Murder Walks the Plank (21 page)

 

Annie loved air-conditioning. So it was August. So what? She snuggled a sheet beneath her chin, turned on her side, welcomed the warmth as she curled next to Max. “What if Rachel won't come?” Her voice was forlorn.

“She'll do what she has to do.” Max smoothed out Annie's nightgown where it was bunched above her knee. His hand lingered on her thigh. “It may just be us and Pudge and Sylvia. But Rachel's a sweetheart. I'll bet she has second thoughts.”

“I don't think so.” Annie was discouraged. “She may decide to go visit that aunt who keeps inviting her to come and live with her in Hawaii.” Annie flounced over and lay facing him, one hand clutching his arm.

“Oh, Max, why does love have to be so impossible?”

His breath was warm against her cheek. “Not for us.” His lips sought hers and Annie stopped worrying about Pudge and Rachel and the future.

 

The shrill wail of the telephone shredded the peace of the night, bringing Annie's head from the pillow, her hand to her throat. She stared at the luminous numbers on the digital clock: 3:29. As she watched, the numbers changed: 3:30. Good news does not come at three-thirty in the morning.

Max fumbled for the receiver. “H'lo.” Concern roughened his sleep-thickened voice.

Annie rolled out of bed, turned on the light. She reached for her seersucker robe. The air-conditioning had made the room chilly. But the coldness inside had nothing to do with temperature. A call at this hour…

Max was sitting up, eyes blinking against the brightness. He looked like a tousled blond bear. “Yeah? Fire? Hold on a minute.” He covered the receiver. “Grab a phone. Marian Kenyon. A fire out at the Heath house.”

Annie slipped into her scuffies, hurried to the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen, flicking lights as she went, pulling on her robe. She ran to the counter, punched the button for the speakerphone.

“…thought one good turn deserved another.” Marian's tone was sardonic. “Sorry to wake you but I figured you'd want to know. I've got an arrangement with a fire official that needn't be explored in detail. Any big burns and I get a buzz. The call came in about twenty minutes ago, and here I am, prowling around the outskirts of the action. Seems the Heaths built a fancy storage building behind some pines across from the main house. I guess the really rich have too much stuff to stash in closets like the rest of us. Anyway, it's burning like a Roman candle. Wow. Flames are shooting up twenty feet, maybe thirty. The fire unit has spotlights aimed at—as training manuals elegantly put it—the conflagration. Another siren—”

Marian's voice rasped against a background medley of sounds, the siren, a rushing roar, yells, thuds, thumps.

“—signals the arrival of our police chief. I'll let him confab with the fire chief, then I'll amble over and say hello. No doubt my presence will add a fillip to his evening. Actually, morning. Hmm, Billy does not look like a happy man. Hang on unless you prefer to slumber….”

Annie paced by the counter. The speakerphone emitted a rushing, crackling sound, the slam of car doors, men's shouts.

Marian's clipped words evoked a powerful picture.
“Dense smoke, swirling up in clouds blacker than the night sky. Can't see the stars now. Three hoses working. When the streams hit, the flames waver and there's a sizzle like water hitting a giant griddle, smoke coils. Another hose wets down the perimeter. Forest preserve's bone-dry from drought, but it looks like they're going to be able to keep the flames from firing the trees. It's quite a scene.” Her voice was dispassionate. “The light from the fire is sulfurous. The yellow coats of the firemen glisten. Their sweaty faces are tomato red and carbon-streaked beneath their helmets. Another burst of flame engulfs the structure. Dammit, I've got to find out what it is. Not a garage. The firemen are backing away. Front wall collapses.”

Marian's voice was drowned out by a rush, a roar, a rumble.

“Everything within appears crumpled, charred, twisted. A distinct odor of gasoline as well as the rather nasty stink of burning manufactured materials. Probably plastics. Oh yeah, I see the secretary, Claudette Taylor. She's huddling near the back of one of the trucks. She'll know what was in there. I'll keep the phone on. I‘ve got a little tape recorder in my pocket.”

Annie opened the refrigerator door, found the orange juice. She poured a big frothing glass, selected two peanut butter cookies from the cat cookie jar, settled at the kitchen table, all to the accompaniment of the odd distorted sounds from the speakerphone. She drank the glass half down, savored a big mouthful of cookie. She scooted her chair nearer as faraway voices spoke:

“Looks like a total loss.” Even at a distance, Marian's deep tone was unmistakable. “Hello, Claudette. Marian Kenyon. The
Gazette.
”

“Oh, please, do you know what happened?” Clau
dette Taylor's voice shook. “I called when I saw the flames, then I ran over here.”

