White Elephant Dead (11 page)

Max dialed home, Death on Demand and Annie’s cell phone. No answer. He frowned. What could be taking her so long? It was almost ten. Certainly it should have been the work of a minute to drop the album in Kathryn’s apartment. He dialed the house again, left a message.

Annie flung the straw hat onto the kitchen counter, plucked off the sunglasses and gardening gloves and slid them into the miscellaneous drawer. She glanced at the clock as she trudged across the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator. Ten o’clock. How could it be only ten o’clock? Way back there in the dark ages, rather like a weary dowager in a Leonidas Witherall escapade by Alice Tilton (Phoebe Atwood Taylor), she had headed out to see Max at Confidential Commissions, en route to the Women’s Club. And Emma, who had all the charm of a coral snake, was no doubt wondering where the hell Annie was. Instead of following her plan, she’d returned home, changed clothes and grabbed the album as per Max’s suggestion. What she had packed into a mere hour since surely deserved commemoration, something on the order of a bronze medal with a motif celebrating endurance, courage and steadfastness.

She opened the refrigerator.

Dorothy L. rubbed against her ankle, purred and lifted an enchanting white face, shining blue eyes assessing the possibilities.

Annie picked up the cream pitcher, poured a bit in a
saucer. Withstanding pressure of any sort was simply not to be expected at this point. Back at the refrigerator, she sought the magic potion. Chocolate-covered strawberries? Her hand hovered near the bowl. Covered with cream whipped until it was almost like butter? When Max warned about cholesterol, Annie pointed out smugly that Agatha Christie lived to be eighty-five, imbibing clotted cream at every opportunity. Clotted cream was the result of leaving cream at room temperature for several hours, then beating it vigorously. Room temperature in September in the Low Country was not an option. The nearest Annie could get to the British clotted cream was her buttery version and it was almost as good. Annie’s hand closed on the beautiful brown bottle of chocolate syrup. Zero fat grams. Annie walked to the silverware drawer, got a tablespoon and poured. She carried the syrup and spoon to the telephone answering machine, which was blinking faster than Barbara Jaye Wilson’s milliner sleuth Brenda Midnight whipping out a summer hat design.

Annie punched the button and leaned against the counter.

“Dear Annie. Just a quick report.” Laurel’s husky voice burbled with enthusiasm. “I’ve made so many new friends this morning. Actually, I’ve been offered everything from guava juice to a ginseng drink. So interesting what people enjoy. And there is such a nice gentleman—Fred Jeffries—who lives just a block from Marsh Tacky Road. Reminded me of that handsome writer you had at the store once, Walter Satterthwaite, dark hair and an interesting face. He’s a widower—Fred, not Mr. Satterthwaite—and he just loves to tootle about in his yacht. He’s invited me—oh well, that’s neither here nor there. Though once our dear Henny is quite safe and well, I may be there, wherever there may be—”

Annie poured another tablespoon of syrup.

“—but that’s what makes life so fascinating. I could not miss the significance of the quince tree near his patio. Temptation! Doesn’t that sum up life so beautifully? But tempered
by a marvelous profusion of jasmine. Amiability is such an admirable quality, especially, I should think, on an extended cruise to—wherever.”

Annie licked the spoon. She was contemplating punching the erase button and sending this particular message to—wherever.

“Dear Fred braves the elements.” She might have reported the successful completion of a polar trek in equal tones of admiration. “On one voyage to Zanzibar, he and his parrot Alexander plunged right through a typhoon.”

Annie wandered back to the refrigerator to return the chocolate syrup. She studied the milk. Whole or skim? Her hand closed on the skim, and she savored the smug satisfaction of self-denial. As for Fred, Annie hoped Laurel might have serious reservations about taking a voyage with a man who confronted typhoons, no matter how much vigor he exuded. Annie poured the milk.

“So, of course,” Laurel said briskly, “the storm Thursday afternoon was no hindrance to Fred. At five-thirty, he was on his way to the club for a drink, driving west on Laughing Gull.”

Annie sipped the milk, but the mention of Laughing Gull got her attention.

