Murder Walks the Plank (18 page)

Annie remembered past exchanges with Pamela. Dear, serious, intense, literal Pamela could describe any event, large or small, in excruciating detail. Before Annie could attempt a diversion, Emma took charge.

“—that it's against the law for a letter box to be used for any purpose other than delivery of authorized mail. Yes, indeed.” Emma was at her most commanding. “Pamela, we must conserve your strength. I'll ask questions, and you answer in as few words as possible. Now. You got home from brunch and found an envelope in the mailbox. What was in it?”

Pamela brightened. “A ticket to the cruise. And one of Annie's bookmarks—”

There were stacks of Death on Demand bookmarks available everywhere at the store.

“—and Annie had printed ‘FOR YOU' in capital letters at the top.” Another appreciative smile was beamed at Annie. “I thought it was so nice.” Pamela smoothed back a strand of hair. “I looked for you on the boat, but you were so busy. It was a lovely cruise.” The smile gradually dissolved. She lifted her hand to touch the bandage. “How did I get hurt?”

Emma's brusque voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “You tell us. What's the last thing you remember?”

Pamela clutched the sheet. “I was in the main saloon after dinner. I didn't do the Treasure Map.” She looked embarrassed. “I don't like climbing up and down and going near the railing. I know it's silly”—Annie reached out, patted a tense hand—“but I don't have a good head for heights. I used the interior steps to go up and down from the main deck to the upper deck. But it was awfully hot in the saloon. I decided to step out on the deck for some air. I walked out”—her blue eyes were suddenly troubled—“and it was still hot but I smelled the water. Then my head hurt. That's all I remember.” Her face was anxious. “What happened?”

Henny dipped a washcloth in the melting water from the ice, wrung it out, placed the cold cloth against Pamela's face. “You fell overboard.”

“Off the ship?” Horror lifted Pamela's voice. “Into the water? Oh no.”

Emma folded her arms. Her cold blue eyes narrowed. “Hit from behind. That's clear. She doesn't know a damn thing. Pamela, think.” The raspy voice was compelling. “Right before the pain in your head, what did
you hear? Smell? See? Feel?” Her stare at Pamela never wavered.

Annie watched in fascination, knowing this was an exhibition of how Marigold Rembrandt would handle a witness in an Emma Clyde novel.

“Oh.” Pamela had the look of a bird mesmerized by a snake. “I was standing there, looking out at the lights on the water. That's when my head exploded. It was awful. Everything turned red and black.”

“Billy will have to admit this couldn't have been an accident.” Annie felt vindicated. “She never got close to the chain and the railing.”

Emma kept her focus on Pamela. She leaned across the bed, her face inches from the pillow. “What else? Think hard.”

Pamela tensed. “There was something….” Her voice faded away. She strained, then closed her eyes. “I heard something. But I don't know what it was.”

Emma smiled. “You're doing well, Pamela. You heard someone.”

“Someone?” The big blue eyes opened.

Emma was brusque. “The person who hit you.”

Pamela gasped. Her hands lifted to her throat.

Annie patted her shoulder. “Don't be frightened. We're going to figure out what happened.”

“Somebody hit me? Why?” Now there were slow tears.

Henny refreshed the cold cloth, gently swiped Pamela's cheeks. “We're hoping you can remember something out of the way that happened to you in the last few days, some reason why you might be in danger.”

Pamela stared at them in bewilderment. Clearly her
return to consciousness wasn't going to provide a solution.

Emma broke the discouraged silence. She spoke to Annie and Henny. “There's nothing else for it. We have to tell her about Meg.” She gestured at Annie. “You were there.”

Annie described what she had discovered at the Heath house. She hated seeing the look of sadness and distress as Pamela listened. “…and it turns out she died from an overdose of Valium. Billy Cameron wondered if she might have done it herself.”

Pamela tried to shake her head, winced in pain. But her voice was strong and determined. “No. Not Mrs. Heath.”

