Laughed ’Til He Died (19 page)

E
mma Clyde led the way down the center aisle of Death on Demand, square face as forbidding as an iceberg, a large legal pad clutched tightly in stubby fingers, pink-and-silver caftan swirling. Her stride checked as she glanced at the display of her newest book. She barked over her shoulder, “It’s time to add more copies of
The Clue in the Queen’s Tiara
,” then resumed her march to the coffee bar.

Laurel Roethke paused at the cash desk. She was, as always, exquisitely beautiful with the loveliness of chiseled features that would never age. Her smile was buoyant. “Dearest Ingrid, how are you this morning?” Her husky voice exuded good cheer and genuine care.

Ingrid poked red-framed glasses higher on her nose. “Tell Her Majesty the book’s on order.”

“Oooh.” Laurel understood the import. Emma never took kindly to less than ten copies of each of her titles available at all
times, notwithstanding the grim (to Annie) fact that she had sixty-six books in print. Moreover, Emma expected Death on Demand to stock a minimum of fifty copies of the newest book. Laurel clapped her hands together. “Emma will be pleased to know that the last customer demanded sixteen copies for her relatives.” She gave Ingrid a quick wink as she whispered, “Fiction is addictive, isn’t it?”

Ingrid’s eyes glinted. “The last customer was eighty-seven and her nearest and dearest are all in the cemetery. One for every tombstone?”

“Oooh. I suppose it must have been the next-to-last customer.” Laurel’s silvery laughter brought a reluctant smile to Ingrid’s face.

Henny Brawley patted Ingrid’s shoulder. “We’ll run interference. Emma’s in a snit because she has been, as she sees it, rudely dismissed by our stalwart police. Or as she is now calling them, ‘the island’s befuddled constabulary.’”

“What a shame.” Ingrid’s smile was saccharine. And pleased.

Henny walked swiftly down the center aisle to the coffee bar. Emma had already taken over the largest table. Henny stepped behind the coffee bar. “The usual,
mes amis
?”

Emma’s primrose-blue eyes narrowed in thought as she flapped a hand in the affirmative.

Laurel hurried to help, choosing the mugs:
Murder Is My Business
by Brett Halliday for Emma,
Murder Is My Dish
by S. Marlowe for Henny, and
Murder in Show
by Marian Babson for herself.

When they were seated—Emma with a double espresso, Laurel with fruit tea topped with whipped cream and cherries, and Henny with Colombian brew streaked with caramel—Emma exploded. “If I had time, I’d arrange a citizens’ rally to protest.”

Henny spooned out a delectable thread of caramel. “I’m sure Officer Harrison didn’t intend to offend you. After all, she thanked you for attempting to aid the authorities.”

“Did she pay any attention to my suggestion?” Emma bristled.

Laurel nibbled on a cherry. “They seemed rather busy. You know, with an arrest just made and the press there, trying to get information, and the mayor announcing how the quick solution to this weekend’s crimes was a direct result of his emphasis on support for law and order.”

Henny was placating. “After all, Billy had already sent an officer to check out the apartments right after the shooting Sunday.”

Emma wasn’t impressed. “I don’t care. They should try again. Someone always sees something. Why, in
The Case of the Kissable Kiwi
, Marigold unearthed the truth by discovering the hidden lair of a panhandler who saw everything.”

There was a silence.

It might not have been as respectful as Emma considered her due.

Henny returned to the coffee bar, added more caramel. Before Emma’s affronted expression could lead to sharp words, Henny said briskly, “It’s up to us. There’s no law we can’t canvass the apartment house. I agree with your theory, Emma. There are two paths through the woods opposite Fish Haul Pier. The gunman who shot Darren was more likely to take the path to the apartment house instead of the path to the pavilion where there would probably be picnickers on a Sunday afternoon.”

Emma made a chuffing sound like an irritated cat. “Inspector Houlihan would see the necessity for such action.”

Henny took a sip of coffee to hide her smile. Emma auto
matically summoned her characters, the sleuth Marigold Rembrandt and the hapless Inspector Houlihan, when addressing any puzzle. “Of course he would,” she said soothingly. “However, if the police decline to canvass the apartment house again, we can do it.”

Emma’s blue eyes gleamed. “I’d already thought of that.”

“Had you indeed?” But Henny said it very nicely. Emma always had to be the leader. “That’s a very good idea.”

There was a hint of suspicion in Emma’s quick glance, but Henny’s expression was bland.

