White Elephant Dead (23 page)

The ferry rocked gently in its berth. On Saturdays Parotti kept pretty well to schedule, leaving on the hour, returning on the half hour. It was almost ten, so Max walked fast. Parotti’s Boat Rental was next to the ferry office. Max pushed open the door.

Ben Parotti looked up with a bright smile, which ebbed as he recognized his visitor. “Everybody’s at that damn sale. Only rented two boats all morning.” Parotti was especially nautical today, white cap with gold braid, white jacket with gold buttons and navy slacks. The effect was marred a little by high-topped red sneakers. He saw Max’s glance. “Don’t go tellin’ the missus. She give me some things called boaters and I felt like I was walking in a couple of barges. I’ll take sneakers every time.” He brightened. “She’s gone to that sale. Thought your missus’d have you over there to help.”

“I’ll go over in a while.” Max sat on an old bench that gave an alarming tilt.

Parotti popped up. With apparent ease, he grabbed an anchor from one corner, smacked it next to Max. The bench settled down. “Keep meaning to fix that. But the missus has kept me real busy in the grill. And when that woman gets an idea!” Parotti sighed. “But if she hadn’t kept me up late working on that dadblamned shelving by the front windows, I wouldn’t have salvaged myself a nice little treat. Even the missus was pleased.”

Parotti loved to talk, but Max knew he couldn’t afford to spend the morning. He needed to ask his questions and go, but Parotti was so pleased with himself, Max didn’t have the heart to squelch him. The only thing Parotti loved better than a good story was a successful discovery of anything he could claim as salvage.

Max relaxed against the wall. Annie didn’t expect him at the sale until lunch. “What’d you find, Ben?”

Ben pulled up a chair, hunched close to Max. “I’ll tell you, I was never so surprised. I’m working on that damn shelf and I saw a shadow down by the pier. Well, you know I don’t take kindly to anybody poking their noses into my stuff and I thought to myself, well, somebody’s up to no good. Why else would a body be sneaking around on the pier at one o’clock in the morning? Nothing else is stirring anywhere. The party people are on the boats over in the marina by you folks. It’s workin’ boats here and nobody’s got a call to be wandering around after midnight. So I decide to take a quiet look”—his leprechaun’s face mirrored sheer amazement—“and you’ll never guess who I saw heave somethin’ into the harbor! In the middle of the night!”

Max played along. “The mayor?”

“Better than that.” Parotti leaned forward, planted his hands on his knees. “Brian Yates, one of them preachers at St. Mary’s. You know, he wears a collar but he’s married.” Parotti sounded faintly scandalized.

Max didn’t try to explain the difference between preachers, ministers and priests, Anglican or Roman. “What did you do, Ben?”

“Well, I hunkered down behind a trash can and watched him hurry away, looking this way and that”—Parotti’s head swiveled and his eyes darted—“like a man who damn sure didn’t want to meet up with anybody he knew. I almost popped out to ask him what he thought he was doin’, dumpin’ trash in the harbor. We got laws about that!” Parotti glowered.

“But you didn’t.” Max grinned. A man intent on salvage wouldn’t waste his time in confrontations, no matter how interesting it might have been.

Parotti grinned in return. “I figured it would be better to find out what was goin’ on. I got a lantern and some tackle and a boat. Well, it took me a while, but I pulled it out, almost a full set of them wooden sticks with heads that
the rich folks use to hit a wooden ball around. And they like to dress all in white.”

It was Parotti for croquet.

“The missus is thrilled.” Parotti basked in the glow of remembered approval. “She thinks maybe I should clear some ground to the side of the grill and people can whack the balls. She’s plannin’ to make herself a white outfit.”

“Play croquet,” Max murmured.

Parotti nodded vigorously. “Yeah. That’s what she said, croquet. Sounds kind of like some kind of fish to me.”

Max asked quietly, “Is there a mallet missing?”

Parotti looked at him blankly.

“One of the sticks.” But why else would Brian Yates slip through darkness to the harbor? Did he know a croquet mallet had been found not far from the van? After Dr. Burford took Ruth to the hospital, had Brian searched the garage, afraid of what he might find, terrified of what he did find? Or was it colder and harsher than that? Had Ruth told him about the mallet and he’d set out to hide any link to her?

Parotti’s nod was quick and bright. “I looked ’em over. I can make one to match.”

“Ben”—Max’s tone was grave—“I’m afraid you have to call Chief Garrett. Had you heard that Kathryn Girard was killed by a croquet mallet?”

