Laughed ’Til He Died (8 page)

Max looked at Annie. “Was she that drunk? Was she drunk at all?”

Annie looked thoughtful. “She appeared to have trouble walking when I saw her before the program started.”

“Maybe she was playing drunk, from start to finish.” Max leaned forward. “How does that fit for size, Billy? Stone-cold sober, Ellen Wagner decides to kill him. She acts like she’s intoxicated when she arrives at the program to scope everything out. Then later, how hard is it to slur her words and hunt for
her little gun? Think about the spot she’s in. She probably intended to claim she never left her room at the inn after Meredith brought her back. Then she finds Meredith and Annie in the hall. What’s she going to do? Maybe she’s clever. She decides to convince Annie she’s drunk. She underlines her innocence by prattling about Rufus.”

Billy leaned back. “We’re looking at her. We’re looking hard.”

Max gave a wry grin. “Now I’ll be the devil’s advocate. Ellen Wagner may look suspicious, but I don’t see how she could have any connection to Click Silvester. I think it’s strange that Click dies in a presumed accident Thursday afternoon and Booth Wagner gets shot during a program at the Haven Friday night, especially,” and now Max sounded grim, “after Click told one of his Haven buddies how excited he was about the program. Click said he was going to have a secret part.”

Billy looked surprised. “What are you implying? That Click knew somebody was going to shoot Wagner? Hey, everything we’ve turned up says Click was a straight arrow. The tox tests found him clean as a whistle.”

Max frowned. “Why did he fall down those steps?”

Billy shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

“Click wasn’t an outdoor guy. Why was he at the preserve? Who pulled out the pockets of his jeans?” Max flipped up one finger at a time as he made his points. “Why was he super-excited about the program?”

Billy’s smile was tired but genuine. “Kevin was excited, too. Hey, they may be teenagers and mostly try to act cool, but it’s still a big deal to be in a program. There’s nothing weird about a kid being excited.”

“Why did he say his part was secret? I’ll ask Jean. Maybe she’ll know.”

Billy was abruptly somber. “That may be the easiest question she’ll answer all day. Tell me about the mess at the Haven.”

Max’s blue eyes narrowed. He looked thoughtful.

Billy persisted. “Yesterday at Parotti’s, you and Annie had a set-to with Booth Wagner. Tell me about it.”

Annie felt caught in a bubble of tension. She and Max and Billy went back a long way, through good times and bad. Billy’s honesty and determination to do his duty as he saw fit had saved Max from a murder charge. That same honesty now made him the man on the other side of the desk, determined to gain information from them that they were reluctant to provide.

Annie sat on the edge of the chair. “Billy, you know—” And her eyes reminded him of dreadful August days that had looked so black for Max and Annie. “—Things can be made to look bad for people.”

“I understand what you’re saying. You and Max have tried to help Jean Hughes. Obviously, you like her or you wouldn’t bother. That’s fine. But she’s one of the people I’m looking at. She was upset with Wagner. She was there. In fact, she was in a good position to have fired that shot.” Billy tapped his pen on a legal pad. “So if you spoke to Wagner about her yesterday, I want to know.” He looked at Max.

Max nodded. “I’m sure you’re aware that Wagner wanted her fired.”

“Frank filled me in.”

“However, I’d lined up the votes for the board meeting next week to keep her as director.” Max’s tone was relaxed. “Booth heard about it. He came to tell me that the question was moot, Jean had agreed to resign.”

Billy waited. He looked like a man expecting an explanation.

Max remained silent. His expression was pleasant but unrevealing.

Billy’s eyes glinted. “What happened then?”

“Annie and I went out to the Haven. We spoke with Jean. She confirmed Booth’s statement.”

Billy gave a huff of impatience. “Come on, Max. One day she’s fighting to keep her job. The next, she gives up, agrees to resign. There has to be a reason for her about-face.”

Max shook his head. “It would be better if you asked Jean directly.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll ask her. Right now I’m asking you what caused her change in plans.”

“Her sister is ill. I believe she decided to take time off to be with her.”

Annie knew he had picked his words carefully. As Henny Brawley had once told her, “There are many ways to tell the truth.” Max was telling the truth, but nothing in his manner hinted at the anger and confusion and despair attendant upon that calm statement. They had told Billy the truth but not all of the truth. Only she and Max had heard Jean’s despairing cry in the dim tunnel in the woods, “I’d kill to keep her on that porch.”

