively.

The front doorbell jangled. Annie would have welcomed Count Dracula. However, her eyes widened as she saw her visitor.

“A customer, Laurel. Sorry. Have to go. A customer.” She banged the receiver down.

A remarkable vision stood before her: flyaway white hair,
a shapeless quilted brown raincoat (she must be sweltering), and a quite astounding bird’s-nest hat. Yes, that hat could easily hold eight forged passports.

“It’s definitely an inside job.” Henny Brawley’s version of a New Jersey accent was interesting. “I’ve interviewed the caterer and three of his assistants. No one could have tampered with the champagne. Now, the ginger ale is another matter entirely.”

Annie couldn’t resist teasing just a little bit. “What’s an inside job?” she asked blankly.

“Annie.” Patient forbearance. “I
assumed
you kept abreast of events. It was
ipecac
in the punch, of course.”

This startled Annie into an exclamation. “No kidding!”

Henny ignored this sleuthing gaucherie. “It was
obvious
to me right from the moment. Of course, I confirmed it with Chief Saulter this morning. Now,” and her voice dropped, “here’s the important point. The only persons who could have tampered with the champagne, fruit juices, and lime sherbet were the caterer and his two assistants.
They
have no motive. However, the ginger ale was taken from a store in the pantry. Therefore, the ipecac was in the ginger ale. Now, the Petree house is well-equipped with burglar alarms, there is a live-in butler, and there is no indication that anyone other than a member of the household had access to the pantry. You see,” she said chirpily, “where
that
inescapably leads.” A brisk throat-clearing. “There’s no doubt about it—that punch was poisoned by either Sheridan or Shane. And,” Henny concluded inelegantly, “I’ll put
my
money on Shane.”

She might be masquerading as Emily Pollifax today, but she was still Henny Brawley with a bee in her bonnet.

“Well,” Annie temporized, “there must have been more than three hundred people there last night.”

“The facts, Annie. The facts.” A touch of
Dragnet
here?

“Oh, sure, Henny. The facts, by all means.”

Henny nodded briskly in approval, and the massive hat wobbled precariously. “I’ll keep in touch. And don’t worry about me. Brown belt, you know.” The doorbell sang as she departed.

Definitely Mrs. Pollifax, taking some time off from her new geranium greenhouse.

Seven customers later (Elmore Leonard’s latest was hot, hot, hot), she waved a welcome to Max and Ingrid, who sauntered in together.

Relinquishing the cash desk to Ingrid, Annie led Max to the back and poured steaming coffee into two mugs.
(The Crooked Hinge
and
Love Lies Bleeding.)
She handed the latter to him.

He studied the red script for a moment, then murmured, “Sulking doesn’t become you.”

“Just kidding.”

He didn’t pursue it. Grinning, he straddled a wooden stool. “I come bearing news.”

“Ipecac,” she replied.

She took pity on his amazement.

“Not witchcraft, Max. Henny Brawley.”

“Oh. Well, if you already know everything, I could have had a jollier morning drinking beer at Parotti’s Bait Shop and Bar, or continuing my scientific study of the reduction in area covered by this year’s swimsuits. Purely from the standpoint of style. More as a divination of manners and mores than—”

“Sulking doesn’t become you,” she interrupted.

“So okay, tell
me
what happened.”

“According to Henny, it’s an inside job, and she’s convinced it was Shane.”

“Chief Saulter will be intrigued by that suggestion. The last I heard, Sheridan was breathing fire and threatening to call every senator she knows if Saulter didn’t fingerprint all the bottles, then send them for chemical analysis. He keeps trying to explain that it doesn’t matter a damn what bottle they do or don’t find the stuff in, there were three hundred and seventy-two people at that party last night and any one of them could have dumped ipecac in the punch.”

Could they?