“Did you see anybody? Hear a car?” The questions came fast and hard from Marian.

“No. I didn't see anybody. Oh”—a cry—“look at that! Everything's burning. I know the fire trucks got here as fast as they could, but they're too late. Have they told you how it started?”

“They're a little busy right now for chitchat. I'd say it's probably arson.” Marian tossed out the word like skipping a stone over water.

“Arson?” Claudette's voice rose in disbelief. “Oh my Lord. Why? It's just a storage shed. Well, not a shed. There was so much that had to be kept out of the house. Because of Meg.” Her voice was angry. “Meg insisted the house be open with windows everywhere and space. No clutter, that's what she said. And”—there was an edge of bitterness—“Duff indulged her. They fixed the house just the way she wanted it, then they had to find a place for all their papers. This was built to hold everything she didn't want in the house, things from her mother's house, from Meg's years when she lived abroad. And Duff's papers. They're gone now, too.”

“What monetary value would you place on the contents?” Marian's question was crisp.

“I doubt any of it was worth money. But Duff's papers were there. She didn't care about them.” Claudette's voice shook. “She”—the emphasis on the pronoun was definite, sharp, angry—“never paid any attention to keepsakes, not even her own, much less Duff's. His daybooks, his files from the companies, his family papers, pictures of him as a boy. Gone. All gone.” Her voice was deep with bitterness.

There was a pause, unidentifiable sounds, the tramp of feet.

Abruptly Marian's voice was loud and clear. “Got that on tape. When the last wall went down, she headed back toward the house. Lots of smoke, little bursts of flame, nothing big. Forest's safe. Fire Chief Gallagher's heading toward Billy Cameron. I'll see what I can get.”

The speakerphone continued to produce chaotic sounds. Annie pictured Marian Kenyon, curly hair wild and unruly, gleaming dark eyes absorbing details, skirting hoses, tape recorder in one hand, cell phone in the other, making slow but determined progress toward Billy Cameron.

“Chief Cameron!” Marian's voice was again at a distance. Was the cell phone in one hand, the tape recorder in the other? “Is it arson?”

“Chief Gallagher says the back of the building was doused with gasoline, then torched. By the time the unit arrived, the fire was too intense to permit saving the structure.” Billy cleared his throat. “No known fatalities. Apparently the building was used for storage.”

“Who reported it? When?” As always, Marian sounded impatient.

“Nine-one-one from Ms. Taylor. Said she woke up, saw flames, called the fire department. Call was logged in at three-fourteen.” He spoke in a measured voice.

Marian was dismissive. “I talked to her. She saw the flames. Said she didn't see anybody or hear a car.”

Annie finished the orange juice and cookie. She was glad to be comfortable in her kitchen and far away from the crackle of flames, clouds of smoke, and rank
smell of burned, wet wood. She'd often thought Marian Kenyon had a fun job. Maybe not.

“We'll interview Ms. Taylor.” There was a sense of finality to his statement. “For now, that's all we've—”

Marian wasn't going to let her big fish wriggle off the hook without a battle. “Any connection to the Heath kill, Captain?”

“Rumors to the contrary, the death of Mrs. Heath is at this time considered to be either accidental or self-inflicted.” He was brusque. “Out of deference to the family, the police department declines to characterize the nature of her demise. At this time there is no evidence that this instance of arson is in any way connected to Mrs. Heath's death.” Billy's voice was growing less and less distinct. Annie pictured him turning away. “For further information regarding the arson investigation, you may contact my office or Chief Gallagher's office.” The last was scarcely understandable.

Marian's sharp high call sounded like a hound yelping at a raccoon. “Any comment on the fact that Meg Heath was one of the last persons to see the Ghost Crab Pond murder victim?”

The only answer was the thud of footsteps, distant calls, a continuing dull roar.

Marian's disembodied chuckle was distinct. “Thanks for tuning in. If we have another episode, I'll alert you. Episodes…Like they were separate and distinct. I think not. Think I'll see if Vince wants to print a map of the island and put stars on all the places where there's been a so-called accident or murder or arson since Saturday night. I'll send a copy to Billy, add a little P.S.: Could be coincidence. Sure. And the house just happens to win in Vegas. But Billy's probably al
ready drawn his own map. I'd lay odds that he'll be giving another look at everything that's happened.
Hasta la vista.
” The connection ended.

