April Fool Dead (11 page)

 

Rachel burst into the breakfast room, her cerise backpack dangling from one arm. She darted to a cupboard, opened it. “I'll grab a PowerBar. Got to run to catch the bus.” She paused in the doorway, eyes shining. “Annie, you have super ideas. Everything's totally tight. The senior girls are wild about this threat to Diane—and they think I'm like a wizard.” She flapped the reward sheets. “See ya.” She plunged into the front hall and banged through the door.

Max touched the red line where he'd cut himself
while shaving. He looked at Annie, his dark blue eyes somber and weary.

She understood. He didn't have to speak. “Max, Laurel's okay.” Annie turned her hands palms-up. “I believe it. I believe”—she heard her words with a sense of surprise—“in Laurel. Yes, she's mixed up in something bad, but she's handling it. We have to trust her and do what she's asked. We have to act like nothing's wrong. We can't run around the island looking for her or acting worried.”

 

Henny Brawley loved having her morning coffee and dish of applesauce on the deck. As she sipped the strong Colombian brew, a female hawk—a little larger and darker than her male counterpart—glided toward the marsh, calling, “Chit, chit, chit.” Henny lifted her mug in salute. From one flying lady to another. She finished the coffee, still smiling. What a lovely way to start the day. Through the open window, she heard the chime of her small Dresden clock. Seven o'clock. It was early to call, but she wanted to catch Kay before she left for school.

Henny picked up the portable phone, punched the familiar number. Perhaps she'd drop by school. Have lunch with Kay. It was always pleasant to visit there. It had been a while since she'd substituted. Of course, her area was English and Kay taught social studies and American history. Kay knew more about the New Deal than anyone Henny had ever known. A good teacher. Henny frowned. No answer. Surely Kay hadn't already left? Of course, she may have had a special meeting, some reason to reach school early. Henny clicked off
the phone. She stared out at the marsh, not seeing it, hearing once again Kay's troubled voice. Henny pushed back her chair, hurried inside.

 

Annie poked Max with her elbow. “Smile, smile, smile.” They stood in front of the door to Confidential Commissions.

Max forced a grin. “Okay. Can't let down the side.”

“Laurel always lands on her feet.” And such prettily shod feet. Annie was willing to bet that whatever Laurel's costume of the moment, her shoes would be a perfect match. It was a good thing Annie didn't aspire to stylish greatness. She would never match her mother-in-law.

Max unlocked the door. “Even a cat only has nine lives. But”—now his smile was genuine—“you're right. Besides, she can't have tangled into anything too serious. She probably just hacked a good old boy, ran her boat in front of his, something like that.”

So he brought a machete when he came calling? But Annie didn't voice her thought. It was good to see Max relaxing. And in any encounter with the ungodly, as Leslie Charteris's The Saint always dubbed the bad guys, Annie's money would be on Laurel.

Annie felt a rush of happiness. On a sparkling morning such as this—and not even heaven could be lovelier than a sea island—everything had to be fine. After all, Laurel had called to reassure them and no one but they knew she was on the island. By Annie's own energetic efforts, the fake flyers had been thoroughly discredited. What had looked to be sheer social disaster for Rachel was turning into a tour de force that might
well win her an elite status at school. And—Annie crossed fingers on both hands—no doubt when she went into Death on Demand, there would be a message that Emma's new books were en route. Buoyed by optimism, Annie stood on tiptoe, kissed Max's cheek.

Instantly, his eyes gleamed. “Hey, maybe we should have lunch at home today.”

Her peal of laughter rang across the silent boardwalk. Dear Max. Dear irrepressible, sexy, man-of-one-mind Max. “I'll take it under advisement.” She'd never really known what that meant, but it had a nice positive ring. She evaded his seeking hand and hurried up the boardwalk to Death on Demand.