“The blue van passed him going east. Unfortunately, it was raining so heavily, he couldn’t see the driver. He didn’t see Henny’s Dodge. That’s all for now. I shall report anon.” A delicate pause. “Fred is quite interested in learning more about the language of flowers and he’s going to accompany me. I know that sharing with Fred is going to be such a pleasure. Not, of course”—the disclaimer was hasty—“that I shall forget the purpose of my peregrinations.”

Of course not, Annie thought, sipping the milk.

The second message was short and crisp.

“Annie, I do expect a report.” Miss Dora was too ladylike to snarl. “Have you spoken yet to Adelaide and Edith?”

Annie glanced at the clock. Late afternoon in Sienna. Maybe she should bring Miss Dora up to date, but she’d listen
to the rest of the messages first. The sweet comfort of the chocolate was ebbing. There was so much to do and here she stood in her kitchen. Too bad you couldn’t fast-forward messages and get the gist even if it made callers sound like Donald Duck. But there might be something important.

The third message made her smile.

“Thumbs-up. I’m sure you pulled off your end. Barb and I are compiling information faster than Agatha swiping a canapé.” At a bookstore open house during the summer, Agatha nudged the plate with shrimp to the floor. She had made an interesting sight with shrimp in her mouth and cocktail sauce on her whiskers. “How about lunch at Parotti’s? Garrett’s well intentioned but the likelihood of his scouring out any hard info on Kathryn’s activities is nil. It’s up to us. I know we have a good guard system for Henny, but every time I think about last night and that gun, I get worried for her. I’ll count on seeing you at one unless I hear otherwise.”

The final message put her in motion.

“You’re late.” Emma’s dry, cold voice was unemphatic, but Annie felt guilt piling on her shoulders. She needed to learn how to shed pressure with the insouciance of John Mortimer’s Horace Rumpole, who never let She Who Must Be Obeyed get him down. But Rumpole’s Hilda was a cream puff compared to Emma.

“I shall assume you have made
some
progress, which you will report upon your arrival here. Henny is doing well, though this is being kept secret. Pamela Potts is bringing her report. I believe it will open up several avenues of inquiry. I have consulted with Chief Garrett and arranged for you to sign for the club van. An officer will drive it to the club. Every item in that van must be checked. That may be our best lead to Kathryn’s stops last night—”

Annie was almost to the door, ready to jump in her Volvo. Emma wouldn’t be so damn patronizing when Annie showed up with a complete list of Kathryn’s route.

“—and I expect to see you shortly.”

Every road leads to another on an island, so Annie didn’t feel that it was really out of the way to scoot by the harbor and Death on Demand. So Emma expected her at the Women’s Club pronto. Well, Henny was stuck in the hospital and Annie knew how to improve that convalescence. Annie almost poked her head into Confidential Commissions, but the memory of Emma’s cold voice spurred her directly to Death on Demand. As always, she loved the boardwalk that curved on one side of the harbor. In late afternoon, sunlight bleached the boards, but this morning it was pleasantly cool and shady. The Broward’s Rock marina berthed every kind of boat from oceangoing yachts to Zodiac rafts. The water shone like polished jade and beyond the mouth of the harbor a pair of porpoises arched above the surface, sleek and graceful. A man in brief white shorts, his skin as dark as mahogany, patiently scraped the side of his boat. Music drifted from the nearest yacht, the cerebral guitar of Andres Segovia. A crimson and cobalt parrot perched on an awning of a deep-sea charter boat, the
Merry Maguffin
. The parrot screeched and it sounded very much to Annie as though he were commanding, “Hurry, dolt, hurry.”

Dammit, she was going as fast as she could. As she passed the Death on Demand window, she scanned her September display. New titles by perennial favorites Anne Perry, Lawrence Block, Nancy Pickard and Diane Mott Davidson. She stepped inside and was greeted by piteous cries announcing cat abandonment and advanced starvation with an underlying threat of imminent application to the Cat SPCA. Annie looked up. Glittering eyes glowed beside the glassy gaze of Edgar, the stuffed raven. The raven occupied a small niche above a glass-encased display of recently acquired collectibles. A very small niche. Agatha’s shiny black fur was indistinguishable, so close was the fit, from the stuffed bird’s glossy feathers.