Billy was insistent. “Why did you and Annie get mad?”

Max raised an eyebrow.

Billy made an impatient gesture. “One of my officers was eating lunch, told me you looked like you wanted to break a chair over Wagner.”

“I didn’t want to see Jean leave the Haven. She’s done a good job.”

“Why did Booth want her fired?”

Max shrugged. “I wasn’t in Booth Wagner’s confidence.”

“You must have some ideas. You must have seen his actions
as unjustified.” Billy’s gaze was intent. “Otherwise, why were you helping her?”

Max smiled. “That’s easy, Billy. I was helping her because I thought keeping her at the Haven was best for the kids. I’d lined up support on the board. I hoped she’d reconsider her decision to resign. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

A tiny smile tugged at Billy’s lips. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

The two old friends looked at each other in complete understanding.

Billy glanced down at a file. He no longer smiled. “Jean Hughes was there. In fact, she was very close to where the shooter stood. She had opportunity. She appears to have a motive. I’ll be talking to her.”

S
UNBURNED VACATIONERS MILLED
around the marina. Annie avoided a couple on a tandem bike and hurried to the boardwalk. The harbor wasn’t quite as full as usual in July, evidence that the economic downturn had affected the rich as well as everyone else. Still there were yachts of prodigious size, sailboats, motors boats, and cruisers moored at slips.

Annie’s practiced eye judged the boardwalk to be nicely filled with tourists and, of course, a goodly number would find their way to Death on Demand. Inside, she paused for her customary spurt of joy, the smell of books, the moth-eaten raven above the beaded entrance to the children’s section, the bright covers on the New table, and Agatha preening on the cash desk before an admiring customer.

Ingrid, thin, brisk, and efficient, was hard at work, giving Annie a swift nod as she led two middle-aged ladies down the
center aisle. “All of the Patricia Wentworth Miss Silver mysteries have been reprinted by Hodder & Stoughton in England and we import them.” Ingrid gestured to Annie to take over at the cash desk.

Annie checked out two customers, each with a hefty stack of books. There were the usual suspects, Alexander McCall Smith, Janet Evanovich, John Grisham, Mary Higgins Clark, Robert Crais, C. J. Box, Diane Mott Davidson, James Lee Burke, and Laura Lippman, but there were also fresh names, wonderful writers all, Mary Saums, Dorothy Howell, David Fuller, Charles Finch, Megan Abbott, Christopher Fowler, Patricia Briggs, Deanna Raybourn, and Donis Casey.

Annie bagged the books, handed the customers their receipts. “A good day to read on the beach.”

As they left, she wished she could go to the beach with her new Margaret Maron title, a sun hat, and a cooler with chilled shrimp and cold, very cold, Heineken. Maybe this evening, she and Max would take their sand chairs and set them up in a tidal pool. She loved the little pools left between sand ridges as the tide flowed out. She was ready to immerse herself in a tale where she knew justice would prevail. In the midst of this cheerful daydream, she became aware of the clunk of purposeful steps coming from the coffee bar. She looked up.

Emma Clyde, her pink caftan swirling about her, gestured imperiously. The island’s famous mystery author was always commanding. Today her sapphire-blue eyes held an impatient glint. Lines denoting intelligence seasoned with a touch of belligerence seamed her square face.

Emma stopped in front of the cash desk, clapped her stubby hands on the counter. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Emma turned and marched toward the coffee bar, obviously assuming Annie would follow.

Of course, she did.

Rebuffing Emma was a pleasure to be enjoyed only in her dreams. However, she was somewhat surprised to find her mother-in-law and Henny comfortably settled at a large table.

Annie couldn’t help inquiring: “What are you doing?”

Emma pontificated, “As Marigold observes, ‘Even with the best will in the world, the authorities lack intuitive gifts.’”

Annie restrained herself from noting aloud that Marigold Rembrandt wasn’t real. She was the figment of her author’s imagination. Quoting her, therefore, was not persuasive.

Emma gave a benign smile. “I am between books.”

Annie translated: focusing on Booth Wagner’s murder was much easier than plotting a new book.

Annie looked at Henny. Her old friend and the island’s greatest mystery enthusiast also prided herself on her deductive powers but she was thoroughly grounded in reality.

Henny exuded determination. “We may be able to discover information that will be helpful. Sometimes people won’t talk to the police. I want to be sure the kids are safe at the Haven. I asked Billy if an officer could keep an eye on things. He said Officer Harrison will be on duty during the hours the Haven is open.”