 

Henny drove a little faster than usual. It wouldn't hurt to go by Kay's house and check on her. She was much younger than Henny, but not young. In fact, Kay planned to retire next year. She would miss teaching. Henny knew that. There was enormous pleasure in seeing a mind thrill to learning, a pleasure unlike any other. And there was also the joy of youth—fresh faces, unquenched spirits, vitality, eagerness. The flip side wasn't so pleasant—sullen resistance to effort of any kind and the darkness of bigotry, the cruelty of rejection, the downward spiral of drugs. Most chilling of all was the uncertainty of what might happen on any given day. No teacher would ever forget Columbine.

As Henny turned into Clapper Rail Lane, a blue Mustang convertible swerved around a curve, narrowly missing Henny's old black Dodge. The driver tossed blond curls, lifted her shoulders, smiled an apology. The car eased to a stop, as did Henny's Dodge.
The driver of the Mustang leaned out her window. “Sorry, Mrs. Brawley. Nobody ever comes this way so early.”

“That's okay, Meredith.” Henny's voice was warm. She'd substituted in senior English often enough last fall to know that Meredith Muir was a superb student, though there was a hardness in her young eyes that worried Henny. “I'm going to Mrs. Nevis's house. Did you happen to notice if her car's there?”

Meredith brushed back a strand of long blond hair. “Mrs. Nevis's car?” Her face still and thoughtful, Meredith stared at Henny. “Yeah. I think so. Is something wrong?”

Henny wished she'd said nothing. There was no reason to alarm the girl. Obviously, Meredith had picked up on Henny's worry. Meredith had always been empathetic, quick to understand characters and motivation. There was always one in every class who understood the horror of Lady Macbeth's ceaseless hand washing.

Henny forced a smile. “I'm sure everything's all right. She didn't answer when I called a few minutes ago, but she may not have heard the phone.”

Meredith glanced at her watch. “Would you like for me to come with you to see?”

Kay surely would not appreciate a delegation that included the student who lived in the house across the marsh. And there was no point in making Meredith late for school. Henny smiled. “No, that's fine. You scoot along. But thank you, Meredith.”

When Clapper Rail Lane reached the marsh, it curved north to the Muir house and south to Kay's house. The
Muir house was a rambling three stories with skylights and porches. A long pier led out to the deeper water. A white clapboard cabana overlooked a shamrock-shaped pool. Kay's gray wood house on the other side of the inlet was much more modest, built on stilts, like Henny's, with a deck that overlooked the marsh.

Henny turned left. She'd already spotted Kay's tan Camry on the oyster-shell drive next to the house. Henny pulled up beside the small car. She glanced toward the car as she parked and saw—could not miss seeing—an irregular X, perhaps three inches tall, scratched deeply on the driver's door. Henny sat for a moment, frowning. The defacement had to be deliberate. This was not a careless smash from the door of the next car in a parking lot. Some hand had scratched that X. How ugly…

Henny slammed out of her car and the sound was loud and intrusive in the serenity of the marsh. A Louisiana heron, spectacular with its purplish-blue neck and back, white chest and brownish plumes, flapped into the sky. A black anhinga low on a cypress limb dived into the water. As Henny clattered up the wooden front steps, hundreds of fiddler crabs scampered along the mud banks.

It was quiet, so quiet. Henny reached the deck. The front door was ajar.

“Kay? Kay?” Henny pulled open the screen, pushed
the door. She stepped inside. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Kay…”

Henny reached out, held the doorframe for support.

“T
HERE SHE IS
!” Annie pointed at the somber figure standing next to the old Dodge. Henny's dark head was bent, her hands plunged deep into the pockets of her coral linen skirt. Her car and a tan Camry were hemmed in by two police cruisers, a paramedic van, and Dr. Burford's old Ford pickup. The caduceus symbol on the rear window was faded, as were the stickers denoting his status as medical examiner and hospital chief of staff.

Max slowed. “There's no place to park.” He glanced across the marsh. The tide was out and the marsh mud glistened. Two great white egrets, their plumes shiny white in the morning sun, waded in the shallow water, long yellow bills poking down to snare a seafaring snack.

