Murder Walks the Plank (7 page)

“So far as I know, there's been no change.” Emma was reassuring. “The outlook is positive. She was breathing very well en route. Dr. Burford's with her now.”

Annie flung out her hands, talked fast. “What if there's another entrance to the ER?” Annie thought there was. Maybe she ought to scout out the hospital right now, find out. “Somebody tried to kill her and now she's unconscious. We need a guard. The doctor will be in and out. If she's all by herself, she's helpless—”

Emma reached out, grabbed Annie's hand, pulled her down to the sofa. “Take a deep breath. I didn't forget what you said in the saloon. You think she was pushed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't. I'm not taking any chances.” One silver-tipped finger pointed down the hall, empty except for a custodian pushing a mop. “There's one other entrance to the cubicles. You go through those swinging doors”—she pointed at doors to the left of the ER reception counter—“and go down a hall—the one that leads to the hospital proper—then turn right into a short hall. There's an unmarked door across from the women's rest room. It's for doctors and staff. I called Henny, told her everything. She came immediately and she's on duty there.”

“Henny?” Annie began to relax. Henny was much more than simply an actress and a mystery devotee, she was capable and savvy, had been a World War II pilot, a teacher, and, after her retirement, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer. Henny could be counted on.

Emma held up her cell phone. “We've got it worked out. Henny's been on the phone to the members of the Altar Guild. They'll be here in relays. Two will be on duty through the night when she's moved to a room. Now, Annie, I want to know all about Pamela's cruise ticket.”

Annie related what she knew, which, of course, wasn't much.

Emma tugged on a silver ringlet, pursed her crimson lips. “So, from what Ingrid told you, your impression is that Pamela had no doubt you'd sent the ticket. Pamela is very literal. There must have been a clear link to you.”

“Exactly. Besides…” Annie reiterated Pamela's reverence for order. “So she didn't jump. She wouldn't do that. And in the lifeboat…” As Annie described the loose tarp and the scrap of plastic bag, she realized she had a rapt audience. Emma's sapphire blue eyes glowed. She reminded Annie of Agatha poised to leap, every muscle supple, dangerous to any creature unwise enough to make a sudden movement in her presence, a huntress sure to capture her prey.

“Very good, Annie.” Emma's raspy voice exuded admiration. “All that from a scrap of plastic bag. Oh, that's very good. I'll have to use it someday, the torn piece of trash bag snagged in a lifeboat providing the only telltale trace of premeditated murder.” She clapped her broad hands together, a huge diamond flashing. “Yet the scrap isn't definitive proof of a crime. Had there been a strand of Pamela's hair in the lifeboat, that would require the police to rethink their position. Instead, all we have is the remnant of a trash bag…. Sheer brilliance. Nothing to excite the police, only our canny investigator. Therefore Marigold—”

Annie gritted her teeth. That rapt attention was nothing more than Emma being a writer. The way Emma spoke the name of her septuagenarian sleuth—her voice brimming with blatant arrogance—drove Annie berserk. Annie wanted to shout, “She's a maddening character, and Emma, SHE ISN'T REAL.” But
Annie knew without doubt that she'd rather come snout to snout with the alligator in the lagoon behind her house than confront the Grande Dame of the American Mystery.

Emma flicked Annie an amused glance, her square face almost crinkling into a smile.

Annie had a horrid sense Emma was reading her mind with the same ease with which she plotted her whodunits.

Emma folded her arms across her imposing chest. “—must pursue the investigation without assistance. The resolution, of course, demonstrates once again the ineptitude of Detective Inspector Hector Houlihan.” Her canny blue eyes narrowed. “Marigold would perceive at once that Pamela was pushed. Just as you did.” A decisive nod. The springy silver curls quivered.

Annie exploded. “Emma, I don't give a damn—” She jolted to a stop. Her eyes widened. “You believe me?”