Laurel’s husky voice was firm. “Giselle Hughes should be able to die in peace.”

Annie blew a kiss to her mother-in-law.

Laurel’s blue eyes glowed with affection and appreciation.

Emma, never one for sentiment, cleared her throat. “Enough of this lollygagging around. Let’s get to work.”

O
nly a few cars were parked in the Haven lot. Two police cruisers claimed shady spots near some pines. Max edged the Jeep into the dimness below a towering live oak. He punched down the windows before he turned off the ignition, leaving the keys in place. He didn’t worry about his car being stolen. Since the Jeep didn’t come with water wings, a thief’s only escape from the island was via the ferry. The Jeep would be hot when Max returned, but minus the furnace effect of closed windows. A gentle breeze rattled palmetto fronds. Moist July heat enveloped him. Cicadas thrummed. Crows cawed.

He wanted to know more about Click Silvester and his excitement over last night’s program. Why would his part be secret? Of course, Billy had a point. Many of the kids who came to the Haven had little chance to publicly shine. Maybe Click’s eagerness for the program was that innocent. Still, Max had a gut
conviction that Click Silvester had been murdered. Everyone knew Booth Wagner had been murdered. Sure, coincidences occurred. Once Max had run into one of Laurel’s ex-husbands (a Brazilian) in the British Museum. But two deaths in two days with a common link to the Haven rubbed him wrong.

He swung out of the Jeep and moved fast. Jean Hughes could have the information he needed. As he came around a sweet-smelling pittosporum hedge, he saw her across the open ground, standing near the stage. She could be looking at the stage or at the lake, the murky green water shimmering in the sunlight. Or she could be watching the searchers wading in the muck near shore. Standing beside Jean was Marian Kenyon from the
Gazette
. A few feet away, Darren Dubois watched every move of the officers.

Max strode toward the lake and the onlookers. If Billy discovered Booth’s threat to dispossess Jean and her dying sister of the cottage, Jean Hughes would surely become the chief suspect. And reasonably so.

Why then did Max feel strongly that she was innocent?

Because the murder had been well planned: a weapon brought, sudden darkness without warning, the unexpected shot.

He felt a tiny spurt of wry amusement. Jean’s main failing as a director was her slapdash approach to records and lack of administrative skills. Nobody doubted her empathy for kids and ability to encourage them.

His amusement was succeeded by cool reasoning. Booth Wagner’s murder at the Haven made the recreation center the focus of the investigation. Jean Hughes might be disorganized, but she was nobody’s fool. If she had planned to murder Wagner, she would have taken great care to commit the crime somewhere other than the Haven.

In response, Billy could point out that she didn’t know until Friday that Booth had the power to force her and her sister out of the cottage with only a week’s notice. If she didn’t announce her resignation at the program, Wagner would evict them. That left very little time to plan a murder.

Max squinted in the sunshine. If Billy was right, Click’s death the previous day was irrelevant. But if Click’s death was connected to Wagner’s murder, that could mean the decision to kill Wagner was in place by Thursday. Then an even stronger argument for Jean’s innocence could be made. She would not have approached Max on Thursday, asked him to intervene for her, thereby sending ripples of knowledge across the island that she had a motive to wish Wagner dead. If she intended to murder Wagner, she would never have asked for help or made a stink about losing her job. She would have acted like the job was no big deal, she was ready to move on. If she knew he was going to be dead, her job was safe. In fact, Jean’s public attempt to fight her ouster likely suggested the Haven as a murder site.

Billy saw Wagner’s death at the Haven as a link to Jean. Maybe the site was chosen because Jean was a perfect ten as a suspect.

Jean stood with shoulders hunched, head bent forward, her posture in striking contrast to her casual summer appearance—bright orange hibiscus on a loose cotton top, flared white slacks, and white sandals. Next to Jean, the
Gazette
’s star reporter held a notebook and wrote furiously. Marian’s dark hair was stirred by the wind. Bony and thin, dressed in her usual slapdash fashion—a wrinkled blue blouse and baggy brown slacks—she looked alert and eager.

In the lake, Frank Saulter in hip waders gestured to a companion searcher, a thin officer in his late twenties with a blond
ponytail and sharp features. The two men, moving clumsily and heavily, mud sucking at their boots, came together.

Max came up beside the women. “Marian.”