“Agatha.” Annie spoke pleasantly, confident she was exhibiting the spirit of sweet reasonableness. “You know In
grid’s already fed you.” Annie waved good morning to Ingrid, who was not only chief clerk, but friend, mainstay and fellow mystery lover. Ingrid and her husband Duane loved vacationing in New Orleans and always brought back a trunk full of secondhand mysteries. Their latest prize was a first British edition of Ngaio Marsh’s
Artists in Crime
, the book that introduced painter Agatha Troy, who would become the love of Roderick Alleyn’s life.

Ingrid was arranging a display of first appearances of very famous sleuths: Albert Campion in
The Black Dudley Murders
by Margery Allingham, Joe Leaphorn in
The Blessing Way
by Tony Hillerman, Faith Fairchild in
The Body in the Belfry
by Katherine Hall Page, Charlotte Pitt in
The Cater Street Hangman
by Anne Perry, Deborah Knott in
Bootlegger’s Daughter
by Margaret Maron, Amanda Pepper in
Caught Dead in Philadelphia
by Gillian Roberts, and Susan Henshaw in
Murder at the PTA Luncheon
by Valerie Wolzien.

“Agatha has eaten.” Ingrid didn’t quite speak through gritted teeth, but there was a definite sense of strain.

Agatha lurched. The raven wobbled.

Annie leaped forward, hands outstretched.

Edgar’s base—was it ironwood or basalt?—crashed into the display case, shattering the glass.

Annie swerved to avoid gashing an artery. She could see the headlines:
AGATHA GUILTY OF ASSAULT
or
SHOPKEEPER SAYS CAT DID IT
.

Annie stepped gingerly around the shards of glass. “Oh Agatha.” The plastic-sheathed first editions were okay—
Motor City Blue
by Loren D. Estleman,
The Thin Man
by Dashiell Hammett,
Death in Zanzibar
by M. M. Kaye and
Beast in View
by Margaret Millar—but an elegant and highly decorated hat created and signed by Jeanne Dams was dented beyond repair.

An unrepentant Agatha waited impatiently in the center aisle, her whipping tail a clear signal that she wanted more food and she wanted it now. Annie followed the whipping
tail down the aisle to the coffee bar. Behind her, she heard Ingrid sweeping up the broken glass.

Annie poured out more dry diet food. Agatha hunkered over the dish. Annie wished there were a fat-free delicacy for cats. She gingerly gave Agatha a pat, yanked back her hand and hurried to the cash desk. She grabbed Henny’s books.

“Ingrid, watch out for her incisors.” There was no need to identify the possessor of incisors.

Ingrid added Miss Silver in the
Grey Mask
by Patricia Wentworth to the table. “Annie, Lillian Jackson Braun’s cats are charming.”

If there was a ready answer, Annie didn’t have it. On her way out, she hesitated, then added the M. M. Kaye title to the sack. Henny would get a kick out of that and the book was a recent acquisition which Henny hadn’t seen.

As Annie hurried to the parking area, she found herself slipping into a trot and trying not to feel overwhelmed. Usually the waves rolling into Broward’s Rock were gentle and low. Occasionally, before a storm, in hurricane weather, the waves crested at six or seven feet, sometimes ten feet. Annie felt like she was standing on slipping sand staring up at a huge breaker, the hospital, the list, Emma awaiting her arrival, Edith Cummings, Adelaide Prescott, and, now, the van. And that damn parrot calling her a dolt. She flung herself into her car, started the motor so quickly it made a worrisome grinding noise. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she had very good intentions. She truly planned to drive straight to the hospital. She opened the sunroof and headed for Sand Dollar Road.

T
he phone number of Confidential Commissions registered Unavailable on call recipients’ caller ID. Max congratulated himself upon his foresight in ordering that designation. He’d done it at the start of the summer on one of those dogs days when he practiced his putting on the indoor green and Barb surfed the net, reporting that an Edgar Allan Poe Web site had the scariest illustrations of a whirlpool she’d ever seen and he
had
to stop putting and read
A Descent into the Maelstrom
immediately. Max read it, suggested Barb return to cooking as her hobby and called the phone company. After all, he was confident that someday they would once again have a need for sub rosa investigation and, voilà!, the day was at hand.

