Deadly Valentine (28 page)

The implication was unnerving. Eileen Houghton’s appraisal saw the general as physically—but not mentally or emotionally—incapable of brutality against Sydney.

No wonder Annie felt cold. It was obvious the general’s wife looked at everyone with a cool and objective eye.

Now those coldly dissecting eyes fastened on Annie. “You must tell the police as soon as possible. Right now. It sickens me to think of Howard, locked in a cell for no reason.”

“Oh, he’s out of jail,” Annie said reassuringly.

That surprised Eileen. She blinked and for an instant her face was totally expressionless. “He has been freed?”

“On bail,” Annie clarified. “He’s charged with murder”—again an emotion Annie couldn’t read touched those pale eyes—“but he’s definitely free on bail.”

“I drove by his house a few minutes ago. He usually leaves his car in the turnaround. I didn’t see it.” Eileen didn’t quite say it accusingly, but she was by no means convinced.

“I don’t know where his car is,” Annie replied. “But I talked to him just a little while ago. There was a limousine there, and Howard was getting ready to leave for Sydney’s services.”

Annie remembered one of those hundreds of facts she’d absorbed from the bios. Private services. Who would be there to mourn?

“Eileen! Eileen!”

Eileen and Annie looked toward the shore.

The general stood by an obelisk sundial beside their patio.

Eileen lifted her hand in acknowledgment and started for shore. “Coming, Colville.” She didn’t noticeably hurry, but she moved briskly, her footsteps echoing from the wooden planks of the pier. After a moment’s hesitation, Annie followed.

The general remained in place, a gnarled hand clasped to his cane. He wore brown slacks, a white shirt, a tweed sports coat, but his attire looked as military as any uniform. Perhaps it was because he stood and awaited them so rigidly, his shoulders back, his head lifted imperiously.

As they came close, Annie realized he was staring at her fixedly, his dark liverish eyes unwavering, his downturned mouth a tight line between his sunken cheeks.

“Jezebel,” he trumpeted at Annie.

Eileen’s colorless eyebrows rose for an instant, then her face was as bland as cream stucco. “Colville, Mrs. Darling is just leaving. You know that she’s involved with trying to help Howard. You’ll be glad to hear Howard’s been released from jail.” She turned toward Annie with an empty social smile. “Thank you so much for coming over. It’s time now for the general to rest, but we’ll be—”

The ugly blue pulse in Houghton’s right temple throbbed. “Bitches. All the young bitches.” He stooped toward Annie, eyes blazing. “Don’t think you can sneak around and not be found out. Walk four miles around the pond. Every morning. Saw you this morning, young woman. Shameless. Going to that boy’s room—he without a stitch of clothes and you with the bare legs of a harlot.”

Eileen’s head jerked toward Annie.

Annie was so shocked that she stared at the general open-mouthed.

“Fornicating with a boy. Sickening. Leading him to evil.”

“General Houghton, I know you aren’t well, but you would be better advised to ask before you jump to—”

The old man’s chest heaved with his anger and his words rolled over hers. “Graham ought to horsewhip that young pup—and that’s what your husband ought to do to you! Lash those bare legs till you’d cover them forever.”

Annie exploded. “And maybe your wife ought to wash your mouth out with soap, General. I doubt if she could clean up your filthy mind. I wanted to talk to Joel Graham before he left for school—and he’d just stepped out of the shower. But he did have on a towel, General. Next time when you eavesdrop try to get a little closer. Or maybe you
could get a seeing eye dog to help you out. As for Joel Graham, that kid’s about as obnoxious in his way as you are in yours. But I
know
that he knows something about Sydney’s murder—and I’m going to find out what it is!”

She whirled and stalked off, leaving a shocked silence behind her.

She had reached the tennis court at the Cahills’ when she began to shake with delayed reaction. That nasty old man. That creep. That—she stumbled to a stop remembering the hatred and fury in his eyes—that murderer?

Then she heard, finally piercing her anger, a plaintive cry.

“Annie? Anniiieeee?”

Voices carry beautifully in the humid air of Broward’s Rock, even husky, soft voices like Laurel’s.

Thank heaven, Laurel was finally home—and
not
with Howard. Annie broke into a trot.

The husky call came again. Annie picked up speed, although it was hard to run in leather shoes. Laurel didn’t sound like she was in trouble, but, with everything that had happened, Annie wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, she had her orders: collar Laurel and find out what she was up to.

