White Elephant Dead (22 page)

“I don’t think there can be any doubt about Alden Yates. But don’t you see?” He cut his muffin in half, added a smear of marmalade. “Even if she’s innocent of the Girard and Chapman murders, she has to keep her mouth shut.”

“And if she won’t talk”—Annie slipped into her chair, picked up a piece of still-warm pizza—“Garrett’s going to be convinced she’s guilty.”

“Maybe she is,” Max said soberly.

Maybe she was. They ate in silence.

Annie finished her pizza, resisted the temptation to heat another slice.

Max looked up, saw her studying the refrigerator. “Agatha is inspired by your example.”

Annie grinned and he grinned in return, looking, Annie decided, absolutely yummy, his blond hair still in tufts from a night’s sleep, his dark blue eyes bright, his face attractively stubbled with blondish beard. If it were a usual Saturday morning (Death on Demand didn’t open until ten and Aga
tha’s breakfast dropped automatically from a measured container), they could pursue other pleasures.

Max’s entire face brightened. He pushed back his chair, apparently losing interest in his muffin.

“We have duties, Max.” But he was bending near and suddenly his lips touched hers and she lost interest in duties.

As Max’s red Maserati curved around a bend on its way to the harbor, Annie turned into the winding dusty road to the Women’s Club. Thanks to the White Elephant Sale, traffic was as thick as on the William Hilton Parkway on Hilton Head before the cross-island expressway opened. The main parking lot to the Women’s Club was full and cars were tucked off the road between pines.

Annie waved hello to friends and acquaintances. As she walked along the road, she realized that for all their good efforts on Friday, there was still so much they didn’t know. She’d answered several questions on her list: Yes, Dave Pierce was on the island the day his wife’s boat disappeared and the weather was fine, and no, everyone said Dave and his secretary weren’t having an affair. But she didn’t know why Loretta Campbell was hostile to her son’s second wife, who certainly seemed an improvement over his first, or why Gary and Marie Campbell quit the Little Theater, or where Vince Ellis was when Arlene took her last sail. As for Max, he’d learned that Dr. Burford was at Loretta Campbell’s bed when she died, but what mattered was what the nurse’s aide said after Alden Yates died. If the rumors were true, Max knew why Ruth Yates went into a tailspin after her father-in-law’s death. Annie had figured out how the murderer left Marsh Tacky Road, but not in time to save the life of Jake Chapman. Max had yet to learn why Arlene Ellis sailed on a stormy day or what happened between Gary Campbell and his first wife, though how could that lead to murder so many years later?

Food booths rimmed the perimeter of the front lawn. A coffee booth was in full swing and the soft drink concession
already had two lines five deep. Most of the booths would open at eleven, offering everything from steamed oysters and she-crab soup to seafood shish kebab and corn dogs. As she joined in a throng of eager shoppers hurrying toward the front door of the Women’s Club, Annie hoped that before the day was over, she and Max and Emma would learn enough to unmask a murderer.

A banner fluttered over the main door:

WHITE ELEPHANT SALE

Trinkets, Collectibles, Cast Offs,
Treasures, Surprises, Trifles
Join in the Fun—$5
Drawing—3 tickets for $10, 7 for $15, 12 for $20

Annie had a fuzzy idea this might be a form of gambling and wondered vaguely if the drawing was illegal. Was it legal to charge different prices for the tickets? But Chief Garrett had more serious matters on his mind. The noise level inside the club rivaled a combined rock concert, cement mixer and Boy Scout jamboree. Annie stood in line, forked over five dollars and received a green palmetto stamp on the back of her right hand.

Balanced atop a footstool next to a huge wooden Indian, Pamela Potts, her blond pageboy gleaming, her blue apron crisp, yelped, “Annie, Annie,” and waved her hands above her head like Gilligan sighting a cruise ship.