Laurel beamed; then, slowly, her smile faded. “My dears, why would any of those sweet people in the apartment house talk to us? We can’t just go door-to-door and out of the blue ask people if they were home on Sunday afternoon and happened to look out of their windows around one o’clock. They’ll want to know why.”

Emma thumped a fist on the tabletop. “We can say we are prosecuting inquiries that should have been pursued by the police.”

Laurel turned an admiring gaze on Emma. “You are so forceful, so direct, so honorable. But some of the residents might not feel it is their duty to answer one of us.”

“And some don’t like the dirty coppers.” Henny’s tone was light. “We might go about it a different way. Everyone loves to win a prize. We can announce we are doing a survey with only a few quick questions and everyone who responds will have a chance to win a prize.”

“A prize.” Emma looked doubtful, then abruptly, she clapped her hands together. “That’s a bully idea.”

Henny knew her plan had been accepted.

“The prize is obvious.”

Laurel tipped her head and looked inquiring. Henny bent forward to listen.

“An autographed copy of
The Clue in the Queen’s Tiara
.”

A
NNIE DUCKED A
bumblebee, flapped her hands at a cloud of gnats. Sweat streamed down her face. Her once-fresh, candy-striped T-shirt clung to her. She had a snag in her new linen slacks and her pink sandals were mud-stained. Next time she went on a safari, she would dress properly. She’d been to the remnants of a schooner that had come aground on the bluffs in a remote area. She’d checked out the ruins of a nineteenth-century plantation. Now she moved uneasily on a shadowy trail deep in the nature preserve. Finally, she reached the remnants of the four-thousand-year-old Shell Ring, whose antiquity had impressed Tim. She tried to move quietly but a crow flapped overhead, squawking. She clambered carefully up and down the grassy sides. The Shell Ring was so deep in the nature preserve she felt like she was on another planet, a tropical planet teeming with insects, wildlife, and steamy heat.

“Tim? I’m a friend of your mother’s. Please come home. The police aren’t hunting for you. She’s very upset.” Her voice sounded thin and very lonely.

Annie shook her head. If he was anywhere near, he was a stubborn idiot. She brushed back a damp tangle of hair. Anyway, she’d fulfilled her promise to Neva. Annie turned to leave. Where was the path? She felt an instant of panic until she sighted the boardwalk about twenty yards away. She was climbing the steps when her cell rang. She flipped it open. “Hey, Max, what has two legs and a sweaty hairdo and enough chigger bites—”

“Jean’s in jail.” Max talked fast. “She’ll be arraigned tomor
row. I’m going to take Handler to the ferry after he finishes talking to her. I checked and the friend who’s staying with Giselle arrived this morning. Jean doesn’t want Giselle to know she’s been arrested, but I don’t see how we can keep the truth from her.”

Annie pictured Giselle sitting on the porch, wrapped in her quilt, always cold, kept apart from the sister who loved her. “Oh, Max.” Being arrested for murder had to be horrible, but for Jean separation from Giselle had to be devastating.

Max was still talking. “The news is grim. The gun found beneath her house is the weapon that shot Darren.”

“Someone threw the gun there!”

“Billy doesn’t believe there was a prowler.”

“Excuse me.” Annie was angry. “With the Atlantic Ocean all around, why would she be dumb enough to throw the murder weapon under her own house?”

“Billy’s got answers for everything. She was being clever. Throwing the gun there kept her from having to carry the weapon with her to toss in the ocean or a lagoon.”

Annie saw Billy’s point. If Jean had been stopped and the weapon found, she would have been fatally compromised.

“That’s not all.” Max sounded bleak. “That was her cell phone under the house. There’s a record of a call to Darren Saturday afternoon. Jean couldn’t find her phone before lunch Saturday. I was there and saw her hunt for it. So did Marian Kenyon. Billy’s not impressed. He thinks Jean had already planned to shoot Darren and pretended the phone was lost so she could claim that if a call was made to him on her phone, it was made by someone else.”

Annie shivered despite the heat. Someone had indeed planned ahead after Darren made his pitch for money to keep quiet about what he had seen Friday night.

Annie tried to figure out the timing. “Saturday morning Darren asked for money.”

“Maybe he asked someone straight out.” Max spoke in a considering tone. “Or maybe he left a note with his cell number. The murderer had to silence Darren.”