Annie tore along the asphalt path. She hardly spared a glance at the gazebo. Would she ever see it—ever—without an instantaneous hideous recall of Sydney, crumpled on the steps?

Tendrils of Spanish moss fell victim to her breakneck speed. Frantic rustlings in the undergrowth signaled the rapid redeployment of startled raccoons, squirrels, cotton rats, and marsh rabbits. Her right foot stubbed on a pinecone, kicking it into a pile of leaves. A chuck-will’s-widow, the nocturnal bird that sieves insects from the air during its low-level flights, rose sluggishly, rudely awakened.

When Annie burst out of the green tunnel onto their patio, she was too breathless to gasp in amazement, but she couldn’t help exclaiming, “Laurel, what are you
doing?”

If Posey could see Max’s mother now, there would be no
doubt in the circuit solicitor’s mind that he was dealing with a loony.

Laurel’s pith helmet tilted at a rakish angle because of the saucy ponytail that peeked from beneath the back rim. However, despite the severity of her khaki blouse and slacks (Banana Republic safari special?), Laurel, as always, exuded femininity. Only the pale pink of the scarf at her throat and the deep rose of her knapsack reflected her usual exquisite taste.

She beamed at Annie, her dark blue eyes aglow with fervor.

“Contemplation, my dear, that was the way of so many of the saints. They withdrew from society, seeking the solitude of caves or desert. Their names are legion, from Saint Acepsimas to the Blessed Hugolino Zefferini.” A tiny frown. “It’s too bad the water level is so high here. No caves at all. And, of course, the desert is
such
a distance. But a determined mind can circumvent all such geographic deficiencies. I shall retreat to the center of Scarlet King Lagoon.” She gestured at her knapsack. “Of course, the
modern
approach is to eschew deprivation. I heartily concur, don’t you, Annie?”

“Uh—”

“I find that I think best when the body is nurtured.” Another tiny frown. “Your refrigerator is somewhat of a challenge. I’m sure”—a reassuring smile—“that it is only because of the recent move. I know, when you have a moment free from murder and mayhem, you will sally forth and return with a plethora of fruit. I do so enjoy mangoes and kiwi. Such
cheerful
fruits. But one must accept what one finds, though I would never have expected such a concentration of”—a delicate pause—“calorie-laden edibles: chocolate chip banana loaf, chocolate truffles, chocolate crispy cookies, chocolate chip sour cream cake.” Laurel’s head tilted sideways in gentle inquiry. The pith helmet began to slip. Laurel righted it with an elegantly manicured hand, the shell-pink polish rosy in the sunlight. “Surely, my dear, an overabundance from the cacao plant? But do not be concerned. Ever self-reliant—as all the dear saints encourage—I surveyed the possibilities and have put together a supply of
appropriate foods for my retreat.” She pointed proudly. “Strawberry yogurt, lemon-flavored seltzer, carrots, cantaloupe, and pepitas.”

None of it sounded familiar to Annie, but she didn’t keep track of Max’s grocery purchases. To each his own. She looked down and noted the minicooler, but her glance locked on Laurel’s footwear. Desert boots?

Laurel lifted one foot, which still managed to look disgustingly dainty, and wriggled it. “So appropriate for sojourns in the wilds.”

Annie checked the lagoon, simmering in the toasty sunlight, lime green algae, produced by the unseasonable heat, drifted sluggishly. The lagoon did indeed look springlike, creeping marsh pennywort and canna lilies abounding. But it did not resemble Annie’s vision of the wilds.

Annie smiled hugely. “A splendid idea, Laurel,” she said heartily. “Meditation is just the thing.” Though she doubted that the Desert Fathers or any of the other reclusive saints would consider Laurel’s topic suitable. But no matter. What safer spot could exist? Laurel in midlagoon aboard a rowboat sounded dandy to Annie. She bent to pick up her mother-in-law’s rose knapsack.

A muffled ring sounded.

In a half crouch, Annie froze and stared at the knapsack. Some kind of bomb?

Another muffled peal.

