Murder Walks the Plank (9 page)

Annie clasped her hands together, realized Emma's brisk voice hadn't stopped. “…taken care of everything. I've spoken to Father Patton. He told me she wanted to be cremated. That's all arranged for. The memorial service will be next Saturday. That will allow time for her cousin to come. The cousin lives in Australia. I told him I'll contact her.”

Max got out a cup and saucer and a plate. “You know how sorry we are.” His blue eyes were dark with sadness and with concern for Annie and Emma. He knew how much they laughed—had laughed—about Pamela, but he understood how much they genuinely cared for her. “Hey Emma, you look beat. Have some breakfast.”

Emma plunged her hands into the pockets of her caftan, stood like a monolith near the table. “No thanks, Max. I'd better get home, make the other calls. I need to let Henny know we won't need the Altar Guild at the hospital.”

“Dead.” Annie felt as if the word, hard and painful, were lodged in her chest. “Have you talked to Billy?”

She nodded. “There will be an inquest.” Emma's blue eyes were thoughtful. “I told him about Pamela's fear of heights. So he's thinking it must have been a freak accident. He plans to ask the
Gazette
to carry a statement encouraging anyone who saw her go overboard to contact the police. Like he said, he wants to find out as much as he can. But he told me he's now
leaning toward asking for a verdict of accidental death.”

“Accidental?” Annie's voice rose in protest.

Emma nodded. “I think,” she said slowly, “that's a good thing.”

Annie reached out a shaking hand. “Somebody pushed Pamela. She didn't jump.”

“Oh, it was murder. No doubt in my mind. But having Billy mount a murder investigation wouldn't lead anywhere. He would follow the usual procedures, look for enemies. Pamela”—her voice was soft—“didn't have enemies.” Emma glanced at the coffeepot. “God, I'm tired. That coffee looks good.” She stepped to the counter, chose a bright yellow mug, filled it with steaming Colombian.

Max pulled out a chair at the table.

Emma sank onto the rattan seat, her caftan billowing. She waved ring-laden fingers at Annie. “Smooth your fur, sweetie. Sheathe your claws. Billy will still be looking around, trying to find out more facts. But a verdict of accidental death will be to our advantage. You see, we—or to be more specific, you—can go where Billy never could. Inside homes. To the bedsides of the sick. To the church.” She drank the coffee, nodded in approval. Emma knew coffee.

Max's frown was instantaneous. “I don't think I like this.”

Emma and Annie ignored him. Emma was nodding. “Pamela heeded the prayer”—and she quoted softly—“‘and do all such good works as thou has prepared for us to walk in….'” Her face drooped with sadness.

Annie swiped away a hot sheen of tears.

Emma looked steadily at Annie. “You can follow in her footsteps.”

Max folded his arms, frowned. “Let's be clear on what we're talking about here.”

Emma looped the strands of the necklace over stubby fingers. She looked old, her blocky, corrugated face ridged as weathered granite. “I may be wrong, but I am afraid. I am afraid someone may be at risk, someone Pamela was helping. We need to hurry, find out everyone she was seeing, try to discover what Pamela learned or saw or did that led to her death. I have to believe that Pamela was on the periphery of something deadly.”

Annie understood. Ignore the shadow. Seek the substance. Look beyond.

“So you want Annie to nose into something that led to murder.” Max's voice was angry. “Without having any idea where the danger lies.”

“That's the beauty of an official verdict of accidental death.” Emma drank the rest of the coffee, stood.

“No one will know Annie is investigating. She will simply be taking Pamela's place as an emissary from the church.”

 

“Where Pammie?”

The sound of Pamela's high sweet voice shocked Annie into immobility. She stood in the small foyer of Pamela's house and held the key she'd lifted from beneath the front mat in such a tight grip that her fingers hurt.

“Where Pammie?” The voice, uncannily like Pamela's, came from the living room.

Stiffly, Annie walked forward and looked through the archway into the small living room. The shades were drawn as Pamela must have left them when she departed for the mystery cruise. The room was dim and
shadowy. A spectacular parrot in a silver cage, shiny feathers crimson and green and blue, flapped his wings. “Where Pammie? Johnnie want a cracker.” The bright beady eyes glittered.

Annie started breathing again, smiled as she crossed to the cage.

