Carolyn G. Hart (64 page)
Authors: Death on Demand/Design for Murder
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective
“Who always wore gloves when dressed—but didn’t have gloves on when arriving at the murder scene? Who helped me get Corinne out of the pond and thereby accounted for her muddied clothes?
“Who would Idell offer sherry to?” A tear slipped down Annie’s cheek. Automatically, Max handed her his handkerchief, which she took gratefully. “So I phoned Lucy and told her I knew.”
Max gripped her shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me? My God, what a stupid chance to take. What if she’d come after you?”
“I didn’t think she would. She was so tired, tired of it all. And Gail meant more to her than anything, even her own safety. I didn’t think she would come.” Her voice was grave. “But I put a chair underneath the doorknob.”
“And waited for dawn.” Bobby looked at her admiringly.
“I hated doing it.”
“You should have called me.” For once there was no life and humor in Max’s voice, just puzzlement and pain. She knew it was important for him to understand. She reached out, held his hands. “I knew I could. Believe me, I know I can always call you. But sometimes you have to do things on your own. I had to do this.”
He pulled her into his arms, held her tightly for a moment. “All right,” he said gruffly, into her hair. “All right.” Then, jamming his hand through his thick blond hair, he herded them toward a table. “I don’t
know about you, Bobby, but Annie and I haven’t had any breakfast coffee.”
The reporter hesitated, but Annie took his hand. “Sanford said Gail would sleep ’til afternoon.”
They sat at the table nearest the back wall. Max made wonderfully hot and strong Kona coffee, and Bobby told them what he knew.
“She called Wells this morning. Told him to come over, she had information about the murders, that the front door would be unlocked. She left two sealed letters. In the one to the chief, she said she killed Corinne and Idell. That was all.”
Annie looked down at her letter. The penmanship looped gracefully,
Miss Annie Laurance
, in the center of the pale lavender envelope. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up, opened it.
Dear Annie,
I wanted you to know that I decided before you phoned that my only recourse was to inform Harry Wells of the truth. Please do not feel that you precipitated my death. That would grieve me, just as I am grieved over the course of events this past week.
I know this must sound odd to you and self-serving, but I am grieved and remorseful. I did not intend to follow this path.
[There was a splotch of ink, a word scratched out.]
But in this last watch of my night, I must be absolutely honest. I don’t know exactly what was in my heart. When I wrote the letter, and Idell did see me leave the Society building late that night of March 19, I am afraid I was
pleased with myself. I was going to make Corinne suffer. But did I then intend to take her life? I would like to think not. To be truthful, I don’t know.
I hated Corinne. She lied to Cameron, convinced him I was interested in him for his wealth, and he went away and met and married someone else. Yes, I hated Corinne for that.
And I hated the way she treated those around her, poor Leighton and Edith who tried so hard and talented Tim. Everyone who came within her orbit was drawn close and destroyed.
But, most of all, I hated what she was doing to Gail. Gail is so like her father, trusting and open and generous. I wouldn’t have chosen Bobby Frazier for her, but then, that’s where Corinne and I differed. I loved Gail, and I would not try to choose for her.
You were right in what you said. It should have occurred to everyone that I lived closest to the pond. I was on my way early to help out with the gala, and I came upon Gail and Bobby quarreling. I could see Corinne’s hand, see her succeeding again, as she had succeeded against me. I went back to the house. I was so angry, I paced up and down, up and down. Finally, I called Corinne and argued with her. She was furious. She told me it was none of my concern and that her decision was irrevocable. I didn’t know that Gail and Bobby had talked again, and they were going to continue to see each other, no matter what Corinne did. I don’t know if I would have acted differently if I had known. But I didn’t know, and I asked Corinne to meet me at the pond.
Perhaps that reveals the truth of the matter, for why did I choose the pond? I could have gone to Prichard House; she could have come here. But in my mind I knew that the Mystery Night clues would be in place—and the croquet mallet.
We met, and we quarreled, and she turned to leave, imperious as always. I snatched up the mallet and struck her down.
When it was done, I threw the mallet into the water, then I leaned over Corinne. She was still breathing. It was dreadful and I hate remembering it, but I pulled her into the water—and left her to drown. My gloves, and you were clever to see that I must have been wearing them, were wet. I pulled them off and wadded them up and threw them into the center of the pond. My shoes and dress were wet, too, but I waited by the gate, knowing someone would soon find her and I could dash into the pond. Of course, I heard your screams when you found Corinne, and I came.
As for Idell, she called and said she was going to try for Leighton’s reward, unless I could do better than the $5,000. She suggested $10,000. I told her I would bring some money during the Mystery Night program. That afternoon, I went to the Museum. The back door is never locked during working hours, and I slipped down the stairs to the basement. I’ve been on the Museum Board for years, and I knew all about the electroplating—and the cyanide of potassium. I took some with me in a plastic medicine vial. During the Mystery Night, I walked up to the Inn and went to the office
door. Idell and I visited. She wasn’t worried. After all, the desk clerk would hear if she called out. We each had a glass of sherry. I told her I thought it was excellent and shouldn’t we have another to celebrate our agreement. I was wearing gloves. I got up and stood between her and the decanter and emptied the vial into it, then poured each of us a fresh glass, and watched while she drank hers. It was very quick. I felt sick then. I emptied my second glass into the decanter, then took the glass with me, wrapped up in a paper from her desk. That night, after the mystery program was over, I threw it into the pond.