Ben’s mouth dropped open. “I’ll be damned. But a parson?” His tone was scandalized. “Well, I never.”

Max knew this might be the final push to convince Garrett to arrest Ruth Yates. Maybe she should be arrested. Whether Ruth was arrested or not, Max still had some serious questions about the deaths of Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce. As Lieutenant Farriday said, either could have been murder. Max didn’t know which was more suspicious, Arlene’s death on a stormy day or Lynn’s death on a perfect day for sailing.

Parotti squinted at Max. “You mean I got evidence here?”

“Maybe, Ben.” Max didn’t often consider the force of serendipity. If he hadn’t come to see Parotti, perhaps no one ever would have known about the cast-off croquet mallets. On the other hand, there was another maxim which often came true: Nefarious deeds attract interested eyes, or, the perils of surreptitiousness in a small town. “But maybe not. Call Garrett. If he takes the set away, I’ll see that you get another one.” After all, Jolene Parotti was making an all-white outfit.

“Done.” Parotti gave a quick salute.

Max made a mental note to see about a set of croquet mallets. And now it was time to ask Parotti for knowledge only he might have.

“Ample” would be an excellent summation of Jessica Greer, shining golden hair in smooth poufs, plump pink cheeks, a bosom with Wagnerian soprano proportions and a smile broad as the horizon. “Annie!” Her rich, deep voice ooozed contentment. “Look what I’ve found.” She held out
Beverly Gray’s Career
and
Beverly Gray on a Treasure Hunt
.

“Wonderful!” Annie exclaimed. And it was wonderful what some customers were willing to pay for first editions of various Beverly Gray or Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys titles. “Are you trying out for anything this fall?”

The segue might not rank as her most graceful, but Annie knew her customer.

Brown eyes sparkling, Jessica beamed. “My dear, the Little Theater is putting on
Arsenic and Old Lace
and I’m Martha Brewster.” She clapped a hand to her chest and dust puffed from the book. “I do hope Henny is on the mend. No one else could possibly play Abby as well and rehearsals start next week.” Jessica peered at her anxiously.

Annie patted Jessica’s arm reassuringly. “Henny’s doing fine. She’ll be there.”

Jessica screwed her face up like a child missing a favorite doll. “I wish you and Max had tried out for Elaine and Jonathan.”

Annie wouldn’t have tried out for a month’s supply of Godiva. She didn’t have cheerful memories of playing those roles several years ago in a most murderous presentation of the play. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “we keep intending to get active again, but you know how it is, you get really busy. You know, I was talking to Henny the other day”—Annie felt as creative as Emma—“and we were talking about some of the people who are really good that you don’t see anymore. She said she remembers Marie Campbell especially. And Gary. I guess Henny has that right.” Annie looked at Jessica. “I didn’t even know they’d been in local theater.”

“Oh well”—Jessica’s sigh expressed sheer happiness—“I can tell you everything about the Players. My dear, I am a charter member—1947. My first year on the island.” She looked about for a place to sit and tugged loose a cowhide footstool from beneath a mound of musty sheepskins which slid over a collection of Tupperware. Jessica pointed at a sawhorse painted in red and black stripes. “Doesn’t that show spirit! Drag it up, my dear.”

Annie perched on the sawhorse.

Jessica daintily spread her crinkly multitiered skirt. “Oh, the Little Theater. My, we’ve had some great ones. You wouldn’t have known Roderick Ransome. So good-looking. Hair as golden as a splash of sun. And brown eyes. Now, that’s a combination! Big dark eyes with eyelashes an actress would kill for. My husband didn’t care at all for some of our love scenes.” A throaty chuckle. “I was happily wed but Roderick was quite a kisser. Well, my husband put an end to that but I…”

Ten minutes later, Annie plunged into the river of reminiscences. “The Campbells. Marie Campbell. Gary Campbell.” Annie enunciated each syllable.

Jessica’s mouth formed a perfect O. Her eyes widened. “The Campbells! Why, that’s what made me think of Roderick. Though he was a good kisser. And I always remember them. Roderick might have been the best. I’m sure that’s what Marie thought.” Just for an instant her tone was sharp.

Annie had a quick sense that she was as near to grasping quicksilver as she would ever come. The words shimmered in her mind. Roderick. Kisser. Marie. And old Mrs. Campbell’s unrelenting dislike of her second daughter-in-law and coldness to her granddaughter.