Annie wormed her way up the central aisle. She was temporarily delayed when two little boys upended a tackle box filled with marbles. On her hands and knees, she helped their mother and the boys grab marbles and sling them into the box. “George, Howard, if anyone falls and we get sued, your father’s going to kill you. George, take that marble out of your mouth. Howard, put that peashooter away.”

Once past the marbles, Annie had to wait while a distinguished old gentleman with white hair and handlebar mus
taches struggled up the aisle clutching a mammoth stuffed moose head. His face was dangerously red.

A prong of antlers swung perilously near. Annie ducked. “Handsome—uh—handsome head,” she said.

He glared at her. “Thinks she’ll get rid of it. Well, we’ll see about that!”

Ah, the happiness to be found at an old-fashioned White Elephant Sale.

Annie slid next to the wall and looked up at Pamela. “You called?”

Pamela’s stare was dubious. “I didn’t call. I waved.”

Annie forced a bright smile. She must remember with whom she spoke.

“Annie”—Pamela’s voice trembled—“what are you doing here?”

Annie stared in return. It was hard to know where to start. Should she explain that she was responding to Emma’s command? That she was pursuing anyone and everyone with information about the people on Kathryn Girard’s route the night she died? That she wanted—

“Henny’s missing. I thought you of all people would be out searching for her.” Pamela’s blue gaze was bewildered. “I called the police this morning and they told me not to worry, that Henny was free to leave the hospital when she wished. Dr. Cary won’t return my call. I went by Henny’s house. I knocked and there was no answer. I got her key from the front porch and went inside. No one was there. But someone had fed her cat. I tried to talk to Emma and she said everything was fine. But Annie, it isn’t fine! Where’s Henny?”

Annie reached out and pulled Pamela next to the wooden Indian. “Pamela, it’s important for everyone to think Henny is missing.” Annie bent near, whispered. “The police have Henny in a safe place until everything comes out about Kathryn Girard’s murder, but that’s a secret. Get the word out that Henny’s missing. It could be a big help.”

Pamela might be earnest, Pamela might be dense, but
Pamela could be counted on. “Oh Annie, I’ll tell everyone. I’ll act as worried as can be.” Her face immediately assumed the woebegone expression of a beagle at a cat clinic.

“Good work,” Annie said stoutly. Annie moved on up the aisle, peering around a massive woman clutching a box of Fiesta pottery. She had to admit that Emma’s original hope of putting pressure on the murderer might be their last, best hope. Surely the murderer had to be a little worried even though word of Ruth Yates’s plight was no doubt seeping across the island. But Henny’s disappearance should cause uneasiness. As for Emma, she was formidable. If Annie had committed two murders, carefully setting up Ruth Yates to be the prime suspect, she’d be damned worried if Emma marched about emphasizing that Kathryn’s first stop had been at Ruth’s but who was to say it had been her final stop? And, if Annie had any success today, maybe she’d pull some other strings that would make a double murderer very uneasy indeed.

A
rush of wind from the rotating blades of the Coast Guard helicopter rippled the waist-high grasses near the landing pad. The craft shut down and in a few minutes the crew walked briskly toward the fence. The pilot, tall, thin, with a brush of dark hair and an easy slouch, came through the gate.

Max stepped forward. “Lieutenant Farriday?” He held out his hand. “I’m Max Darling. I called you about the searches for two boaters lost off Broward’s Rock, Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce.”

Farriday’s handshake was swift and firm. Green eyes studied Max with interest. “I told you what we knew.” His tone was pleasant but dismissive.

“I know, Lieutenant. But I’d appreciate if it you’d give me a minute. I have a couple of questions.” Max’s tone was easy and confident.

Farriday pulled off his flight helmet. “All right.” He strode toward the single-story building. He opened a frosted
door, held it for Max. Leading the way into a small office that overlooked the airstrip, he gestured toward a straight chair. He tossed his helmet on his desk and settled into a swivel chair.

Max knew he had to get Farriday’s attention and hold it. “In the last couple of days, there have been two murders on Broward’s Rock. I’m looking for a link to the deaths of either Arlene Ellis or Lynn Pierce.”

