White Elephant Dead (16 page)

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Annie thought about Vince Ellis and his losses. “I don’t suppose,” she said doubtfully, “Vince had a girlfriend on the side.”

Mystery cognoscente Edith looked at her sharply. “Oh, no way, Annie. Not Vince. Besides, he’s never remarried.”

That would seem to answer that. Though problems between husbands and wives could involve more than infidelity and Vince’s house was without any question on Kathryn’s list. Annie wrote down:
Why was Arlene so unhappy
?

Edith peered at her pad. “You’re on to something there. She was one miserable lady before she died. But Annie”—Edith’s eyes were sad—“I don’t think it will turn out to be Vince’s fault.” Her mouth quirked. “Though I’ve always had a weakness for redheads. Jeez, if Mike Shayne had a case on the island, I’d lay in a case of Martell’s.”

Brett Halliday’s handsome Miami private eye had a taste for brandy.

“But,” Edith sighed, “a woman’s body in the back of a club van isn’t exactly his style. Okay”—she leaned back on her pillow—“you’ve got Gary or Marie Campbell, Janet or Dave Pierce, Vince Ellis, which I don’t think so, and Ruth Yates.” Edith shoved back a tangle of curly dark hair. “Okay, okay, I know you tripped Ruth up about the gun,
but honestly, Annie, Ruth’s the original sad sack. Poor old Ruth. Hasn’t she had enough trouble?”

Max arranged the photos in chronological order, Ruth Conroy Yates in her high school yearbook, walking across the stage for her bachelor’s degree, her wedding, working in the church nursery, serving at a church tea, playing croquet with her husband, pricing donations at a church sale. Then and now, the pictures reflected anxious gray eyes, hair of an indeterminate brown, an uncertain but sweet smile. Her bony shoulders hunched defensively. Sticklike arms dangled at her sides. Her head was drawn tight to her neck like a turtle sensing danger. She was dowdily dressed in the pictures, a pink blouse and shapeless green skirt, a too-large navy-blue dress, a sundress with a cascade of ruffles.

Seven photos of Ruth, a dozen or so of Brian. Brian Yates either smiled all the time or was always camera-ready. Thick blond hair curled above cheerful blue eyes. Max riffled through, chose a few, Brian as president of his senior high school class, Brian leading scorer of his college soccer team, Brian at seminary, Brian at the reception after his ordination, Brian and his daughter playing softball, Brian speaking at the Art Center. Without exception, he beamed: face ruddy, eyes bright, mouth curved in an infectious grin.

When he and Ruth were pictured together, she faded into the background, not noticeable unless purposefully sought.

Nice man, Max thought. He always enjoyed talking to Brian. Actually, though he and Annie had known Brian and Ruth Yates since they came to the island, Max had almost no clear memory of Ruth Yates.

Max picked up the first dossier:

Max scrawled an oversize question mark on his pad and wrote:
A step down? Why
?

“—so that he could devote more time to his father, who had suffered a series of strokes and was bedridden.”

Max drew through the question mark and queries.

The dossier on Ruth was much shorter:

Max slapped shut the folders. What could Kathryn Girard have discovered about the Yateses? He glanced at his clock. Ah, almost time for lunch. Maybe Annie would have some ideas.

“Ruth always looks like the last stagecoach out of Dodge just left and there won’t be another one.” Edith’s tone was tart but her eyes were kind. “Usually I don’t have any patience with scaredy-cats, but Ruth’s really a sweetheart. She was Ken’s Sunday School teacher for four years and the kids love her. What a softy. And she’s shyer than a ghost crab. She always reminds me of a crab. She scuttles. Brian bustles around heartier than a musketeer, agreeing to this that or the other, but half the time it’s Ruth who ends up in the trench doing all the work. Now, I understand he’s got more to do than anybody can manage, that’s true of every priest, but he moved his dad here and expected Ruth to manage everything already on her plate, then spend hours attending his dad. That was the same time their daughter was having back surgery. Ruth got so skinny I thought she was going to disappear, just like a ghost crab. About the same time, Brian’s dad finally died. Ruth was worn to the bone. She looked dazed for months, a real case of depression. But I can believe that Ruth intended to shoot herself. It sounds just like her. Whatever Kathryn Girard threatened, it figures Ruth would hunt up a gun to shoot herself.”

“But she didn’t,” Annie observed quietly. She finished her tea. Almost time to meet Max. She resisted another handful of M&M’s. “Edith, can I go in the house and get anything for you?”

“That’s okay. Ned’s bringing lunch. But Annie…” Edith’s face wasn’t quite craven.

Annie knew what was coming. Edith was an ever-eager collector. Annie might as well show good grace. “What new books would you like, Edith?”