Max glanced at a name and number procured by Barb from a reporter on the San Miguel de Allende daily newspaper. He punched the numbers. Buzzes, pops and faraway voices were followed by a melodic, “
Bueno
.”

“Hello. I’m calling for John Murphy.”

“
Un momento, por favor
.”

Max waited patiently.

Finally the line clicked. “Hello. John here.” The voice was as smooth and rich and unsettling as she-crab soup with a dash of unexpected cayenne.

“Mr. Murphy, I’m Sturdivant Whist, a freelance writer doing a piece on Miriam Gardner for a new pop magazine out here in L.A.,
Life at the Top
.” Max doodled on his legal pad, sketching a palm tree and a smiling mouth with huge teeth. “She told me you could give me a picture of her life there in San Miguel de Allende.”

“Marvelous woman.” The drawl was pronounced. Max pictured a rotund man with a puffy face, small, mean eyes, and thick lips. “I’m a little surprised she told you to call me. But I guess I am the man about town down here.” Satisfaction burbled in his voice. “Actually, I’d like to know a lot more about her. Maybe you could send me a copy of your story—”

“I’ll send you a clip.” Max drew a paper clip.

“—because she’s kind of a woman of mystery. But she’s made a place for herself in the community, helps with good causes and gives lots of parties. Of course, we often miss her. She’s gone for two or three weeks out of the month, says she has to see to business interests in the States. I think her family was in the import-export business. But she’s never really said.”

“I’m interested in her house there….”

“Beautiful, just beautiful. Huge house. On a bluff overlooking the town. Olympic-size pool. Previous owner even had a jai alai court. One night I was up there at a party—”

Max rippled a string of dollar signs across the page.

“—and stood out on her terrace and watched the lights come on down in the valley. Great view.”

“And how is she perceived among the Americans there?” Max sketched a treasure chest piled high with coins.

“Oh, she fits right in. Except she doesn’t have a lot to say. She’s a good listener. But she seems to like it here. She
always looks”—there was a considering pause—“pleased. Like a cat on a velvet cushion.”

Max drew a thousand-dollar bill and another and another. “Oh, that’s great, Mr. Murphy. Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.” Max put down the phone and reached for his legal pad. He studied Annie’s list of the houses Kathryn had written on the note card and their owners. His eyes rested on one oh-so-familiar name, Vince Ellis, the redheaded, ebullient, energetic owner and editor of the
Island Gazette
. A longtime friend. A man Max wouldn’t have hesitated to contact with questions about any island event.

How do you ask an old friend if he was being blackmailed?

Sea air swept through the sunroof as the road curved along the Sound. Yellowing cordgrass rippled in a gentle breeze. Fiddler crabs scurried on a brown bank. A dazzling white plumed egret crooked its neck to poke a long yellow beak near the water, looking for crabs or snails or small fish. Annie loved the pungent marsh smell, a combination of salt water, spartina grass, decay and sulfur. To her right, glimpsed through the groves of loblolly pines, spread the rolling links of the Island Hills Country Club golf course. Many of the island’s most expensive homes backed onto the course.

Annie saw the sign, hesitated, then sharply swung the wheel, screeching into Laughing Gull Road. As she turned, she wondered if this had been Henny’s route last night. But Henny could well have turned left onto Red-Tailed Hawk, planning to turn right on Laughing Gull. The same was true of Kathryn Girard. Either route made sense because Kathryn planned, of course, to return to Sand Dollar for the drive back to the gate.

Annie knew that Sea Oats Circle was near. Thick forests of pines intermingled with clumps of homes. She passed White Ibis Inlet, Lady Crab Lane, then turned left onto Sea Oats Circle. Number 22 was an attractive two-story red brick
with white wood, green shutters and ivy. Banks of azaleas would be glorious in the spring. Two huge magnolias glistened in the sun. A couple of bikes rested in a wooden stand. A battered old VW sported a Braves pennant on the radio aerial. White organdy curtains hung at open windows, and honeysuckle climbed a trellis at the end of the front porch. Annie had been to guild meetings with Ruth Yates bustling happily between the kitchen and living room, freshening guests’ coffee or tea, serving candied fruitcake in the winter, fresh peach cobbler in the summer. Ruth was in her late forties with faded gray eyes that looked anxiously out of a thin face. Hearty, bearishly built Brian Yates played pickup basketball at The Haven, the center for the island’s disadvantaged kids, managed to remind his well-to-do flock that earthly success is temporal without offending any of them, and wielded a mean hammer at Habitat for Humanity building sessions.