“Accidental deaths.” Farriday frowned.

“I know that’s what they appeared to be,” Max agreed. “But I’m asking you now, could either have been murder?”

Farriday rubbed his bony nose. “When someone drowns, Mr. Darling, and no one is there to see it happen, then, sure, the death could be murder. Or suicide. Nothing in either of the searches gave any indication that the deaths were other than accidental. I don’t see how you could have obtained any physical evidence to prove anything else.” His gaze challenged Max.

Max leaned forward. “Vince Ellis and someone in the Pierce family were being blackmailed. That blackmailer was killed Thursday night. I know there’s no proof that either Arlene Ellis or Lynn Pierce was murdered. If there had been, you would have contacted the police. But can you now look back and tell me if there’s anything, anything at all, about either of those drownings that worried you?”

Farriday leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Ellis.” His voice was thoughtful. “According to her husband, she was a first-rate sailor.” Farriday looked across the room at maps of the Sound and the ocean. “Warning flags were up the day she went out. Force 7.”

Max understood. Force 7 indicated winds of twenty-eight to thirty-three knots. Any experienced boater would stay in the harbor or, if at sea, heave to. The Sound must have been broken with whitecaps, the water foaming and the sky a dirty gray with dark anvil clouds towering high.

“Why did she go out?” Farriday mused. “The storms delayed our search. I didn’t expect to find her. Her hus
band was going nuts when we were grounded. Paced like a madman, kept begging us to take off. I felt sorry for him. But when I asked him why she’d gone out on a stormy day, he just looked at me and shook his head and walked away.”

An experienced sailor taking a boat out on a day heavy with storm clouds—what did it mean? Was Arlene Ellis arrogant or foolish, or did Arlene deliberately set sail to die? Or did Vince Ellis kill his wife and stage a fake disappearance?

Farriday pushed back his chair, stood. “I don’t guess, Mr. Darling. I deal in facts. Experienced sailors. Mrs. Ellis went out on a stormy day. Mrs. Pierce sailed on a fine day, fleecy clouds and winds seven to ten knots. Neither one came back. You figure it out. But”—and he walked to the door, held it—“I can tell you that I remember those two searches well and part of the reason I remember them is the husbands. It hurt to look at them. I don’t know why their wives were lost, but I can tell you I never saw men who cared more.”

Annie reached the steps to the low stage. Yesterday Emma had reigned in solitary splendor at a card table. Today, the stage was piled high with boxes, some with red stickers, others with green, yellow, pink and purple. Emma stood at one end, gesturing decisively to a covey of blue-aproned volunteers. Emma’s hair was in tight orange coils and her caftan was a remarkable mélange of red, yellow and green spots. “…imperative that the tables be kept well stocked. Replenish the tables from these boxes. The boxes are color-coded according to price. Each item in a red box sells at a table stocked with twenty-dollar items, green fifteen, yellow ten…”

A marketplace in Marrakesh couldn’t have resounded with greater hubbub. As Annie waited for Emma to finish, she looked out over the teeming club room. A piercing whis
tle came from an electric train set near the front door. A usually sedate vice president of the Broward’s Rock Music Club had found a tambourine and was holding it above her head and clapping it as she did a fair rendition of Carmen in the aisle between a pile of vintage hubcaps and stacks of
National Geographic
. Two women clutched opposite ends of a quilt, their faces obdurate, their knuckles white. An enthusiastic volunteer stood on an overturned bucket and held home-preserved jellies above her head, chanting, “Two for five…”

Familiar faces were everywhere. This didn’t surprise Annie. But she was surprised—and she had to hand it to Emma, who had a disgusting habit of always being right—to spot most of the people who had been on Kathryn Girard’s pick-up list. But maybe it made all kinds of sense. Whatever happened, the murderer had to keep up a convincing pretense that everything was fine and today was the White Elephant Sale, the most important event of the year for members of the Women’s Club. No one who belonged would dream of missing it and their spouses were always in tow to provide muscle. Marie Campbell, Janet Pierce and Ruth Yates all were members. Of course, Ruth and Brian were not present.