“How about the latest by Barbara Burnett Smith and Laura Lippman?”

As always, Edith’s taste was impeccable.

P
arotti’s Bar and Grill was the best of all worlds as far as Annie was concerned, fabulous food in a down-home atmosphere. Actually, the bait coolers along the back wall near the beer-on-tap barrels provided more atmosphere than nonfishing tourists could stomach, which made it even more popular with year-round islanders. The grill welcomed the early morning charter groups. Parotti’s breakfasts were legendary, spoon bread with melted butter and maple syrup, big crisp sausage patties, smoked country ham with redeye gravy, fried grits, pancakes with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, sugary cinnamon-sprinkled rice with dollops of butter and cinnamon cake doughnuts.

Annie took a deep breath. Next to the salt marsh, this was her favorite smell, the tangy combination of fish, beer, sawdust and old grease. What was not to like?

Ben Parotti, tavern proprietor and ferryboat captain (the ferry’s irregular schedule was sometimes dictated by how
many people came to lunch), handed Max and Annie menus. He eyed Annie warily. “Hyperventilatin’?”

Annie grinned. Ben’s recent marriage had transformed him from a grizzled leprechaun in tattered long underwear tops and stained corduroy pants to a stylish leprechaun in golf shirts and baggy white trousers, but had done nothing to ameliorate his penchant for describing spades not only as spades but in earthy, explicit language. Ben might now be spiffy, but he was the same old tactless despot of his own domain.

“Sucking in the silver scent of the sea.” Annie waved airily at the bait coolers.

Ben’s bushy eyebrows squiggled. “The missus keeps wantin’ me to take ’em out. But I’ve always been in the bait business.”

He looked so forlorn, Annie said quickly, “Parotti’s wouldn’t be Parotti’s without the bait. Everything’s just perfect. You’ve kept the best of the old and added just the right amount of new.” She nodded at the red-and-white-checkered cloths that now covered the old wooden tables and the slender vases with stalks of tall goldenrod. (No need, he must have told his wife, to spend money on flowers when God puts them right along the road.) “And the menu’s divine. I don’t even have to look.” She carefully did not glance toward Max, who was a sergeant major in the cholesterol police. “I’ll have oyster chowder and spoon bread.” Ben’s chowder was made with real country cream and the spoon bread was delectable.

“Low country boil, a salad, and cornbread sticks. And a Bud Light.” As Max handed Ben the menus, he shot her a look of reproach.

Annie returned to the path of virtue. “A fruit smoothie, raspberries and peaches and yogurt.” She was suffused with righteousness. “And a salad.”

Max tried not to laugh, then he did.

So did she.

“Annie, Annie. I love you.” His vivid blue eyes were soft, warm and held a special light she knew so well.

“And I love you.” He was always, to her, the handsomest man in any room, with his unruly blond hair and brilliant blue eyes and sunshiny smile that made her want to touch him. But maybe it was as well that Max managed not to be quite perfect. Yes, he ate right, but his favorite exercise was lounging in a beach chair, and as for his work ethic—well, maybe she had enough for both of them. And maybe their willingness to let each other be was the rock on which they’d built a happy marriage.

Annie propped her chin on her hand. “Marriages. Maybe when we understand these marriages—Gary and Marie, Dave and Lynn, Vince and Arlene, Brian and Ruth—we’ll understand this murder. From the outside, everything looked rosy. Was it?”

Ben slid a tumbler of ice water in front of Annie, slapped down a frosted glass and beer for Max.

“We,” Max said firmly, “are going to find out. But”—he reached down, opened his briefcase and lifted out the folders—“first we have to figure out who was being blackmailed. Gary or Marie? Dave or Janet? Brian or Ruth? The only one we can be sure about is Vince.”

Annie held up two fingers. “Nope. We can be sure Ruth Yates was the blackmail victim, not Brian.” She brought Max up to date on the gun. “Of course, she claims Kathryn took it. She may be lying.”

Max munched a pretzel from the bowl in the center of the table. “So the gun belongs to Ruth.”

“She claimed she was going to shoot herself. But she didn’t.” Annie sounded skeptical.

Max lifted his glass. “She’s got one point in her favor. Kathryn wasn’t shot. And obviously, Ruth could have shot her.”

“Maybe Kathryn grabbing the gun made Ruth so mad that she bashed Kathryn. Maybe she made up the whole thing because she shot at me last night and wanted to make
us think someone else has the gun.” But that was the kind of cleverness at which Emma Clyde excelled, not gentle Ruth.