How could this serene house be on Kathryn Girard’s list?

Annie turned at the end of the block. These were nice houses but modest by island standards. How could either of the Yateses afford blackmail? Not, of course, that blackmail was something worked out in a budget.

Back on Laughing Gull, Annie spotted a long log-shaped form in the water hazard on thirteen, negotiated a humped bridge over a broad canal and watched the street signs. She turned right on Porpoise Place. Number 8 was three stories, an Italianate villa scarcely visible through a thick screen of pines. A small wooden sign announced
SERVICE ENTRANCE
about twenty feet before the main drive. Kathryn’s stash of ninety thousand would be small potatoes at this residence.

Annie craned to see as she slowly drove past. A bunch of cars were in the front drive. The Pierces often entertained houseguests. Annie was a bit fuzzy on what David Pierce did but he had a private plane that took him to his Atlanta office. And he had offices in New York, Houston and London. Something about satellite communications. He was short, slim, dapper and intense. As for Janet Pierce—a head
taller with gorgeous ash-blond hair and brilliantly green eyes and a model’s figure—Annie had once heard someone describe Janet as a trophy wife. But the Pierces didn’t quite fit that glib assessment. Dave was a widower. Janet had, indeed, been a part of his corporate life, but once when someone complimented her, Annie thought a little snidely, on the grandness of the Pierce home, she’d said bitterly, “Dave won’t move. Because
she
chose it.” Then she’d swirled back onto the court and played with barely restrained violence. Trophy wives aren’t jealous of a dead mate.

A green Porsche bolted out of the drive, cutting in front of Annie. As the Porsche roared past, long blond hair swirled from beneath a pink straw hat with a blue ribbon. A white hand had lifted in greeting.

Annie waved back. Janet always drove fast.

Annie took two wrong turns, but finally discovered Mockingbird Lane, a squiggly offshoot from Mourning Dove Court. The Campbell house was a two-story Tudor that rambled with L’s and wings and turrets. All it lacked was a rope ladder dangling from the east turret and a moat. Annie had worked with Marie Campbell on a clothing drive to benefit The Haven. Marie had worked swiftly, cataloging, discarding, talking all the while, a passionate discourse on preventing tourists from feeding the dolphins (“…just criminal. It teaches them to depend on people. We have no right…”), her dark eyes flashing and her finely boned face flushed. Her husband Gary was tall and thin and very quiet. At parties, he stayed close to her side, carefully observing everyone who approached her, not quite truculent, not quite hostile. Annie was never certain whether he displayed doglike devotion or the dog’s instinctive wariness of interlopers. This morning a small figure knelt beside a bed of petunias, energetically weeding.

Annie picked up speed as Marie looked toward the street. Just past the house, Annie realized that Mockingbird was a dead end. Making the turn, she retraced her path.
Marie stood by the bed, trowel in hand, gloved hand shading her eyes.

So far as Annie knew, she owned the only red Volvo on the island. So much for a quiet survey of Kathryn’s addresses. Annie waved.

The trowel flashed in the sun.

The last house—or the first, if Kathryn came the other way around—had once been a home where she and Max were familiar guests. How many times had she and Max stood on the second-floor balcony of the Ellis house and looked down at a sparkling pool. She and Max had known Vince and his wife, Arlene, since those scary early days on the island when Annie was suspected of murdering an obnoxious mystery writer. Vince put out a superb small-town newspaper and knew everybody and everything that happened on Broward’s Rock. The house was unpretentious but nice, a two-story, rambling colonial surrounded by magnificent roses, white, crimson, yellow and pink, a profusion of loveliness. Vince no longer was a genial host, flipping hamburgers, teasing guests, planning party games. Not since the death of his wife.