The clock has just struck five. I’ve listened to that clock all my life and the deep bell has always meant
‘All is well.’
Now it is tolling the end. Please try to explain to Gail that I never meant for her to be hurt, and forgive me for the unhappiness I have caused.
Lucy Haines
The phone rang. With a searching glance at Annie’s face, Max reached out and answered.
“Death on Demand.” Then his voice relaxed. “Oh sure, Barbie, I’ll be down in a little while. Anything new?”
Bobby finished his coffee, and pushed back his chair.
Max whooped on the phone. “Great. Yeah. Bring it down. Right now. No, no, don’t open it.”
Annie and Bobby looked at him curiously.
Max looked enormously pleased.
Bobby pushed his chair up to the table, then turned
to study the watercolors. “I didn’t really get a chance to see these during the Mystery Nights.”
The front door bell sang, and Barbie came cheerfully down the aisle. “Hi, Annie. Hi, Max. Glad to see you guys back. Been having fun?” She peered at them more closely. “Gee, you look beat.” Turning to Max, she thrust a small parcel into his hands. “Here’s the package from London.”
“Thanks, Barbie. I’ll be down in a little while.”
She smiled and left.
He took Annie by the arm and steered her up the central aisle to the diagonal shelving that held all the Agatha Christies.
He held out the parcel. “A little something for you.”
Max did love a dramatic production. It was probably a first edition of one of her favorites,
Cat Among the Pigeons
or
The Hollow
.
She found some scissors at the main desk and carefully slit open the package. Reaching inside, she felt her first twinge of puzzlement. Not a book. Odd, that felt like a frame—
She pulled it out and lifted it to look. There was clear glass on both sides. Sandwiched between the plates of glass was a single sheet of extremely thin paper, the aerogram used in England during World War II. The writing was small, to conserve space.
7 May 1943
Highgate
My dearest Max,
I am involved in such an absurd project, and I don’t quite know how it came about. Stephen Glanville is to blame. He’s bullied me into setting a detective story in Ancient Egypt! I resisted
at first, but now I am quite into it and …
The letter continued with a reference to the shortage of eggs and news of friends in the theater, a discussion of Iago’s character, and how Rosalind, expecting her first child, was feeling.
Annie read it through in a rush, looked up at Max, eyes wide, read it again, then flung herself into his arms.
“Max, Max, Max! Where ever did you get it? How did you possibly find a letter from Agatha Christie to her husband during the War? Oh, my God, she was writing
Death Comes As The End
. How did you do it?”
He smiled cherubically. “I just called around, nudged some people. You like it?”
“Like it? Like it!” She held the framed letter to the light, trying to decide where it would fit best on the shelf. Then she turned to him, “Max, you’re wonderful.”
He nodded complacently.
“What can I ever do—” She stopped short, looked at him in growing understanding.
He knew when to attack. “Actually, you know, I’ve been thinking about September.”
She nodded in complete understanding.
“And I think you’re right about a wedding here on Broward’s Rock.”
She was speechless.
“Of course,” he held up an admonishing finger, “I thought up an innovation or two.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, a lovely, simple wedding at St. Mary’s-By-The-Sea, then I’d like to plan the rest of it.” He smiled his best, most Maxish smile. “It’s the latest thing.” His
voice was at its smoothest, most persuasive. “You know, you’ve read all about it in the
New York Times
, the three-day wedding. We’ll invite everybody, at my expense, of course, to the Island. We’ll have a bachelor’s golf game on Friday, and you can plan a tennis tournament for the bridesmaids, and a dinner that night at the club, then the wedding Saturday morning, and perhaps a regatta in the afternoon. On Sunday, we can—”
She looked at the precious framed letter and then at Max. Was she a pigheaded, stiffnecked, class-conscious spoilsport? Perhaps it was time to fish or cut bait. If she married Max, she married his millions. After all, marriage was for better or worse.
She was turning to step into his arms, when Bobby called out, “Hey, Annie!”
She gave Max a just-a-minute look and turned toward the coffee area. “Yes?”
“How much are these paintings? Gee, I’d love to buy them. I collect hard-boileds.”
“Do you know them all?”
“Sure.” He pointed to the paintings in order. “The first picture is Sam Spade in
The Maltese Falcon
, the second is Philip Marlowe in
The Big Sleep
, the third is Lew Archer in
The Moving Target
, the fourth is Travis McGee in
The Dreadful Lemon Sky
, and the last one’s Spenser in
The Godwulf Manuscript.”
He grinned. “Do you suppose we’ll ever find out Spenser’s first name?”
Death on Demand
Design for Murder
Something Wicked
Honeymoon with Murder
A Little Class on Murder
Deadly Valentine
The Christie Caper
Mint Julep Murder
Southern Ghost
Dead Man’s Island
Scandal in Fair Haven
Available from Bantam Books
An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn G. Hart is the author of eighteen Death on Demand mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series.
One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Carolyn G. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Visit her website at
www.carolynhart.com
.