Max put the folders on the table, pushed them toward Annie. He retrieved his cell phone from his briefcase, turned it on and set it at the edge of the table. And he picked up a sack with a happy face drawn on it. “From Barb. A slice of awning cake.” He held up his hand. “Don’t ask, just look. But you’d better take it out with you. Ben’s feelings would be hurt. Barb said she might call. She’s very proud of the cake.” He pushed the folders and the happy face sack to Annie. “Why don’t you look this stuff over—” A muffled ring. Max picked up the cell phone.

“Oh hi, Laurel.” His easy grin was both fond and slightly apprehensive.

Annie peeked in the sack, then put it on the floor beside her purse. She knew that if Barb made it, it was good. Annie opened the top folder. She could read faster than anyone she knew, except Henny, of course. She pulled out a notebook and scanned and listened to Max’s conversation.

“Fred who?…Pago Pago…oh, of course, Tutila Island.” Then he grabbed a pad and pen from his briefcase. “Mark Stone? Lives on Red-Tailed Hawk. Right…. He actually saw Henny’s car?”

Annie closed the Campbell folder, wrote down two questions.

“…Okay, I got that…. About five minutes after six some old bat driving like an idiot—”

So Serena Harris didn’t want to be late for the Andy Griffith rerun.

“—came around the curve on his side and he had to yank over to the right and slid into the ditch.”

Ben arrived with their salads. Since they were old regulars, he didn’t even have to ask: vinaigrette for Max, blue cheese for Annie. The salad itself was part of Parotti’s transformation. Instead of a wedge of iceberg lettuce and two tomato slices, the plate blossomed with arugula, spinach
leaves and Boston bibb as well as rice noodles, water chestnuts and mandarin oranges. Ooh-la-la.

Annie finished the dossier on Vince Ellis. The question was obvious. She wrote it down with sadness.

“…a broken axle. So what did he do?…”

Annie’s spine prickled as she read about Lynn Pierce. Arlene Ellis disappeared first. Did her death give Dave Pierce a blueprint for murder? She added questions four, five and six.

“…he’s sure? That’s weird. You think he can be relied on?…Car slid into a welter of ferns? But…Oh, of course. Ferns indicate sincerity. Yes, I see….”

Reading the Yates file took no time at all, but Annie’s pencil, poised above the pad, didn’t move.

“…you and Fred are certainly to be commended….”

Annie found a clean sheet, scrawled:
Howard out in the cold
? And shoved it across the table.

Max glanced down. He cleared his throat.

Annie watched with great interest. Max always seemed to get uncomfortable when skirting the edge of Laurel’s love life.

“Uh, Mother, uh—”

Annie hissed, “Fall Revel.”

“Are you going to the Fall Revel tomorrow night?” He came to a full stop. “But I thought you and Howard—” Laurel’s most attentive beau in recent years was Howard Cahill, a ruggedly handsome widower.

“Oh. Of course I believe in freedom.” He saw Annie’s swift glance. “I mean, freedom for some…. No, no, certainly for you. And I know a cruise is simply a cruise, of course it is…. Honeysuckle vines? What did he say?…He knows he will always think of you when he sees honeysuckle?” Max’s blue eyes were bewildered. “Oh, sure. Honeysuckle represents generous and devoted affection. Right. I should have known. Well, I’ll look forward to meeting Fred. More for you to do?” Max looked at Annie.

Annie shook her head. “Not right now. Ask her if she can come to Emma’s at four. Council of war.”

“That’s all for now. Can you meet us at Emma’s at four?…Okay. See you then.” He clicked off the phone. “Laurel and Fred found a guy who had car trouble, actually slid off the road and broke an axle, about twenty yards from the entrance to Marsh Tacky Road. He came around the curve and that’s when he went into a slide. By the time he got out of his car, he’d seen Henny’s car turn into Marsh Tacky and he just glimpsed taillights ahead of her. He was still there, waiting for a wrecker, and he saw our cars turn into the lane. Between the time Henny’s car went in and we arrived, no car came out of Marsh Tacky Road. And nobody. Not on foot or with water wings or any way.”

Ben plunked down Annie’s chowder, spoon bread and fruit smoothie and Max’s Low Country boil. “Everything okay?” He craned his head to read the labels on the folders.

Annie nobly ignored the syrup for the spoon bread—after all, she wasn’t a pig, no way—but she poked a hole in one square, poured in melted butter, then took a delectable bite. “Mmm. Wonderful, Ben.”

Ben deposited his tray on the next table and swung back to peer at them. He leaned against a heavy wooden chair, folded his bony arms and appeared set for life. “Everybody says that new police chief almost fell on his ass, but the mayor set him straight.” Ben sniffed. “Suspectin’ Henny! Why, she knows all about mysteries. If she set out to kill somebody, you wouldn’t find her layin’ out in the woods to be caught.”