Four houses. The homes of people she knew. Last night when a blue van stopped at one of these houses, Kathryn Girard died. Who drove the van to Marsh Tacky Road?

The
Island Gazette
newsroom consisted of three desks with computers. Ace reporter Marian Kenyon covered news; an ebullient retiree from the
Atlanta Constitution
, Eddie Abel, covered sports; and Ginger Harris, sweet-faced, seventyish, sharp-eyed, did everything else, from Life Style to obituaries to gardening to financial news. Ginger had come out of retirement after Arlene Ellis’s death to take her place in the newsroom. Beyond the desk, a door led to Vince’s office.

When Max stepped inside, Marian popped up, her frizzy blond hair (a new shade bordering on apricot) quivering. Marian always moved fast, her eagle-beaked face intent, ready to pepper any source with pointed questions. Grab
bing her steno pad and a soft lead pencil, she balanced on her toes in Max’s path. “Police report states you and Annie found the body. How come you were on Marsh Tacky Road?” The question was oddly indistinct and the side of Marian’s face pouched like a squirrel with more acorns than mouth.

Max found himself being maneuvered to the hard straight chair by Marian’s desk. Since his goal was Vince’s office only a few feet away, he didn’t resist. “I’ll make a deal. Fill me in on what you’ve got on Kathryn Girard and I’ll give you a blow-by-blow.”

Flinging herself into her swivel chair, Marian scrabbled in her desk drawer and pulled out a piece of bubble gum. Unwrapping it with one hand, she shoved the pink square into her mouth, distending her left cheek even further. “Quit smoking. May strangle on sugar. About to go out of my mind. What have I got on K. Girard? Nada. She must have landed on the island like Athena out of Zeus’s noggin. I can’t find anything on her. Zero. So I told the boss we could do a three-column head, use a border of question marks, I’d give it my Arthur Brisbane best, but you know what the boss is running for the lead story? His rewrite of a handout from Garrett. Anemic. Puerile. Then he had the”—the next was indistinct but Max could fill in the blanks—“—s to tell me we had everything we needed! The lead goes something like, ‘Island Police Chief Peter Garrett announced Friday that an arrest is imminent in the slaying Thursday night of Kathryn Girard, owner of an island antique shop. Girard’s body was found—’”

Vince’s door opened. The tall, rangy redheaded editor hesitated for an instant when he saw Max. Then he plunged into the newsroom, smiling, but his eyes were hard. “Hey, Max, sorry I can’t stop. I’ll get back to you.”

Max stood, hand outstretched.

Vince pumped Max’s hand, clapped him on the shoulder. “See you later.” And he brushed past.

Marian’s raspy voice twanged, “So maybe if I get some
stuff from Max, the
Gazette
will have an honest-to-God news story. And what’s this crap about Henny Brawley going to the slammer? Hey, Vince, you heard that?” She bounced to her feet, glaring after her boss, pugnacious as Brett Halliday’s Mike Shayne when it was time to stand up and be counted.

The front door slammed.

Marian Kenyon’s face crinkled in dismay. “Vince, oh Vince, what the hell?”

Marian didn’t have an answer.

Max was afraid he did.

Vases of flowers were arranged three deep on either side of the door to Room 218. Billy Cameron dwarfed the straight chair to the left of the door. As Annie came down the hall, his big face creased in a smile, then he clapped both hands over his face and sneezed. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Gesundheit, Billy.” Annie saw that the door was ajar.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, smothered another sneeze. “Thanks, Annie.” He gestured at the flowers. “Nurse wants doctor’s approval, said you have to be sure there’s no allergy or anything.” He sniffled. “I wish Garrett could see these.”

Annie understood. Anyone who evoked this kind of care and love couldn’t possibly be a murderess. But Annie doubted the floral tributes would sway the young police chief. “How’s Henny?” Henny came first. Annie was glad she’d stopped at the hospital. Emma could just wait.

Billy rubbed his nose, which could soon serve as a beacon in the fog. “Lots better. She doesn’t know about”—he lowered his voice—“the other lady. But I think Garrett’s going to try and question her pretty soon. So maybe you better tell her.”