The reporter gave him an abstracted nod.

“Jean.”

In profile, Jean’s rounded face was heavy, her makeup too bright.

There was the sound of a splash, an exclamation from Frank.

H
ENNY
B
RAWLEY ADDED
a final pencil stroke to her sketch of the Haven grounds. Henny was stylish in a navy scoop-neck blouse and white linen slacks. She looked absorbed in her task, her intelligent face thoughtful.

Annie admired the drawing. With an economy of strokes, Henny had created a sharp black-and-white drawing of the woods and lake. Pines, live oaks, magnolias, and wax myrtle grew behind a portion of the outdoor stage at the Haven. The stage was bordered two-thirds by woods, one-third by the lake.

Emma’s stubby forefinger tapped the medium-weight sheet from Henny’s fourteen-by-seventeen-inch sketch pad. “The force of the shot toppled him forward. The shot must have been fired from the woods behind the stage.”

Golden hair cut in a winsome pixie style, dark blue eyes kind and thoughtful, Laurel Roethke was a vision of loveliness, not an unusual state for her, in a green-striped blouse with white cuffs and a pleated white cotton skirt. She bent to look over Henny’s shoulder. “Your sketch brings that dreadful moment back, Henny. Emma, as always, you see the important fact.” Her tone was admiring.

Annie glanced at her mother-in-law. Kindness was good,
but Emma didn’t need encouragement. Emma was obnoxiously self-confident. As for her sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt, her confidence bordered on egomania.

True to form, Emma said grandly, “Therefore, as Marigold would be quick to point out, the critical area is obvious.”

Annie recognized Emma’s tone. She was in the hectoring mode favored by her red-haired sleuth when superciliously addressing the hapless Inspector Houlihan.
The Clue in the Queen’s Tiara
, Emma’s newest title, was Death on Demand’s current bestseller. Millions of readers adored Marigold. That number did not include Annie, who found Marigold as enchanting as mildewed socks. The necessity to mask her instinctive recoil plus maintain good relations with her bestselling author forced Annie to an excess of bonhomie.

“What would Marigold do?” Annie heard the faint undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice.

Laurel’s glance chided Annie. Henny masked a grin with a slight cough.

Emma was oblivious. She gave Annie an approving nod. “That is just what I was asking myself.”

Annie concentrated on pouring steaming milk into espresso cups. She added different extras to each serving—whipped cream and cinnamon for Henny; shaved chocolate for Laurel; a tablespoon of brandy for Emma; and, for herself, a little bit of everything, including a double shot of caramel. As she placed the mugs on the table, she took pleasure in the mystery titles inscribed on each one:
What Did I Do Tomorrow?
by L. P. Davies for Laurel,
All Is Vanity
by Josephine Bell for Emma,
Scene of the Crime
by John Creasey for Henny, and
Try Anything Once
by A. A. Fair for herself.

The Lithesome Ladies, a private nickname for Henny and
Laurel since they’d instituted a weekly and very popular tai chi class at Death on Demand, awaited with great deference Emma’s reply to her self-asked question.

Not feeling deferential, Annie took solace in her delectable, multiflavored cappuccino. A whipped-cream mustache nicely disguised a sardonic expression.

“Marigold at once pinpointed the wooded area.” Emma’s voice rose in triumph. “Marigold immediately asked: When the lights came on, were Jean Hughes, Neva Wagner, her son Tim Talbot, or Booth’s daughter Meredith observed in the vicinity of this rectangle? Marigold, in her trenchant way, describes this as the Rectangle of Interest.” That stubby forefinger measured a rectangle that encompassed the area directly behind the stage and the space between the woods and the first twenty rows of chairs on the left side facing the stage.

Annie wouldn’t deny that the clever author had posed an excellent question. However…“You can add two names.”

For an instant, Emma looked pettish, then she graciously nodded, the detective queen welcoming additional information.

Annie described Meredith slipping away to the inn and her mother, Ellen, possibly intoxicated, possibly not, arriving in the hallway and the search for a gun, which possibly existed, possibly not.

On her sketch pad, Henny drew the wooded area between the Haven and the inn.

Laurel beamed at her daughter-in-law. “So brave of you, sweetie. I know how you feel about alligators.”

Emma flicked Annie a look of disdain. “If you don’t feed them, they aren’t a problem.”