Annie nodded. “That's what we think, too. Anyway, you came every morning to read the
Gazette
to her. In the Sunday paper there's a bulletin about an unidentified man shot to death near Ghost Crab Pond”—Annie felt a sinking disappointment; there was no change at all in Pamela's face—“and I wondered if that's why Meg was killed. To keep you from reading the paper to her.”

Pamela sagged against the pillows. “I can't believe she's gone. I know she was sick, but she had so much energy. Not physical energy but psychic. Reading the newspaper to her was always challenging. She wanted to know everything that was odd and strange. Not the kind of stories I like to read to sick people.”

Annie was nodding. Yes, Meg Heath would have teased and cajoled and ordered until she learned all the news that was barely fit to print. If she'd lived until this morning and Pamela had made her customary visit, Meg would have seized on the cryptic bulletin about the unidentified murder victim. But the news of
that murder made no impression on Pamela. So Annie's hunch wasn't worth the flicker of the neuron that created it. Maybe the contents of the
Gazette
were irrelevant. But dammit, something must have happened on Friday morning! “Meg had planned a special dinner party for tonight. Did she mention that to you?”

Pamela lay limply against the pillows. Her eyelids fluttered.

Henny stepped to the bedside table, poured water into a glass. She leaned forward, held the glass to Pamela's lips. “Here. Drink a little.”

Pamela took several sips, turned her head away.

Emma lifted Pamela's hand, fingers at her wrist. “Pulse fast. That's enough for now.”

Annie knew it was time to leave. But she'd been so sure…. She bent forward, spoke fast. “Pamela, one more thing before you rest. What did you and Meg talk about Friday morning?”

Slowly Pamela's eyes opened. Her voice was drowsy. “I didn't spend any time with her Friday. I'd just got there when the doorbell rang. I answered it because no one else was there. A man wanted to see Meg. He said he was an old friend. He gave me a card to take up to her.”

Emma and Henny stood frozen, watching Pamela. Annie scarcely breathed. She kept her voice casual. “What happened?”

Pamela yawned. “I took the card up. Meg was—” For an instant she seemed uncertain. “She seemed stunned. She stared at the card and said, ‘I'll be damned. Or maybe
he
will.' Then she laughed and said, ‘Tell him to come up. You can take a holiday, Pamela. He can read to me this morning, bring me up-to-date on everything.' She seemed to think that was
very funny.” Tears filled Pamela's eyes again. “It's so sad to remember.”

“For God's sake”—Emma's impatience boiled over—“what happened?”

Pamela was startled. “Nothing. I went down and told him he could go up and showed him the way to Meg's suite and then I left. I went over to the church—”

“Pamela.” Annie forced herself to remain calm and patient. “What was on the card that you took up to Meg?”

Pamela's blue eyes were dumfounded. “On the card? How would I know?”

“You didn't read it?” The cry came almost in unison from Annie, Emma, and Henny.

Pamela looked from one to another. “It wasn't intended for me.”

Annie reached over, patted a thin hand. “Of course you didn't read it. So you don't know his name or anything about him. Pamela, what did he look like?”

“He was very handsome.” Her tone was bright.

“The kind of man Meg would know, silver hair and beautifully dressed, a blue-and-white-striped blazer and pink shirt and white trousers….”

As the careful, accurate description continued, Annie clapped her hands together. Someone had committed two murders to keep anyone from knowing this man had come to see Meg. Now all they had to do was find out who he was and why he had come.

G
UESTS BUNCHED AT THE
front desk of the Sea Side Inn. The clerks, one elderly and calm, the other a frazzled college girl, worked at a brisk pace. A baby wailed in the arms of a young mother leaning against a pillar next to a pile of luggage, a diaper bag, a stroller, and a folded playpen. A sour-faced man with a bald head and walrus mustache glanced irritably at his watch.