The parrot tilted his bright head. “Have a happy, happy day.”

The tone was so similar to Pamela's voice that Annie scrambled to remember what Laurel had told her about parrots. As the result of a memorable Mother's Day adventure, Laurel had gained possession of an African gray with a salty tongue and a rollicking laugh. According to Laurel, parrots often mimicked the tone of an owner's voice.

Annie stopped in front of the cage, looked into intelligent, curious eyes. There was water, but no food. “I'll find something for you.” As she hurried into the kitchen, a loud thump sounded, a flap in the back door popped up, and a terrier bounded inside, barking.

Annie whirled to face the excited dog. She had never met him, but Pamela had proudly told her about the painting an island artist had done of the terrier. “Whistler?” Annie held down a hand and the dog frisked to her. A small cold black nose explored her fingers. “Whistler, I'm sorry.” She knelt and petted the dog, who quivered with eagerness. A rough tongue lapped her chin.

Quickly Annie found dog food and refilled the water bowl. In the refrigerator, she found neatly chopped fruits and vegetables in small plastic containers. She carried some carrots and broccoli into the living room, refreshed the water in the cage. The parrot
studied her. “Where Pammie?” The parrot began to eat.

Annie swallowed. “I'm Annie. I'm a friend of Pammie's.” Pammie. That's what the bird called his owner. And he had learned it from Pamela.

Annie looked around the small living room. Lace doilies protected the arms of the sofa and chairs. All the pieces were old, the upholstery worn. The braided rug was clean but faded. Framed prints, not paintings, hung on the walls. A rose china antique clock sat on the mantel. There was the shabby aura of gentility underlain by poverty.

It was the first time Annie had ever been in Pamela's house. “Some friend,” she said aloud.

Whistler pattered into the living room, stood close.

The parrot cocked his head. “Have a happy, happy day.”

Annie blinked back tears. She knew the bird had heard the phrase many times from Pamela, smiling, her sweet voice a caress. Oh golly, something had to be done about the bird and the dog. But, almost as though she heard Emma's raspy voice—“We need to hurry”—she reminded herself that she wasn't here to feed pets, necessary though that might be.

Annie whirled, headed back to the kitchen. Whistler came right behind her. His nose poked against her leg as she stood in front of a big wall calender. She made a thumbs-up when she saw the spaces for each day filled with Pamela's neat printing.

Annie pulled a notebook out of her purse. The kitchen seemed untenanted and still, the only sounds the whirr of the old refrigerator and the tick of the wall clock. She avoided looking at the neatly folded tea
towels and the flowered apron draped over a white kitchen chair.

Pamela had marked her schedule on the calendar, the times of appointments and the names of persons visited. Annie tapped her pen on the pad. Whatever Pamela saw or knew, whatever it was that set death on her trail, the triggering event most likely had occurred within a day or two of the cruise. The envelope with the cruise ticket was tucked in her mailbox on Sunday. That had the air of a hurried decision. Or possibly the free ticket was left at the last minute to prevent Pamela from speaking to Annie about the gift. Annie checked the names listed in Pamela's neat printing on Friday and Saturday. However, to be on the safe side, she wrote down everyone listed for the past week.

There was at least one overlap between the names on the calendar and the cruise passengers: Meg Heath. Annie shook her head. Wheelchair-bound Meg Heath could not have been involved in the attack on Pamela. Meg, in fact, could never have reached the second deck.

Annie sat at the kitchen table. Last night she'd taken up the sheets listing the passengers, tucked them in her purse. They were still there, a little crumpled but intact. She quickly checked the names taken from Pamela's calendar against the passenger list. There was only one match: Meg Heath. To be sure, she read the names again….

From the living room came the forlorn cry, “Where Pammie?”

Whistler turned, clicked across the floor.

Annie slowly folded the passenger list, put the sheets in her purse along with the notebook. She got
up, frowned at the calender—she'd had such high hopes—then returned to the living room.

“Have a happy, happy day.” The parrot hopped from one stand to another.

She looked into coal-black eyes. She had to do something about the bird. She bent to smooth Whistler's fur.

The rose clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Already eight o'clock. Emma had imbued her with a sense of urgency, of time fleeting, of someone somewhere in danger. Emma was confident that Pamela had discovered something dangerous in her regular rounds and that all Annie had to do was insinuate herself into the lives of those Pamela had served.