Annie slurped a succulent piece of oyster. That Ben had heard the village drums was no surprise. But she was impressed with his reasoning. The mayor saw Henny as too respectable to be a criminal. Ben had it right. Henny was too clever to be caught should she choose to commit a crime. That, however, was an argument best not offered to Chief Garrett.

“First thing I heard that, I knew you folks would get
busy. Well, I can tell you that Girard woman was mighty peculiar. She paid her rent in cash. Called me once to fix the commode. Wasn’t nothin’ in that place to make it a home. I heard”—he ducked his head, looked around the room, which was empty except for a group of earnest women studying bird manuals, dropped his voice—“that Louella Kendall—you know, she’s a third cousin to my wife Jolene—told Kathryn she didn’t want her comin’ to the hospital no more. Louella’s a head nurse and she don’t take no nonsense. I tried to get Louella to tell me what it was all about and she treated me like I was askin’ her to testify to the grand jury.” Ben’s eyebrows bristled. He looked like a snazzy, aggrieved leprechaun. “Anyway, you might see if you can get Louella to ante up. ’Cause I know you”—he looked at Max like he was a combination of Harrison Ford and Michael Douglas—“got a real way with the ladies.”

Ben flicked a glance at Annie, shifted slightly so he could avoid her interested gaze. “Anyway,” he said quickly, “I been over to the place this morning with the chief. And you know what?” Ben bent over the table, his whisper sibilant as a snake’s. “Her stuff was all tossed around, but damnedest thing, there was this leather album and it was full of thousand-dollar bills!”

“Coo!” Annie exclaimed. Just for that moment, she was right on a par with Albert at Blunt’s Detective Agency, Agatha Christie’s creation for Tommy and Tuppence Beresford.

Ben looked at her in concern and reached over to lift the pitcher and refill her water.

Max nudged her under the table. “Ben, that’s really interesting. It makes you wonder,” Max said darkly, “what kind of money Kathryn Girard had to keep hidden.” A dramatic pause. “And what Kathryn was picking up on Thursday afternoon.”

There was a cogitative silence. Then, eyes glistening, Ben nodded sagely. “It does, don’t it? Well, you and the missus enjoy,” and he turned and moved across the floor faster than a pelican diving for menhaden.

“Max”—Annie put a little raspberry jelly on her spoon bread—“Ben’s a canny old devil. Pretty soon everyone on the island’s going to hear that Kathryn was a blackmailer.” The fruit smoothie made an interesting combination of tastes with the spoon bread.

Max speared a piece of sausage. “It should make the folks on Kathryn’s list damn nervous.”

Annie took a last spoonful of her chowder and cut another piece of spoon bread. “But we have to figure out what Kathryn had on these people. And who was paying her at each house. Well, of course we know Vince and Ruth were blackmail victims. It’s maddening. We know a lot about these people, but we don’t know who was hiding what.” She picked up her notebook, handed it to Max. “Here’s what I want to know.”

ANNIE’S LIST

1. Why did Loretta Campbell dislike her son’s wife?
   
2. Why did Gary and Marie quit the Little Theater?
   
3. Where was Vince Ellis when Arlene took her last sail?
   
4. Was Dave Pierce having an affair with an employee when his wife died?
   
5. Was Dave Pierce on the island the day his wife disappeared?
   
6. How well does Dave Pierce swim? What was the weather like that day?
   

Max looked at her with interest. “No questions about Ruth Yates?”

Annie turned up her hands. “Okay, we know Ruth paid blackmail for something. But what could it be? There’s nothing we’ve found out about her that seems the least bit likely. Can you see Ruth having an affair? Or stealing anything? I mean, if she was somehow filching money from the church,
why would she have to lie to Brian and pretend the car needed fixing to come up with cash? Besides, she has nothing to do with church expenditures, all she does is volunteer her time. I can’t figure out what she could have done!”

“We’ll find out.” Max was as cocky as The Saint, Leslie Charteris’s urbane and unruffled hero. “Here’s what I wonder about.” Max handed her his list.

MAX’S LIST

1. Who was the doctor who attended Loretta Campbell when she died?
   
2. What caused Gary Campbell’s divorce? And was he involved with Marie when he was still married?
   
3. Why did Arlene Ellis take her boat out on a stormy day?
   
4. How did the murderer get away from Marsh Tacky Road?
   
5. Everybody says Dave and Lynn Pierce had a great marriage. Why would he kill his wife?
   
6. Edith Cummings ties Ruth Yates’s depression to her daughter’s surgery and the death of Brian’s dad. What really sent her into a decline?