A bright smile lit Marie Campbell’s elfin face as she held out a chunky pottery pig to a customer. She took the five-dollar bill and handed it to her husband to put in the change box. Gary Campbell was too long to fit comfortably on the folding chair behind the card table and he looked morose and uncomfortable. And wary.

Janet and Dave Pierce were on their hands and knees by the chugging train. Dave reached into a box and pulled out an engineer’s cap. He popped it on his head and his grin made his usually stern face boyish and appealing. Janet, who wore the blue apron over a pale pink silk blouse and white silk slacks, clapped her hands in delight. Janet would never look girlish, her eyebrows carefully arched, her makeup too
perfect. She had the elegance and grace of a model, but she was aging and blondes age hard. The sharp light slanting through a window emphasized the jut of her cheekbones and the lines at the corners of her mouth.

His red hair always a beacon, Vince Ellis held a blue stuffed rabbit with droopy ears in one hand and a Barbie Doll carry-all in the other. A tiny smile on her face, Meg Ellis sat stiffly on a wooden stool as a blue-aproned volunteer painted a pink butterfly on her cheek. Vince tucked the carry-all under one arm and used both hands to hold the bunny up and clap his paws. Meg giggled.

Annie had a sudden memory of Arlene Ellis on a picnic, tickled by Vince’s imitation of an anteater. It was uncanny how much Meg looked like Arlene. But Meg was, so everyone had been told, the daughter of Arlene’s sister, Amelia. Vince and Arlene adopted Meg after the deaths of Amelia and her husband. Meg came to the island about six months before Arlene drowned. Was there a connection between the deaths of the two sisters? Could Meg actually be Arlene’s real daughter? Maybe it would be smart to check out the circumstances of Meg’s adoption.

The stage steps creaked behind her. Blue-aproned volunteers flowed past. Emma said crisply, “The first assault is under way.” Her orange curls quivering, Emma nodded toward the sales floor. “There goes Laurel.”

Laurel was wending her way down the crowded center aisle. Today her white-gold hair curved around her face. She wore glasses with aquamarine frames that emphasized the blue of her eyes and the soft blue linen jacket. Her white linen skirt was so short it should have been against the law, at least in Annie’s opinion. After all, she was somebody’s mother. Actually, a particular, specific mother. Laurel’s progress was slowed by the bulky man carrying the moose head. He stopped and bowed, his white mustache quivering. Oh-ho, maybe Fred the Sailor was about to be vamoosed. But Laurel, always adept, slipped past. The moose head immediately began bobbing down the aisle after her.

Would it, Annie wondered, ever get to be a bore to have men of all ages look moonstruck the minute you came into view?

Laurel looked back, lifted pink-tipped fingers to blow a kiss.

The moose head damn near went into a gallop.

Emma folded her arms. “If it isn’t one problem with her, it’s another.”

Annie grinned. “Emma, you are a profoundly insightful woman.”

“I am a profoundly determined woman.” Emma’s chin jutted. “It hasn’t been easy. At least Laurel’s going in the right direction. I told her to start with Vince Ellis. I swear, Annie, dealing with your mother-in-law is on a par with trying to make a cat dance.”

Annie said dryly, “I’d rather teach Agatha to schottische.”

“Understandably.” Emma’s blue eyes were icy. “However, I prevailed.”

Annie looked into those penetrating blue eyes, decided not to voice her complete confidence that Emma had a trifle to learn about Laurel. Instead, she said brightly, “Really.”

“I told her to approach Vince and the Pierces and the Campbells and simply inquire what goods they’d put out to be collected on Thursday, that the club wished to give them a donation slip even though the donations were destroyed in a fire while the van was in police custody. Don’t you think that’s brilliant?” Emma’s broad mouth spread in a satisfied smile. “Marigold employed a similar approach in
The Case of the Disappearing Diva
. Damn fool woman ran away with a Houdini imitator who sold shoelaces door to door.”