Annie yanked her cell phone from her purse, punched Emma's number.

“Hello, Annie.” Emma had Caller ID, of course. “What did you find?” The calm assumption that much had been discovered further demoralized Annie.

“If Meg Heath's wheelchair had wings, I guess we'd have our murderer.” Annie knew she sounded sour. “Emma, this is a bust. I've checked out everyone Pamela saw last week—she noted everything on her wall calendar—but the only name that matches the cruise list is Meg Heath. Daily visits to Meg Heath at nine
A.M
. were the only constant. She went lots of places that aren't tied to a particular person. Ten o'clock Communion on Wednesday, Bible study on Thursday. She was on Altar Guild duty last week. I could possibly round up all those names, but this means your idea of Pamela seeing something at somebody's house doesn't work out. Maybe we're totally off on the wrong foot.” And maybe, Annie real
ized with a sweet sense of release, no one else was in danger.

“Meg Heath.” Emma's tone was thoughtful. “I saw her last night. I was impressed that she came. Heart trouble. And very little vision left. You know she has macular degeneration—”

Annie hadn't known.

“—and she can't read anymore. But she was there. With her entourage.” There was the faintest emphasis on the final noun.

Annie was exasperated. She understood the import. No one in Meg Heath's group would have any difficulty climbing to the upper deck. Obviously Emma intended to cling to her theory. Which, Annie decided, was as full of holes as a rusted bucket.

Oblivious to—or disdainful of—Annie's resistant silence, Emma plowed ahead. “You said Pamela's been visiting Meg every weekday at nine in the morning.”

Annie was impressed by Emma's quick recall. But she had to protest. “This is building a house out of straw.” Everybody knew it took only a quick puff from the wolf to knock down a flimsy structure. Annie felt very wolflike. “There's no reason to fasten on Meg Heath and her family any more than anyone else Pamela saw this last week.”

Emma was obdurate. “Meg was on the cruise. Pamela was at her house every day last week. And there's money there. I always like money as a motive.” Her voice was clinical. “Start—”

A piercing whistle erupted. Whistler barked, a series of high shrill yaps.

Startled, Annie looked up at the parrot.

“Where Pammie?” The voice was so like Pamela's that Annie took a step back.

“Annie?” For once, cool unflappable Emma sounded perturbed. “What was that?”

“Pamela's parrot. He's gorgeous”—the parrot ruffled his feathers—“but I don't know what to do with him. I can't leave him here. I could call Laurel…” But she felt hesitant. What would two strange parrots say to each other? Do to each other? Of course, they lived in cages. Still, the possibility of acrimony—if parrots were anything like cats—seemed all too likely. Sad as Annie felt for the bereft bird, she knew full well that not even a cage would offer protection from either Agatha or Dorothy L. “But she has Long John Silver and I doubt strange parrots mix well. Pamela has a dog, too. A little terrier.”

“Oh.” A thoughtful pause. “I'll swing by. Pick up the bird and the dog.”

“You will?” The minute the words were out, Annie realized the relief in her voice was too apparent. Perhaps even insulting.

A low chuckle. “You don't see me as Lady Bountiful?”

“Not at all.” Annie knew she was talking too fast, which always got her in trouble. “I mean, of course, yes. You—” Oh damn, Emma didn't go out of her way for others. She was brilliant, clever, incredibly productive, but her world revolved around her work. If she was in the middle of a book, everything else went on hold. “I'll do it,” she would say, “when the book is done.” Annie was almost sure she'd just started a new book. Annie's face creased. “Aren't you just starting a book?” As soon as she spoke, she clapped a hand to her mouth.

The parrot said, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, what have I done?”

Annie glared at him.

The spectacular bird gave a raucous laugh. Whistler jumped and barked, another series of excited yaps.

“On page twenty-two.” Emma was amused. “I know. The books always come first. Almost always. But Pamela…Did you know I was once the recipient of her goodness?” Emma's usually crusty voice was reflective, gentle. “I had eye surgery last winter. Pamela came every morning and read the paper to me. With great deliberation and a tactful consideration of which stories I wished to hear and in what order. Lord, she can”—a pause, then careful amendment—“could be maddening. I expect that's one service she—” Emma's words broke off.