“Unless someone else has fed them,” Annie said stiffly. It was a constant worry for islanders that tourists, either unwittingly or
deliberately, tossed food to alligators, teaching them to associate food with humans and making them more likely to attack.

Henny warmly rushed to Annie’s defense. “Anyone with sense worries about alligators.”

Emma thumped the table, clearly bringing the meeting to order. “That’s one name. The second?”

Annie recalled with sharp clarity watching Neva Wagner disappear into the gloom of the arbor to be followed very soon by the club’s golf pro. “Van Shelton.”

Laurel nodded in agreement. “Dear Van, wearing his heart on his sleeve. I’ve been playing a bit more golf than usual these days.” Her tone was bland.

Annie kept her expression bright and interested. She wondered if Max was aware that his mother had been spending quite a lot of time with a new assistant pro, darkly handsome Johnny Rodriguez. All, of course, to improve her game. Whichever game she was, in fact, playing. Johnny’s enchantment, despite his youth, came as no surprise. Johnny, of course, was single. Laurel had standards. Of course she did.

Laurel smiled a bit dreamily, then said briskly, “Annie’s quite right. I’ve seen Van with Neva and there’s no doubt in my mind there is a strong attraction there.” Her gaze was limpid with innocence. “I have rather a sense of these things.”

Emma’s lips twitched. Henny studied her sketch.

Henny wrote below her drawing:
Jean Hughes, Neva Wagner, Tim Talbot, Meredith Wagner, Ellen Wagner, Van Shelton
. Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Larry Gilbert and Booth were at each other’s throats a few weeks ago. Apparently they got over their tiff, but I’d be interested to know what caused the fury.” She added Larry’s name. “Maybe Larry might know if anyone else was mad at Booth.”

Annie sipped her cappuccino. “For all we know, Booth had a bunch of enemies, all lurking in the woods behind the stage.”

Emma’s smile was pitying. “As Marigold emphasizes to Inspector Houlihan, it is necessary to think matters through.”

Annie’s eyes glinted. Someday the old harridan was going to go too far. The implication was that Annie’s intellectual capabilities were minimal.

Emma proclaimed, “We can confine our suspects to those present at the program. The news stories in the
Gazette
quoted Jean Hughes.” Emma flipped open a folder to reveal several small clippings. “There was no mention of Booth’s involvement in the program. Therefore, only those with a connection to the Haven or someone close to Booth would have been aware that he was scheduled to speak. Moreover, the crime required knowledge of the terrain.”

Annie accepted defeat. “That’s what Billy thinks, too.”

“So,” Emma demanded, blue eyes gleaming, square face hound-dog eager, “where were these people when the lights came on?”

Annie pointed behind the lamp stands. “Jean Hughes was right there. We know she was standing behind the stage.”

Henny drew a box with the letters JH behind the stage.

Emma’s glance at Annie was dismissive. “We will each speak in turn.” She pointed at Laurel.

Annie would have liked to ask Emma when she was elected emperor of investigations, but a tête-à-tête with an alligator would be more pleasant than confronting Emma.

Laurel’s classic features were suddenly sorrowful. “Oh, I won’t forget his face. Poor dear little boy. Tim Talbot came running, as well as he can with that shorter leg, toward his mother.
Of course, the shock was horrible for everyone, but he appeared devastated.”

Henny nodded at the drawing. “Show me where he was.”

Laurel reached across the table and tapped a spot not far from the stage. “He was near the woods. He was breathing hard.”

Henny placed a box enclosing the letters TT not far from the woods behind the stage.

Emma was brisk. “Did you see anyone else on our list?”

Laurel’s blue eyes narrowed in thought. “Neva hurried up to the stage. She was alone. It was later that Tim ran toward her.”

It was a matter of dispute, but finally there was a consensus that Neva had also come to the stage from the left.

Henny placed a box with the letters NW in the space between the woods and the far left seats.

Emma nodded at Henny.

Henny’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Larry Gilbert walked down the center aisle toward the stage. I suppose as a director he felt he should take charge. He certainly looked shaken.” Henny drew a box with the letters LG and placed it in the center aisle toward the back.

Emma looked at Annie.

Annie tried to re-create that first moment when the lights came on. Her gaze had been held, as was surely true of almost everyone there, by the shocking view of Booth Wagner’s crumpled body and the men clustered near him. But yes, she had seen Neva coming from the left side, that critical area near the woods that must have harbored the murderer. “I’m pretty sure Meredith Wagner came from the left side, too.”