Laurel swooped to the knapsack, unzipped the top, and lifted out a mobile phone. “Hello.” Her husky voice exuded good cheer and happy expectation. “Oh, Henny. How are you, my dear?” Attention, then a vigorous headshake, setting the ponytail in motion and the pith helmet adrift. A slim hand patiently righted it. “One must always have the proper perspective,” she said gently. “I am taking the
long
view. I find it quite inconceivable that poor, irritable Mr. Posey—one sometimes is forced to wonder if he suffers from intestinal maladies—so typical of those with protuberant stomachs—too much food
confuses
the digestive tract—will persist in his unjust accusations. And the judge—such a
forceful
man—agreed ever so strongly with dear Mr. McClanahan that it was quite unjust to deny bail to Howard
and to me. Of course, even I will admit that dear Howard is being difficult. I told him it was quite absurd, his present posture, he suspecting Carleton and Carleton suspecting him. I told him that he should go home and have a good
talk
with Carleton, though I very much fear that his normal good judgment is impaired. Parents are always so fearful for their children.” She nodded emphatically; the pith helmet dropped over her right ear. Shell-pink nails flashed as she put it back in place. “And I intend to meditate upon our future course.” She listened for a moment, then a genuinely affectionate smile touched her classic features. “Why, yes, she’s here. She just came.” Laurel handed the receiver to Annie.

Annie took the phone and braced herself. She wasn’t disappointed.

“The thing about it is, it’s a job. You don’t have to take a lot of crap.” A world-weary voice. “And I’ll take on almost anything. If I feel like it.”

“Another private investigator.”

“Right. And I don’t like crooked races.”

Annie almost asked how she’d like a crooked nose, but she couldn’t resist trying to recall PIs who were into horses. A Dick Francis book? But his heroes weren’t private eyes. Did anybody else do horses?

“Horses,” she muttered.

Laurel, who was rummaging in her knapsack, looked up inquiringly.

“A big hint,” Henny offered in her own voice, thick with satisfaction. “Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Oh, dammit,” Annie said irritably. “I give up. Another first novel?”

Laurel made a sympathetic moue and fished out a pair of binoculars.

Annie gritted her teeth. How maddening to be the object of Laurel’s pity! As her mother-in-law arched one perfect blond brow in inquiry, Annie tried to move her lips into a smile, but knew she probably looked as sincere as Sergeant Barbara Havers when she was assigned to work with Inspector Thomas Lynley. Annie’s smile improved. By golly, there
was
a first novel she had read, Elizabeth
George’s
A Great Deliverance
. Her smile fled. She couldn’t figure out any way to work it into the conversation.

“So unsporting of you, Annie, to give up so quickly.
The Last Private Eye
by John Birkett. Michael Rhineheart, PI. A very good read.”

“Thank you, Henny.” She was proud of her polite tone. “When I have time for fictional murders, I’ll keep it in mind.” Inspiration struck. “Right now, I’m concentrating on the job. Just like Sergeant Havers.”

“Touche,” Henny retorted, goodhumoredly. “Best book of the year. Listen, Annie, I’ve found out about the valentine. Of course, a few points about the valentine are obvious. Anyone with any investigative abilities can figure out
when
Sydney received it and
how.”
Henny waited expectandy.

Annie recalled her conversation with Ingrid the day before. Annie wasn’t above regurgitating what she’d learned from the source, one of those talents honed so sharply in college. “Obviously,” she replied smugly, “from the content and from Sydney’s presence at the gazebo, she received it Tuesday.”

A deflated pause. “Oh. Well. Glad you figured it out, too.”

Annie knew she should be ashamed to accept equal credit. After all, it was Henny who’d reported this deduction to Ingrid, who had, in turn, passed it along to Annie. But Arthur Abdel Simpson, the protagonist of Eric Ambler’s
The Light of Day
, was a con man, a petty thief, an inept police spy, and one of Annie’s favorites in all of mystery fiction. Obviously, there was no hope for her character.

“Do you know
how
Sydney got it?” the bookstore’s greatest reader asked grumpily.

Time to restore Henny’s good humor. “No. But I’ll bet you’ve found out.”

Laurel, too polite, of course, to evince impatience, turned her profile to Annie, displaying her exquisitely fine bone structure, and gazed at the lagoon. Meditatively.

Henny made no effort to disguise her satisfaction. “I hit pay dirt with Sydney’s maid, Reba. She’s savvy. Young, pretty, working tor the Cahills while she goes to school at
night. Going to be a nurse. She said Sydney was boring, but nice. Never thought about anything but men, clothes, men, jewelry, men, makeup, men—but you get the point. Anyway, Reba stayed late Tuesday to help Sydney dress and see about any last-minute things for the party. One of the caterer’s men brought the note to Reba about six, said he’d found it on the patio on a table. He was supposed to be setting the tables up for drinks and snacks.”