“Of course.” Emma's gaze was abstracted. “But I understand why no one else does. Have you ever considered a less likely candidate for attempted murder than Pamela Potts? Yet we can be assured that Pamela was the intended victim because of the ticket. Pamela was not a person to jump to conclusions. Or”—a raspy chuckle—“from a boat. Therefore she had reason to believe the ticket was provided by you. If that was a lie, it was deliberate, and the purpose was to hide the identity of the provider. When the result of Pamela's presence on the cruise was her near death, it is reasonable to assume—as you have and as Marigold would—that the generous gesture was a mask for murder. All right”—her tone was decisive—“Pamela's death is planned. Why?” Emma's eyes glowed. “Oh yes, I like it. Instead of the victim everyone loves to hate, we have a victim
no one could possibly wish to kill. What are the classic motives?” She ticked them off, those silver nails flashing. “Passion. Pride. Greed. Hatred. Revenge. Fear. All presuppose an intensity of life that has entirely escaped dear Pamela. She has never had a love affair—”

Annie wanted to hold up a hand, stop the remorseless flow of words. But she was spellbound.

“—and a quarrel that caused enough offense to result in a plan for murder would surely have been public knowledge. Therefore we can dismiss pride as a motive. That leads us to greed.” She shook her head. “Pamela has no money. We can, of course, check and see if she has a life insurance policy and, if so, the name of the beneficiary. But life insurance costs money. Pamela had no extra. Hatred? Who could hate inoffensive, boring Pamela? Revenge? Pamela's life is an open book. So”—her voice was as near a purr as Annie had ever heard in a human—“that brings us to fear. Why would anyone fear Pamela? Because—”

Annie leaned forward, scarcely daring to hope. But Emma sounded so certain, so confident.

The writer's eyes glittered with triumph. “—Pamela knows something.”

Annie sagged back against the sofa. The plastic squeaked. What a disappointment. “Emma”—Annie tried not to sound pettish, knew she'd failed—“Pamela would immediately call Billy if she saw something illegal going on.”

“Ah,” Emma crowed with certainty and delight, “but she doesn't know that she knows.”

“Wait a minute.” Annie held up both hands. “If she knows, but doesn't know she knows, why would anybody care? To be specific, if she doesn't know she knows, there's no reason to silence her.”

“But”—Emma's lips curved in pleasure—“the murderer foresees that Pamela is certain to realize the importance of some piece of information. Therefore, he—or she—has no choice. Pamela must go. Now…” Emma pressed silver-tipped fingers to her temples.

Annie watched with the same fascination she would accord a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.

Emma's hands fell away. Her broad forceful face looked triumphant. In a rapid-fire, raspy monotone, she announced, “We will discover Pamela's schedule for the past week and the upcoming week. We will find out who she saw this past week and who she would be seeing. We will cross-check those names against the list of passengers from tonight's cruise. We will ascertain what activity on Pamela's part triggered the murderer's perception that information in her possession was of deadly importance.”

Once again Annie sagged wearily against the sofa. “Oh sure, Emma. That's easier said than done. Talk about looking for needles in a haystack! My God, Pamela's all over the island doing good. No, our best hope is that she'll come to and be able to tell us what happened.”

Emma pulled a cellophane packet of jelly beans from her pocket, ripped it open, held it out to Annie.

Annie took a half dozen in her palm, welcomed the swift surge of sweetness from a papaya jelly bean, ate a red one—hmm, cherry—and munched on two grape.

Emma plumped a half dozen in her mouth, chewed. Her words were indistinct. “The ticket benefactor struck Pamela from behind. She didn't see anybody. She won't remember getting hit. She may not remember being on the cruise. Head wounds”—Emma swallowed the rest of the candy and her voice became authoritative—“often result in short-term memory
loss. Marigold never expects to learn anything from the victim of a head wound. Forget about Pamela. It's up to us.” Her bright blue eyes swung to Annie. “Do you have the list of passengers?”

Annie pointed at her purse. “I haven't had a chance to look it over—”

A faint rendition of “Beer Barrel Polka” erupted.

Emma reached into her oversize carryall, pulled out her cell phone. The stanza, louder, sounded again. She punched on the phone. “Yes.” She sat bolt upright, her face intent.

Annie leaned forward, wished she could hear.

“Good work, Henny. You called nine-one-one? Good. Keep the door blocked.” A decisive nod. “Hold the fort. I'll get help.”

Emma clicked off the cell, pushed up from the sofa. She took one step toward the main desk, frowned. The waiting room had that late-night feel of abandonment. Computer screens glowed a ghostly green beyond the counter. A paperback book lay spread open near a telephone. Annie recognized Eileen Dreyer's latest hospital thriller. Emma's gaze raked the area. “The attendant's gone.”