Annie rushed to speak. “That narrows down the possibilities. Who had access to Jean’s office Saturday morning?” Names fluttered through her mind: Neva Wagner, Van Shelton, Tim Talbot, Meredith Wagner, Ellen Wagner. “I guess it could be anybody. She didn’t believe in locking up. My guess is that the murderer brought the roll of phosphorescent tape to hide in a filing cabinet, figuring she would be the chief suspect and a search would eventually be made. Her cell was probably lying on the desktop. A quick look around, a grab, and the phone’s taken.”

“That makes sense, but Billy doesn’t agree.”

Annie fastened on her suspect list. “Since Booth was killed there the night before, wouldn’t it have looked odd for any of his family members to show up at her office on Saturday?”

Max was silent for a moment. His words came slowly as he thought out loud. “Some excuse would have been made if the murderer had been seen, but it isn’t far from the woods to the front door of the Haven. Attendance was down so there weren’t many kids around. Officer Harrison was on duty, but I imagine she patrolled the grounds, checked in and out of the building. Probably the murderer stood in the woods and waited until no one was about, then moved fast to get inside. Once in the hall, it’s only a few steps to Jean’s office. The door could have been closed long enough to hide the tape and pick up the phone. When leaving, it would have been the same procedure in reverse.”

“Van Shelton? Ellen Wagner? Why would they know anything at all about how Jean ran the Haven?”

“Van’s taught beginner’s golf at the Haven. As for Ellen Wagner, you can bet Meredith told her all the rumors swirling about her dad trying to get Jean fired. After all,” Max was unrelenting, “Ellen Wagner knew enough to bring her little pearl-handled friend to the program Friday night. If she shot Booth, she was sober as a judge.”

A grasshopper jumped on Annie’s wrist. She wriggled her arm, but the grasshopper clung. Fortunately, she liked grasshoppers. “There’s not a shred of evidence against a single one of them.”

T
HE HARBOR BREEZE
riffed the water with white caps. Handler Jones paused at the bottom of the gangplank. “Try to track Click Silvester on Thursday. We know he ended up at the nature preserve. I doubt he was trying to escape notice. Our best bet is to locate him at the nature preserve at a time when Jean has an alibi.”

“I’ll try.” But Jean’s responses to Billy’s questions had revealed several times Thursday when she couldn’t account for her whereabouts.

The ferry whistle sounded.

As Handler started up the gangplank, Max called out, “Do you think we can get Jean out on bail?”

Handler turned and gave a thumbs-up. “I’ll do my best. I’ll have testimony about her sister’s health. I’ll contact the doctors when I get back to Savannah.”

Max walked swiftly to his Jeep. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, studying an island map. A single road, twisting and unpaved, led to the nature preserve where Click died.

Max drove to Barred Owl Lane. He passed a shack that had
tumbled in on itself, the broken roof slats bleached by the sun. Along the way, he visited several houses and had no luck. Either no one was home or the resident hadn’t seen Click. A half mile from the preserve he stopped at a neat gray bungalow. Despite the heat, a woman sat in a white wooden rocker on the front porch, shelling green beans in a bowl.

She looked up with a smile. “Can I help you?” Her island accent was as Southern as the faraway bay of hounds.

Max smiled in return. “Yes, ma’am. I hope so. I’m trying to find out more about the teenage boy who died in the nature preserve Thursday. It would be a help to investigators to know what time he arrived at the preserve. Did you happen to see a black teenager who was about my height, but chunkier? He was wearing a Braves T-shirt and cutoff jeans and was riding a bicycle.”

Her face reflected quick distress. “I read all about that boy and I saw his picture in the paper. I didn’t see him Thursday. Of course,” and she hitched the bowl a little closer, “you just happened to catch me when I’m resting a spell. We get up early and by mid-morning I’m starting to tire a little. But I’ll only sit ’til I get these beans done, then I’ll be back in the kitchen. There’s a lot of canning to do this time of year. I don’t want my tomatoes to go to waste. I’m mighty sorry I can’t help. I sit out here morning and afternoon and the only person I saw on the road was in the afternoon around two o’clock.”

Max was ready to turn and go, but he asked without much hope: “Did you know that person?” Perhaps someone she knew had passed by and might have seen Click in the preserve.

She lifted her eyebrows in mock horror. “I should say not. The people I know don’t dress like that. ’Course I just caught a glimpse. I was coming out my front door and there went a
bicycle. I couldn’t tell whether the rider was a man or woman, though I guess it was a woman. Can you believe someone in a witch’s robe and cone-shaped hat and straggly gray hair on a day as hot as Thursday? I declare, I don’t know why anybody’d be in a getup like that when it’s hot enough to fry an egg on top of my car. Some kind of joke I guess.”