Annie twisted in her seat. “We can park on the other side of the inlet.”

Max put the Ferrari in reverse, stuck his head out the window. When he reached the fork, he turned and drove fast, dust roiling, toward an open area by the pier. He glanced toward the huge yellow house as he jolted to a stop. “Doesn't look like anybody's home. In any event, we aren't in the way here.”

Annie was already out of the car and running down the road. She waved. “Henny. Henny!”

Henny's head lifted. She walked swiftly toward
them. “Annie, Max.” Her face pale and drawn, she reached out, gripped Annie's hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course we came.” Annie glanced toward the small, attractive, well-kept house. “Would you like for us to take you home? We can get your car later.”

“Home?” Henny's tone was absent. “I hadn't thought about getting home. I'd better stay, I think. I've got to call Kay's daughter. Charlotte lives in California. I'll have to help her with everything, the funeral, cleaning the…house.” Henny took a deep breath. “They're going to”—she paused, pressed her fingers briefly to her lips—“take Kay away in a little while. Dr. Burford said she was shot. They found some cartridge cases. I didn't see those.” Henny shuddered. “I found her in the front hall. She was lying on her back. She'd been dead for some time. The blood was dark and thick. I didn't see a gun. I came out to my car and called 911 and you.”

The front door opened and attendants maneuvered a laden gurney across the threshold.

Annie slipped her arm around Henny, tried to turn her away as the procession bumped down the steep wooden steps.

Henny stood quite stiff and straight, staring at the covered form.

Annie tugged. “Come on, Henny. You can call from your house.”

“No.” Dark eyes moved slowly toward Annie. “You don't understand. You've got to talk to Pete.”

Annie was startled. The young police chief would be deeply engaged in his investigation. “Henny, Pete
won't talk to me. I scarcely knew Kay. I don't know anything that would help him.”

Henny grabbed her arm. “Those flyers, Annie. The fake flyers.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “They were thrown around the foyer, hundreds of them.” Henny loosed her grip. “You've got to talk to Pete.”

 

Emma Clyde glanced at her watch and gave an impatient shrug. “I'm right in the middle of Chapter Seventeen.” She paced back and forth, her flaming orange caftan swirling, her stubby-heeled white shoes clicking on the heart-pine floor of Max's office.

Henny's dark eyes flashed. “Very inconvenient of Kay to be murdered when you have a deadline.”

“I'm here,” Emma snapped. “Though Kay certainly should have expected trouble. Those flyers were designed to upset people.”

“I don't believe Kay made those flyers.” Henny threw up her hands. “I don't care if the flyers were there. Kay would never do something like that.”

“Nice of you to stick up for your friend.” Emma's smile was cold. “I knew Kay. She was not a woman who welcomed diversity.”

Henny sighed. “True. And untrue. Yes, she had definite values in which she believed, but she was kind and good.”

Annie glanced at Max. He was staring moodily at the indoor putting green, hefting a putter in one hand. He wasn't paying any attention to the bickering between Emma and Henny. Annie understood. Pete Garrett was on his way to Confidential Commissions and Max had a decision to make.

Annie took two steps, leaned close. “Don't tell him.”

His reply was equally soft. “Ma must have been in the Sound last night. She must have seen the murderer getting away. That's what she said—no running lights.”

“But she couldn't identify him.” Annie ran her fingers through her hair. “Or her.”

Max's eyes were troubled. “Annie, we have to tell Pete. It might make a big difference to know the murderer came by boat.”

Annie folded her arms. Her voice was as light as the rustle of cordgrass in the breeze. “We can't. Laurel said it was a matter of life or death.”

Max wrapped both hands around the shaft. “What if it's Ma's life?”

Annie recalled Laurel's firm—yes, firm, determined, decisive—tone when she ordered them not in any way to permit her name to be associated with the police. Annie heard the front door to Confidential Commissions open. Barb's voice rose in greeting. “Hi, Chief. They're waiting in Max's office. Go right through there.”

Quick, quick, Annie knew she had to be quick. She whispered, “Something's going on. Look, Laurel will be fine. She's…” What was the right word for Laurel? Unsquashable? Irrepressible? “…unstoppable. And nobody's fool.” Laurel had run into trouble and she had gone to earth faster than a marsh rabbit running from a gray fox. “As soon as Pete catches the person who killed Kay, Laurel will be safe. Besides, Pete's okay, but if we told him your mother was out in
the Sound near the time of the murder and she refused to say why and she's hiding out…” Annie watched Max's expressive face, saw worry, uncertainty, and rapid calculation.

Pete Garrett strode through the doorway, Billy Cameron right behind him. Sprigs of wiry blond hair poked from beneath Garrett's cap. His round face gave him the aura of a choirboy, but his blue eyes, though young, were cold and tough. He'd worked hard since taking over from the island's longtime police chief Frank Saulter, but he wasn't their old friend, not like Frank. Annie resented Garrett's brusque manner. Was he compensating for his youth? Or did he have a tendency to bull to a quick conclusion because any hesitancy might be equated with weakness?

Garrett nodded at them. “Appreciate your taking time to meet with me.” The words were polite, but his tone was formal. Exceedingly formal.

Billy flipped open a notebook, studied the blank page, avoiding Annie's eyes.

Max frowned, tossed the putter onto the green. “Sure, Pete. Glad to help.” He folded his arms, lounged against the end of his desk.

The young police chief marched to Annie, stared down at her, his blue eyes measuring. “You got pretty mad when somebody played a trick with flyers headlined just like the ones from your store.”

Annie stood up as tall as her five feet five would allow. “Wait a minute, Pete Garrett. Sure I got mad. I also got busy and took care of it. I made it clear to everybody on the island—or darn near everybody—that those flyers had nothing to do with me or my store
or Emma's signing. Are you accusing me of shooting Mrs. Nevis?”

Garrett folded his arms. His eyes glistened. “How did you know she was shot?”

“Pete, for heaven's sake”—Henny's tone was disgusted—“I told Annie. I heard what Dr. Burford said. Now you stop being silly—”

Garrett's neck turned bright red. “There are witnesses all over town who heard Annie say she was going to find out who put out those flyers. Well, maybe she did.”

“Hold up, Garrett.” Max moved toward him.

Henny slapped her hands on her hips and glared. “Annie never shot anyone. That's absurd.”

Barb poked her head in the room. “I've made some coffee.” She edged inside with a tray.

Garrett waved Barb away. “Someone shot Mrs. Nevis and those flyers in her house make it pretty clear she's the one who put them all over the island. Where were you from eleven to one last night, Annie?”

“At home. With me. All night.” Max butted up to Garrett like a baseball manager confronting an umpire.

Annie loved it, but enough was enough. “Down, Max. It's okay.” She gently pulled him away from the red-faced police chief and looked at Garrett. “I know you have to talk to everyone, and you're right, I was hunting for the person who put out those flyers. But I doubt”—and now her tone was thoughtful—“that I was searching half as hard as the people accused of everything from adultery to murder.”

Henny slipped off her glasses, dropped them into the pocket of her skirt. “Annie, Pete, you've got to lis
ten to me. This is crazy. Annie didn't shoot Kay. And I don't care how many flyers you found at her house, Kay had nothing to do with them. We were supposed to play bridge last night and she left a message canceling the game, saying she had something she had to attend to. When I got home from Savannah, there was another message. She sounded worried. She said”—Henny frowned in concentration—“that she'd made a stand and she couldn't back down. That has nothing to do with those damn flyers.”

“No?” Emma sniffed. “What were those flyers but a very public attack? I think they certainly would qualify as taking a stand.”

Henny threw up her hands. “I heard the message. I heard the way she sounded. I'm telling you that she was worried, that she was waiting to receive some kind of assurance about some matter. I'll tell you further that Kay was never devious. She would never have stooped to putting out scurrilous flyers.”

“Maybe she didn't see the accusations as scurrilous.” Max's voice was gentle. “If she believed everything in them to be true…”

“Never.” Henny clapped her hands together. “Never.”

“To the contrary”—Emma's gravelly voice grated—“she fits my profile perfectly.”

Pete Garrett raised a hand. “Mrs. Clyde, I'll get to you if you'll be patient.”

Emma simply lifted her voice to its rock-crusher level. “When you study the flyers, it becomes clear to the meanest intelligence…”

Annie whispered to Max, “That's us. She, of course, is brilliant.”

“…that no personal knowledge was required to mention the deaths of Ricky Morales or Laura Fleming. At first glance, this would seem to be true also concerning the hit-and-run death of Bob Tower. There is, however, a significant revelation in the second flyer.” Emma's bright blue eyes swept from face to face. “The red Jeep.” She paused for emphasis. “There was no mention of a search for a red Jeep in any of the public accounts. I checked to be certain. However”—that broad, stubby hand chopped the air—“the second flyer cites a red Jeep belonging to the Littlefield family. That argues personal knowledge on the part of the person who created the flyers.”

Annie hesitated, then knew she had to speak. “Diane Littlefield…”

Everyone looked at her.

“…drives a red Jeep. She's a senior in high school.”

“Hey.” Max's voice was eager. “Bob was hit early in the morning. And he lived on the same road as the Littlefields. What if Diane was on her way to school and going too fast?”

Garrett's face was still several shades too red, but he was busily writing in a small notebook.

“School! There it is. That explains everything.” Emma spoke with finality, moved to a nearby chair and picked up her huge white straw purse. “Or almost everything. It particularly explains the inside information necessary for the accusation that Frank Saulter framed Jud Hamilton. Colleen Hamilton was also a teacher.”

“Oh my God, so it wasn't a coincidence at all!” Annie exclaimed.

Again every face turned toward her.

“Frank.” She looked at the inquiring circle of faces. She didn't want to recount her conversation with Frank and her frightened feeling that Frank was prepared to shoot Jud Hamilton if he came. But…“I talked to Frank. He said Jud Hamilton's been paroled. I'll bet people at school knew that.” There would be those who remembered Colleen Hamilton and kept up with her family. They would know that Hamilton was now free and they might well have heard whispers about Jud's alibi at the time of Colleen's death.

Emma slung her bag over her shoulder. “Kay fits the bill in every way. She would be able to use a computer to draw up the information about the drownings. She could easily know that Diane Littlefield drives a red Jeep. She certainly knew Colleen and Jud Hamilton.” The writer's broad face creased. “The only accusation we can't link to the school is the adultery at Least Tern Lane. However”—she swung toward the doorway to the anteroom—“I'll wager some mother drives a Range Rover.”

Annie stared at Emma's retreating back in awe. Damned if the wily writer hadn't scored again. Yes, indeed a mother did. Lily Caldwell's mother, if Rachel was correct.

Emma paused in the doorway. “Obviously, the prime suspects in the murder of Kay”—her cool glance at Annie combined amusement and dismissal—“other than Annie, of course, are the driver of the car that
killed Bob Tower or anyone wishing to protect that driver; the resident on Least Tern Lane…”

Annie knew it wouldn't take Garrett five minutes to track down Paul Marlow, the very handsome Paul Marlow.

“…and his lover who drives a Range Rover.” She paused, then continued in a clipped voice, “Former police chief Frank Saulter, anyone present on the
Leisure Moment
the night Laura Fleming drowned, and”—her smile was bleak—“
moi
. I will state for the record that I did not shoot Kay. And now I must get back to Chapter Seventeen.” Her brisk steps clipped across the anteroom floor. The front door slammed.

“The Range Rover.” Annie's voice was reluctant. But Pete needed to know. “Rachel told me that Lily Caldwell's mother drives a Range Rover.”