Annie was dishing up a bowl of butter brickle ice cream when Max padded into the kitchen. She held up the scoop. “Want some?”

“Thanks, I'd rather have sorbet. I'll get it.” He reached for the can of mixed nuts.

Annie slipped into her place, took a big spoonful of her favorite ice cream. So yes, it was a tad sweet. She glanced at the clock. At nine minutes before four o'clock in the morning, she needed a pick-me-up.

Max joined her, munching on nuts, carrying a dish with raspberry sorbet. “Marian's right. Billy will have his own map. He's never been big on coincidences.”

Annie licked a clump of brickle from her spoon, waggled it. “Why would anybody burn down that storeroom?”

Max poured out more nuts. “That's simple. Somebody wanted to destroy something. Somebody
had
to destroy something.” He gazed thoughtfully into the distance.

Annie propped her elbows on the table. She was suddenly unutterably tired, waves of fatigue rolling over her. She'd scarcely slept last night, worried about Pamela. And today—well, today would have tired anybody, including, she thought bitterly, Emma's indefatigable Marigold Rembrandt. Annie yawned. She pushed back her bowl, too tired to finish the ice cream, a fatigue level beyond her experience. “Tomorrow. We'll figure it out tomorrow.”

 

Rosy fingers of light streaked the eastern sky. Max unlocked the front door to Confidential Commissions.
Somebody had to destroy something
…. He flicked on the lights, walked past his secretary's desk to the kitchenette. As he measured the coffee, he thought about the storage building that held Duff Heath's papers and childhood photos, Meg's discarded mementos from a varied and exciting life, odds and ends that had belonged to Meg's mother. He considered the dandy stranger who came to see Meg on Friday morning and was dead by Saturday night. They had, thanks to Max's efforts, a probable identification. He was Bob Smith from Atlanta. According to Emma, no one in Meg's family evinced any knowledge of Bob Smith. Someone Duff had known? But why would the stranger's arrival cause someone to push Pamela off the
Island Packet
excursion boat, shoot Smith, poison Meg, and set fire to the Heaths' storage facility? There was no refuting that the fire was arson. Was there something in Duff's or Meg's past that had to be kept secret?

Max waited until the coffee finished brewing, carried a mug to his desk. Lying there staring up at him was a copy of the altered print of the handsome ballplayer. Picture…pictures…mementos…fire. Max grabbed up the print, hurried to his scanner.

 

Annie's eyes opened slowly. She did not agree with Max that she awoke with all the grace and charm of a python having a bad hair day. Pythons didn't have hair. She thought sadly about pythons, creatures avoided by most, treasured by the odd few. Funny how quiet…She rolled over, sat up, looked at the clock, blinked. It couldn't be nine-fourteen. She grabbed the note atop Max's pillow: “Thought you should sleep in. I called Ingrid, said you'd be in midmorning. Missed Rachel,
but she took a couple of raspberry Danish. Gone to the office. The fire means somebody's desperate about something!”

Annie took a quick shower, picked out a sky blue sleeveless top and floral slacks with huge blue flowers. She might feel droopy, dark shadows beneath her eyes, her face slightly puffy from too much sleep after too little, but she looked like a summer bouquet, banishing the image of a surly python. Clattering downstairs, she found fresh papaya already cut in the refrigerator. She had the nicest husband on the planet as well as the sexiest.

But her breakfast—papaya, a warm cinnamon roll, milk, orange juice, and Colombian coffee—disappeared without conscious pleasure. Her eyes strayed occasionally to the telephone. She was tempted to call Emma and ask what she planned for the day. But that would give Emma a great opportunity to command action by Annie. Last night it had been easy enough—Annie refilled her coffee cup—for Emma to make grand pronouncements that they, unlike the chief law officer, would pursue the true suspects, those who could have poisoned the sherry decanter. But in the cold hard light of morning, Annie didn't see any graceful way to approach anyone connected to Meg Heath. Annie knew full well she was on Jenna Carmody's blacklist. Claudette Taylor would be under no compulsion to answer questions posed by Annie. Jason Brown…Annie took the last bite of papaya. She stacked the dishes, carried them to the sink. According to Ingrid, Jason Brown—or a male voice calling from his number—had tried several times yesterday afternoon to contact Annie. Annie rinsed the dishes, placed them in the dishwasher. She dried her hands, found the telephone directory, punched the numbers.
She let it ring until voice mail picked up. She didn't leave a message.