Annie took a deep breath, tried to stay calm. “What's wrong?” Surely nothing bad had happened. The hospital was quiet as a grave. Oh, why had that simile come to mind? Quiet as a millpond…quiet as high noon in the desert…quiet as a cat sleeping in the sun…

“Trouble. I'll make sure help's on the way.” Emma punched nine-one-one, barked into the phone. “Hospital ER, Emma Clyde speaking. An unauthorized intruder is attempting to gain access to the back entrance of the ER. Come immediately.” She clicked off the phone, started for the desk. “Yo!” Her shout bellowed.

Annie had no intention of waiting for help from an attendant who might be snagging a nap in a quiet corner or washing his hands in the john or outside for a smoke. She pelted across the waiting room. What was it Emma had said? Through the swinging doors and down the main hall, turn right.

“Annie, hold up—” The swinging door cut off Emma's call. Annie took a deep breath. With the doors closed behind her, there was not a vestige of light. Her chest tightened. That was wrong, all wrong. The lights stayed on all night in hospital hallways. She could see nothing. She moved until her hand touched the wall to her right, swept it up and down, found a bank of switches. She flicked them and abruptly the long hallway was illuminated. She moved fast. At the cross hallway, she started to make the turn and stopped. Once again she faced darkness. She was suddenly frightened. She stared into gloom that exuded menace. Was this a true perception or was her uneasiness triggered by her awareness that the back door to the ER was somewhere ahead?

She listened. There might have been a scuffing sound. There might not have been. She felt a presence. “Who's there?” Her voice was sharp. There was no answer. She knew she shouldn't walk into that darkness. She knew it with certainty. Okay, okay. Where were these light switches? She moved to her right, once again searched a wall. Nothing. She tiptoed, hands outstretched, to the opposite wall, ran her fingers over the plaster, found switches. She flicked them. The lights behind her in the main hall went out. Annie's heart thudded. Quickly she turned those lights back on, found a second wall plate. This time she was in luck. Fluorescent lights slowly flared overhead. The tight
ness eased in Annie's chest. The hallway lay empty and still. She saw no one. Closed doors. Silence. At the far end of the hall, a chair sat next to a shut door.

Henny had been on guard at the back entrance to the ER. She would have found a chair, carried it there. Where was Henny? Why was it so deathly quiet?

Running lightly, Annie reached the door, turned the knob, pushed. It didn't budge. “Henny!”

Henny spoke from the other side of the door. “Is the coast clear?”

Annie looked up and down the hall, the blessedly empty hall. There was no danger now. If someone had crept through darkness, heading for the ER and a helpless Pamela, that person was long gone. “No one's here. Just me.”

There was a fumbling at the bottom of the door. In an instant, the panel opened. Henny, her dark eyes bright and alert, held up car keys. “I jammed them under the door.” She stepped out into the hall, looked toward the exit. “Whoever it was must have gotten away.” She took a deep breath, pushed back a lock of silvered dark hair.

“Pamela.” Annie was breathless. She started to step past Henny into the ER.

Henny caught her arm. “Wait. We better stay here. Emma's at the front, so we know no one can get in that way. I called nine-one-one, and Emma said she'd get help.”

“She called nine-one-one, too.” Help should arrive very soon. Annie looked at Henny. “What happened?”

“I was sitting here”—Henny gestured at the metal straight chair. “I'd brought a book with me.” A quick smile. “Of course. Anyway, I was pretty absorbed, but I heard something, a”—she frowned in remembrance—“rattling sound.” She gestured toward the exit.
“I looked that way. Then the lights went off. I didn't wait a minute. I jumped for the door, got inside. But it didn't have a lock! I shoved my car keys under the door—”

The exit door opened. “Police. Hands up.” The shout was brusque and commanding. Lou Pirelli, one of Billy Cameron's men, burst into the hall, gun in hand, moving fast. Lou's dark hair was tousled. He wasn't in uniform. He'd pulled on a Braves top, faded jeans, and sneakers. When he saw them, he came out of his crouch. He moved swiftly toward them. His eyes scanned the hallway, and the gun in his hand never wavered. He gave them a swift nod of recognition but didn't speak as he moved past Henny to enter the ER area.