Max was in a hurry. He didn't have time to join a line. He moved toward the wide central stairway leading to the second floor and took the steps two at a time. Deep-cushioned chairs and sofas provided a cozy enclave outside the Magnolia Room. Max poked his head inside the restaurant. Afternoon tea was over and it hadn't opened yet for dinner. The swinging doors to the kitchen were propped wide. The chatter of soft voices mingled with the clatter of dishes. Max walked through the shadowy room to the brightly lit kitchen with its array of shelving and cabinets and counters, all sparkling clean.

A heavyset woman with a genial face paused from unloading a huge dishwasher. She held a tea glass in one hand. “We open at five.”

“I know.” He was polite, respectful. “I'm Max Dar
ling. Freddie Whipple is a friend of mine.” He didn't hesitate to use the owner's name. Annie was a good customer of the tearoom though her heart belonged to Parotti's. “May I speak to you for a moment?” He moved toward her, opening the folder he was carrying.

She placed the glass on a tray, studied him with bright, curious eyes. “Well…”

Max handed her the altered photograph. He spoke in a pleasant voice. “I'm trying to find this man. Have you seen him?”

She studied the picture. Slowly she shook her head. “I don't think so. Course, we get about a couple of hundred folks a day and there's new faces all the time.” Her lips pursed. “But I think I would have remembered him.”

Max opened the folder again. “I'll leave several copies with you and some of my cards. If you'd check with the wait staff, I'd appreciate it. If anyone recognizes him, ask them to call me. There's a fifty-dollar reward for any information that will help me find him.”

Her fine brows drew together. “Would he mind?”

Max met her gaze. “No, ma'am. He won't mind. I can promise you that.”

Max watched as she turned away, moving toward the other employees in the kitchen. He took his time walking through the dim dining area in case anyone hurried after him with information. No one did.

The inn had three stories. He started on the top floor, looking for cleaning staff. He found a maid with her cart at the far end of the second floor. She spoke very little English and shook her head at his questions, her eyes wide and frightened. On the first floor, he found a cart outside Room 124. He looked inside,
waited until the maid finished vacuuming. When the rumble ceased, he knocked on the jamb.

She turned, looked at him with stolid courtesy.

“Excuse me, please.” He held out the picture. “I'm looking for this man. There's a fifty-dollar reward.”

She stared down at the printed sheet, her face impassive, then lifted her eyes. “Fifty dollars?”

Max reached for his billfold. He took out two twenties and a ten, held them in his hand. “Was he staying here?”

Slowly she nodded. “He asked for ice. I brought him a bucket. He gave me five dollars. Lots of folks give a dollar. Some folks don't give anything.”

Max kept his tone casual. “What was the room number?”

She stared at the money, frowned. “Room”—her eyes squeezed in concentration—“108.”

 

Annie clung to the seat rest as the sleek speedboat sliced through the water, foam spewing to either side. The shore hurtled nearer. Annie welcomed the cooling effect of the whipping wind, but the speed was enough to scare a luge team. She gasped as the boat slewed around a buoy, broke off relating her morning at the Heath house.

The wind puffed Emma's curls. She looked like a grizzled bulldog in a blue wig, her square face lifted into the wind. Without glancing away from the water, Emma barked, “Relax, Annie. I haven't sunk a boat since the Solomons.”

Annie was in no mood for war stories though she'd never doubt Emma's heroics. At the moment, all she wanted was to set foot again on the rickety pier at the end of Slash Pine Road.

“So then?” Emma's brusque demand jerked Annie like a dog brought to heel.

Annie took a deep breath and picked up where she'd left off. “Anyway, I'd swear that Claudette and Jenna know about something that happened to Meg this weekend, something they don't want to talk about.”

She fought the temptation to ask Emma to slow down. Knowing the redoubtable author as she did, the outcome would most likely be more speed, not less. Annie remained silent and hung on.

But the boat slowed as Emma glanced toward Annie, her blue eyes bright. “Sure they're hiding something. Meg's visitor. Therefore we need for you—”

Annie braced against the seat, this time not for safety but in anticipation of an unpalatable task. She felt she'd done all she could manage for one day.

“—to confront them.” Emma's smile was wolfish.

“Maybe
you
should talk to them.” Annie didn't go on to point out that Emma was a lot tougher proposition than Annie. No point in stating the obvious.

The boat picked up speed. “I would, but I've got to see Billy and explain what we've done.”

A rollicking but muffled rendition of “Beer Barrel Polka” sounded over the thump of the bow on the water.

Emma pointed with her elbow toward her oversize canvas purse. “Grab the cell, will you?”

Annie loosed her hold, bounced in the seat, grabbed Emma's orange-striped carryall. She braced her feet and pulled out the cell phone. “Hello.” Her shout came back at her, lost in the wind.

“Annie? Doc Burford. Emma handy?” As usual, his deep voice was brusque and impatient.

“Hi, Doc. We're on the Sound. In the
Sleuth
. Can I take a message?” She held tight to the cell. She had no intention of permitting Emma to be deflected from her piloting. They were only a hundred yards offshore now.

His laughter boomed. “Better hang on. And bring me up-to-date. How's my patient?”

“She's conscious.” Once again Annie felt the incredible uplift she'd experienced when she realized Pamela was alive. Alive and safe. Or safe for the moment. “She doesn't know who hit her. All she remembers is her head hurting. I can't believe you connived with Emma and spirited her away.”

He made a growling noise. “We got a second chance. Emma and I took advantage of it. Damn few times that happens.” His dour tone recalled the murder victims he'd examined.

“There are going to be a lot of happy people when the word gets out that she's okay.” Annie knew she'd never truly accorded Pamela her due. When Pamela was strong again, Annie intended to tell her just how much everyone cared. “Is she still officially dead?”

Doc Burford didn't answer for an instant. Finally, his voice slow and deliberate, he decreed, “No. I'll announce that there was some confusion when Miss Potts was moved to a rehabilitation institution in Savannah. Her prognosis is good. No visitors permitted. Friends may send cards and flowers in care of Annie Darling at Death on Demand. That okay with you?”

“Of course.” But Annie's thoughts were racing. “Dr. Burford, you did the autopsy on the man who was found dead at Ghost Crab Pond, didn't you?”

“Right. No gun was found but I got out the bullet in good condition—”

Annie interrupted. “Friday morning he came to see Meg. Pamela saw him.”

“You don't say?” He was excited. “That's important. We need to tell Billy. Hmm. He'll want to talk to Pamela.”

Annie looked at Emma. “Dr. Burford says Billy will want to ask Pamela about Meg's visitor.” Annie remembered Pamela's wan face and her drift into healing sleep. Pamela didn't need a session with the police. She turned back to the cell phone. “Dr. Burford, instead of Billy coming to the cabin, couldn't we tell him what she—”

Emma's elbow jabbed Annie's arm.

Annie broke off. “Just a second.” She looked toward Emma.

Emma eased up on the throttle. The
Sleuth
nosed toward the dock. “Tell him I taped our conversation with Pamela. I'm on my way to the station now.”

 

Annie found a shady spot on the starboard side of the ferry. She called Max, but his cell phone wasn't turned on. She left a brief and joyous message about her happy excursion to Doc Burford's hunting cabin and reunion with Pamela. “I'm going to drop by the store, then I'll be home. Love you.” She clicked off the phone, leaned against the railing, and drank from her just-purchased bottle of icy water. Despite the afternoon temperature nudging into the nineties, the shade and the breeze and the water combined to cool her. For the first time since Pamela's rescue last night, she didn't feel anxious. Billy would see the connection among the attack on Pamela, Meg's death, and the murder of Meg's Friday morning visitor. What were
the odds the murdered man was going to be a guest at the special dinner?

Annie wished she could see the police chief's face when Emma played the tape with Pamela's description of Meg's visitor. Annie drank deeply, watched a flight of pelicans skimming above the waves. Who was the handsome stranger, and why had he come to the island?

 

Max held out a print of the altered photograph.

Sun glanced through the window, emphasizing the silver in Billy Cameron's thatch of blond hair and the lines of fatigue in his face. He looked at the image, lifted a startled gaze to Max. “Where did you get this?”

Max explained Marian Kenyon's observations and description. “She claims it's a spitting image—if the guy was alive.”

Billy rattled the sheet, his face pleased. “This is good stuff. I'll send it out. We still don't have an ID on him.”

Max settled back in the straight chair next to Billy's metal desk. “I've got a lead, Billy….” Max concluded with the room number at the inn.

Billy picked up the phone, punched. “Chief Cameron here. I need information about a guest who was staying at the inn…” He looked toward Max.

Max didn't need to check his notes. The maid had remembered that five-dollar tip. “Friday night for sure.”

“Friday night. Room 108.” Billy turned on the speakerphone. He pulled a notepad nearer, waited with pen in hand.

“Room 108.” The voice was young. “Friday night. Robert Smith. Home address: 1583 Peachtree Street, apartment 103, Atlanta. Mr. Smith was here for two nights, checked out by video”—there was a slight
pause—“at two-oh-seven
A.M
. on Sunday. Left the charge on his Visa.”

Max and Billy exchanged glances. The man lying dead near Ghost Crab Pond on Saturday night certainly wasn't enjoying the convenience of video checkout early Sunday morning. Obviously the murderer had retrieved his victim's room key along with his wallet and all identifying contents. It was simple for the murderer to enter the side door of the inn using the electronic key card, hurry down a deserted hallway to the room. It wouldn't take long to toss the dead man's belongings into a suitcase, use the video checkout, and return to the victim's car.

Billy tapped his pen on the desktop. “Is the room currently occupied?”

“Oh yes, sir. We don't have any vacancies.” A sigh.

“I've got people in line—”

“Give me the credit card number. And connect me with Freddie Whipple.” In a moment, the number scrawled on the pad, Billy had the hotel manager on the line.

“Freddie, we may have traced a homicide victim to the inn. We think he was staying in Room 108 Friday night. I want to check the room for fingerprints.”

Max understood Billy's plan. Even though the room had been cleaned on Sunday and was currently occupied, there might be vagrant prints on the television remote, the television cabinet, the bedside table, the door panels. It was worth checking out. Even a partial match would identify the victim as Robert Smith, and the full powers of a police investigation could be focused on the visitor from Atlanta.

Robert Smith. Max glanced down at the print. Well-dressed, sporty. Probably called Bob. Or Bobby. There
were several hundred thousand Bob Smiths across America. Who was this Bob Smith, and why had he come to the island?

Billy punched the intercom on his desk. “Mavis, round up Lou. We need to look for some prints over at the inn. A guest there this weekend may turn out to be the guy shot out at Ghost Crab Pond.”

Max was at the door, lifting his hand in farewell. Now it was up to Billy and his staff to find out about Bob Smith. He said good-bye to Mavis at the front counter, stepped out into the asphalt-melting, Calcutta-humid heat of late afternoon. He cranked up the air-conditioning in his car. He felt like a sun-parched camel. Maybe gazpacho for dinner? A Caesar salad with grilled chicken? Of course, Annie would want lots of anchovies. In any event, a salad would be something cool….

Cool. Bob Smith looked like a cool guy. Max turned one vent so the flow hit him directly in the face. As he started to pull away from the curb, his gaze stopped at the bright blue newspaper display case of the
Island Gazette
. Marian Kenyon would be furious if he didn't alert her. He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. One message. His eyes widened in surprise as he listened to Annie's buoyant voice. Tot up a coup for Emma Clyde. He thought about Marian Kenyon's stark description of Saturday night at Ghost Crab Pond and knew that Pamela was lucky, lucky to have survived the fall from the
Island Packet
and lucky to have friends like Emma Clyde, Doc Burford, and Henny Brawley. Max wondered if they might be persuaded to give a blow-by-blow account of their success in spiriting Pamela off island. Marian could do a bang-up story. In any event, Marian would definitely want to
know that the dead man had been seen at Meg's house and that he might be Robert Smith from Atlanta. Max punched in the number of the
Gazette
.