“Sure, it was a mob scene,” Annie agreed doubtfully, “but wouldn’t it have taken a lot of guts for a guest to pour anything into the punch? Nobody would notice a waiter, but the other seems definitely chancy. Beside, Henny says the ipecac was in the ginger ale and only the Petrees or one of the help had access to it.” She put her coffee down untasted.
“Max! Maybe Henny’s on to something. Neither Sheridan nor Shane got sick!”

He shrugged that away. “So neither one of them drinks purple passion punch. Does that surprise you?”

“Oh. I guess not.”

“And if that’s your criteria, Janet Horton can be crossed off the suspect list. She was ‘sick as a dawg,’ as T.K. described it.”

“Have you talked to everybody this morning?”

“If by ‘everybody’ you mean our friends and compatriots in the theater, yes. And Janet was the only one who got sick.”

“Hmm.” Annie relished her coffee. Its taste was absolutely unambiguous. As for Janet, she couldn’t be cleared merely because she’d drunk the punch. It could be like
Crooked House.

Feeling like a hound distracted by false scents, she returned to the central point. “But, look, if Henny’s right about the ginger ale—”

Max shook his head irritably. “Creative deduction on her part. Saulter doesn’t have any idea where the ipecac came from.”

Annie thought back to Henny’s revelations. Maybe it was inductive reasoning on the order of: Shane did it, he couldn’t have monkeyed with the ingredients supplied by the caterer, ergo, the ipecac was in the ginger ale.

“Here are the known facts.” Max ticked them off. “Sheridan added champagne to the punch at nine-thirty, tasted it herself—and didn’t get sick. Ipecac works within minutes of ingestion. The first party-goer bit the dust shortly before ten. Therefore, the ipecac went in the punch a few minutes before ten.”

“I wonder if any of our people were near the punch bowl during that period,” Annie said thoughtfully.

“Sure,” he said cheerfully.

“Did you tell the chief about the problems with the play?”

“Yeah. He’s not terribly impressed. Says it could be. But he says it also could be a nut, somebody who doesn’t like the Petrees, maybe a disgruntled caterer. Maybe the butler. Who knows?”

Annie refilled his coffee mug. “Max, had I told you? Everything’s dandy with
The Mousetrap.
I talked to Emma Clyde, and she said they haven’t had any problems at all. So it looks like the animus is directed at
Arsenic.”

“I’d say the animus was spread pretty wide last night,” he objected.

“Maybe the circle of sabotage is widening,” Annie suggested.

“If the ipecac is connected to the other stuff.”

“How many creepy-crawlies do you think the island holds?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we ask Henny?”

“She busy tailing Shane at this very moment, no doubt.”

“I think we can safely leave the search for clues to her and the chief.” Max settled against the coffee bar.

“Sometimes, I fear that I detect a tinge of laziness in your manner. You promised that we’d keep looking for the saboteur.” She cradled the mug in her hands and looked at him meaningfully. “After all, the owner of Confidential Commissions, an investigative organization that claims the ability to sniff out the answers to any and all troubling, difficult, or nefarious situations, surely can be counted upon to do his civic duty.”

Max studied her with concern. “Have you been talking to Laurel this morning?” When she took an extremely deep breath, he held up both hands. “That’s all right. That’s fine. You needn’t answer. I’ll do anything you wish—almost.” He gave a good-humored shrug. “Off to sleuth I go. And I do have an idea.”

He waited for an appropriate response. He got it.

“Oh, good. What?”

“I’m going to see if I can find any kind of connection, beyond the obvious, between Harley and our cast and crew.”

So Max still believed Harley was behind all the problems. Well, that could be. As he left for Confidential Commissions and an afternoon on the telephone, Annie waved him a thoughtful good-bye. She drank her coffee and brooded.

She was convinced that the unpleasant incidents were aimed at torpedoing the players’ season and preventing the rebuilding of the theater at the harbor, but there were some
puzzling questions. She found a pad, this one with the logo (a bright green toad mouthing
TODAL PROTECTION
) of the T.K. Horton Insurance Agency, and made a list of questions: