Carolyn G. Hart (29 page)

He squinted at her. “You intend to have any more of those Sunday night meetings?”

“God. I hadn’t thought about it.”

She ticked the survivors off in her mind: Emma, the Farleys, Fritz, Kelly, and Hal.

Saulter grinned. “There’ll be more writers coming to Broward’s Rock. I’ll bet you can start them up again in a few months.”

She knew that was the most generous gesture he could have made.

“And that boyfriend of yours can help keep everybody in line. Especially if he sets up down the boardwalk from you.”

“Sets up?”

“Yeah. He’s measuring the empty shop right now.”

“What for?”

“His detective agency.”

As Saulter left, Max came in, grinning smugly and carrying a tape measure and notepad. The two men exchanged chummy greetings in the doorway. Saulter promised to take Max fishing.

Annie opened her mouth to attack, but Max spoke first.

“I’m only doing what you asked me to.”

He was odiously pleased with himself. He draped the tape measure around Edgar and tied it in a bow, then grinned at her.

“I
asked
you—Max, I never asked you to be a private
detective. That’s ridiculous. You can’t be serious. How could a private detective agency have any business on a little island like this?”

“Why not? When word gets around how ingeniously I solved these murders when the authorities were stymied, people will flock to my agency.”

He
solved the murders! She’d get to that absurd proposition in a minute. “Dammit, Max. You are impossible. When we talked about you doing something, I meant something
real
. This is just the same old thing. Max, can’t you be serious?”

He reached out and took her hand and drew her near.

She came reluctantly.

Then a little closer.

“Max,” and her indignant voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Why can’t you—”

“Annie—”

The bell above the door jangled. They leapt apart guiltily as Mrs. Brawley poked her head inside. Her foxlike nose twitched and her bright eyes glinted, but there were more important matters than love. She darted to Annie, took her firmly by the sleeve, and started down the central aisle toward the coffee bar.

Annie was irresistibly swept along, and Max followed.

“… called and called. I know I’m the first one. Now, here’re the answers.”

Mrs. Brawley pointed to the first watercolor.

“That’s from
Easy to Kill
. And the next one’s
Funerals Are Fatal
. Then
Murder at Hazelmoor, The Moving Finger
, and
Remembered Death
. All Agatha Christies. My dear,” she chided, “is that quite fair?”

Design for Murder

1

T
he typist nodded. It was finished, as neat a design for murder as could be envisioned. Murder with malice. To be enjoyed by a select group. Well, wasn’t it deserved?

For an instant, the writer hesitated. Was public humiliation deserved? There was no question as to the answer. And perhaps the effect would be to break the pattern of silken domination, to end the ruthless manipulation masked by charm.

A gloved hand gently loosened the last sheet from the typewriter. It was an agreeable irony that the plan should be typed on the old machine that sat in the corner of the director’s office of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Should these pages ever be linked to this particular typewriter, it would reveal only that the manuscript had been produced on a machine
easily accessible to the cream of Chastain’s social hierarchy.

When the pages were neatly folded and placed in the waiting envelope, the writer read the cover letter again, then painstakingly traced a signature. It took only a moment to slip the letter inside and seal the envelope. Everything was in readiness. As soon as the mystery expert was officially hired, the letter could be mailed.

The writer looked up at a wall calendar which pictured the Prichard House, one of Chastain’s oldest and loveliest antebellum mansions. A crimson circle marked April 7.

2

I
dell Gordon tugged restlessly at her sheets. She should have gone to the dentist. Well, too late now. The upper-right back molar throbbed. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, hoping for the blessed release of sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally, wearily, she struggled upright and levered her ungainly body to the edge of the bed, peering at the luminous dial on the bedstand. Almost three o’clock. Swinging her legs over the side, she slipped into her scuffed pink satin houseshoes. Oh, her jaw, her jaw. She padded across the room to her bath and reached up for the brown plastic vial of Valium tablets. One of them might help her sleep. She filled a bathroom cup with water and swallowed the tiny pill, then suppressed a groan. It would take a while for the drug to help. She almost walked to her easy chair, but she knew she would feel better if she kept moving. She crossed the room, dodging
the potted plants and the rocking chair and the rickety maple whatnot, and opened the French window to step out onto the second-floor balcony. The soft night air swept over her, soothing and calming. It was almost warm enough to walk out in her nightdress, though it was only mid-March, but she grabbed up a shawl that she’d thrown over her rocking chair earlier that evening. The moonlight speckled the grounds below, hiding the burgeoning weeds in the beds along this side of the Inn. She sighed. Her back always hurt when she hoed, but she couldn’t afford to hire a gardener this spring. Occupancy of the Inn had been down, and it was going to be touch and go on the bills. A little flicker of panic moved in her chest. What was she going to do if the Inn failed? It would be jammed for the house-and-garden tours in April, but that wouldn’t make up for empty rooms later in the summer. She paced up and down on the balcony, gingerly holding her jaw and trying not to whimper, and careful, too, to step quietly so as not to arouse any of the sleeping guests. Then, sharp and harsh as a peacock’s cry, the gate to the grounds of the Historical Preservation Society squeaked open. Idell recognized the sound at once. She’d known it for years, the sound of the gate that marked the boundary between her Inn and the Society grounds. But why would the gate be opening? And at this hour? She bent to peer over the railing. How curious! How strange! She would have to ask—fiery hot pain lanced her jaw. She gave a soft moan and turned to go back inside.

3

C
orinne Prichard Webster stood in front of the ormolu-framed mirror. Despite the dusky, aged glass, her reflection glistened as brightly as crystal. She always enjoyed her morning encounter with her own image. Beauty was her handmaiden and had always been so. She felt confident that to men she represented the unattainable goal of perfection. Once, when she’d asked Tim if he’d like to paint her, he had been silent for a long time, then he’d said, even if grudgingly, “You’re like the first streak of rose at sunrise.” Tim was almost as poetic as he was artistic. It sickened her to realize that he’d been beguiled by Sybil, who was no better than a slut for all the glory of her old name and her wealth. Well, they needn’t think she would let Tim take his paintings from the museum. After all she’d done for him, he must realize that it was his duty to stay in Chastain. Her mouth thinned with determination,
then curved in a humorless smile. They thought it was settled, but he couldn’t very well have a show in New York without any paintings—and the paintings belonged to the Prichard Museum.