Annie’s tone was casual, with no hint that she might be linking a long-dead love affair to a recent murder. “I suppose that’s why Marie and Gary quit the theater.”

Jessica’s eyelids fluttered. “There one night, gone the next. Left us with an understudy for Marie in
No, No, Nanette
. There was a lot of gossip at the time. And as it turned out”—she lifted plump hands in a dramatic gesture—“why, they could have stayed. Roderick had a chance to go out to the Pasadena Playhouse and he jumped at it.”

“I don’t suppose you have a picture of him anywhere?” Annie asked.

“I can tell you,” she said archly, “what would have happened at my house if I kept pictures of Roderick around. But if you want to know what he looked like”—and now there was a flash of spite in her dark eyes—“why, go check out the pottery table.” Her pudgy hand rose and she pointed.

Annie looked up the aisle at Marie Campbell and the teenage girl tugging on her arm, a teenage girl with hair as blond as a splash of sun and eyes dark as chocolate.

Ben Parotti lifted down a huge old leather ledger. “I don’t hold with all this computer stuff. Good old-fashioned records, that’s what I believe in. Used to be you could walk in the bank or the hardware store and find what you wanted on the shelf with a price on it and take it to the counter and pay quick as you please. Now half the time they say the computer’s down and give you a look like a lost dog. Now”—he was flipping pages—“that was three years ago, wasn’t it, when Miz Ellis went out? Let me see, yes, the middle of October as I recall and one of the biggest storms of the season. Hmm.”

Max leaned against the counter, tried to read upside down.

“A weekend,” Parotti muttered. “Would have had a lot of boats out, but I didn’t rent any because of the storm. Some damn fool tourists try to bribe you. Always ask ’em if they want to pay for the hearse at the same time. Damn fools.” He peered at Max from under beetling brows. “Didn’t rent a one that day or the next.”

“And none missing?” Max had already checked the marina overlooked by Death on Demand and the other shops that curved along the boardwalk. No boats had been stolen the dates the two women disappeared. The Pierces also owned a motorboat and a yacht. The Ellises had only the one sailboat. The Coast Guard records indicated that both Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce had been seen alone in their sailboats leaving the marina.

“Nope.” Parotti rubbed his face with a gnarled hand. “Most people who steal boats know when to stay off the water.”

“How about when Lynn Pierce disappeared? That was in April. April eighth.” Max knew the dates by heart now.

Parotti flipped pages, stopped. “Man, half the world was out that day. Rented every boat I had. Says here wind at six knots, broken clouds, sun.” He ran a blunt finger down the lines. His corrugated face squeezed in thought. “You know what, I was missing a boat that day, the
Susanna G
., a Sailfish. It was gone Thursday morning.” He looked at the top of the page. “That was April eighth.” His narrow shoulders lifted and fell. “But it was gone that morning and as I recall Miz Pierce sailed around noon, didn’t she? I remember the search didn’t start till almost six. So I guess it don’t have no connection. And somebody brought it back late that night. I found it the next morning, the morning of the ninth.”

Max felt like a man who’d stubbornly clawed his way up a treacherous incline. Now, finally, there was a knob to
hold on to. Lynn Pierce had sailed alone out into the Sound. But someone could have waited in an inlet, watched the marina and set sail after her.

A sudden poke in her back startled Annie. She swung around.

A huge man with silver-streaked black hair and a flaming red beard looked at her anxiously. He waggled a long bamboo fishing pole. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to bump you.” Toby Maguire was a reclusive island artist and about the last person Annie would have expected to see at the sale. His often truculent face blazed with delight. “This is a pole just like the one I had when my brothers and I used to sneak out of school to go fishing. I wonder if there might be an old galvanized pail anywhere.”

Annie pointed toward a corner where she’d noted a metal scrub board and assorted pails.

“Gee, thanks, Annie.”

As he brushed past, holding the pole high above his head like a knight’s lance, Annie saw Vince Ellis take Meg’s hand. The little girl looked up at him, her face alight with happiness. They turned toward the doors. Now Meg carried the blue rabbit.

Annie started after them. Vince had brushed Max off at the
Island Gazette
office. But Annie wouldn’t ask Vince about Kathryn Girard.

Stepping outside, she shaded her eyes. The well-tended front lawn was ringed by food booths. A calliope played on a small merry-go-round. Children ran and shouted. Meg tugged at Vince’s hand and pointed at a tent half filled with plastic balls. He nodded.