Annie blinked.

“The diva, not Marigold, for God’s sake. But this will alert the murderer, assuming Ruth is innocent, that everyone knows where Kathryn was scheduled to stop Thursday night. That should cause some uneasy moments. And it’s
such a clear challenge. Do you know what Laurel wanted to do?”

Annie had an idea. “Flowers?”

“Flowers,” Emma’s tone was grim. “The woman is obsessed—”

What a clear perception Emma had. Annie might casually mention Emma’s judgment to Max.

“—by the idea of communicating with flowers. She told me she’d worked late into the night preparing cards. I’ll admit the drawings were”—the caftan rustled as she shrugged—“somewhat fetching, yellow daffodils, Canterbury bells in white, pink and blue, and something called coltsfoot. It has yellow flowers and damned if the leaves don’t look like a colt’s foot. Laurel said she would present each person with a card and inform them that she commiserated with them utterly over the shocking murder of the woman coming to their homes simply to collect donations and that she knew they would feel a part of the community’s effort to solve this heinous crime”—Emma’s sardonic tone indicated she was quoting verbatim—“and she was confident they shared in the uncertainty engendered by the crime and accepted the obligation to see justice done. To wit, daffodils, Canterbury bells and coltsfoot.” Emma sighed. “I swear—” She broke off, her eyes narrowed.

Laurel, with the moose head peeking over her shoulder, held out a card to Vince Ellis.

Vince listened as she spoke, his face blank. He still held the blue rabbit. Shaking his head, he turned away.

Laurel stood for a moment more, looking at his back, then, with a bright smile, she walked toward the electric train and the Pierces.

Annie reached out, grabbed Emma’s arm. “As Marigold often says, ‘Inspector, however a solution is derived, justice results.’” Marigold was often given to pompous pronouncements after outwitting the police. Privately Annie thought Inspector Donald Dilatory should have thrown Marigold’s
ass in jail but such was not to be in a mystery by Emma Clyde.

Emma might be overbearing but she was also smart and Annie didn’t have to tell her that Laurel’s card would have the same effect as a request for a list of donations, a clear announcement to the murderer that Kathryn’s stops were known.

Annie decided a change in focus might be wise. “Okay, Assault One is under way. Assault Two?”

“We’ll let them stew today. I’ve told Pamela to get the word out that the police know Kathryn Girard is a blackmailer. Tonight at the Fall Revel, I’ll make it clear that I am convinced of Ruth’s innocence and that I expect every member of the club to join us in an effort to discover information about Kathryn. And now”—Emma spoke above the raised voices from the middle of the room where the quilt confrontation was escalating—“I’d better see to that.”

Annie watched soberly as Laurel made her rounds. The results were very much the same in each instance. Janet Pierce’s face crinkled in puzzlement. She looked at her husband and asked a question. Dave Pierce pushed up the engineer’s cap, then shook his head. At the card table manned by the Campbells, Marie was arranging a display of pottery angels. Her smile was apologetic as she waved away the offer of the card. Even from here, Annie could lip-read her answer, “Oh. No, not at our house. I’m sorry.” Gary Campbell didn’t smile. His thick eyebrows bunched and his lips made a hard line. As Laurel turned away, Marie dropped her hand on his arm, spoke urgently to him. But his rigid face didn’t relax.

Annie realized abruptly what a genius stroke it had been to burn out the back of the van. Now no one could prove that the van had made a particular stop or that anything in the back belonged to any particular person. Smart thinking by a thoughtful murderer. But the murderer couldn’t burn away the reasons for blackmail. And if Kathryn had discovered secrets, so could Annie.

Annie spotted a longtime customer, Jessica Greer, pawing through a dusty stack of books. Jessica collected children’s mysteries from the thirties and forties. Jessica was also a member of the Broward’s Rock Little Theater and had played roles from Marie Antoinette to Auntie Mame.